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Authors: Matt Braun

BOOK: The Spoilers
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On his second shot of rye, Starbuck saw the gang leader straighten up and nod to someone pushing through the crowd. The man who joined him was stocky and muscular, with a square, tough face and a handlebar mustache. He was dressed like a dandy and carried himself with the cocky poise of a prizefighter. He spoke to the gang leader, who beamed a wide grin, and rapidly bobbed his head. The transformation in the train robber was immediate, and curiously out of character. He looked not just respectful, but somehow servile. A hardass bandit suddenly turned boot-licker.
Starbuck signaled for another drink. While the barkeep was pouring, he ducked his chin toward the end of the counter. “Shore wouldn't wanna tangle with that pair.”
The barkeep followed his gaze, and chuckled. “You'd sure as Christ regret it if you did, cowboy.”
“Why? They somebody special?”
“Well, the one with the mustache is Denny O'Brien. Owns the Bella Union and half the Coast.
The other one's Red Ned Adair, and claims he's meaner'n tiger spit. For my money, they both are.”
“I don't reckon I'd care to argue it either way.”
“You've got lots of company, cowboy.”
The barkeep hustled off, and Starbuck silently repeated the names to himself. Then he saw the one named O'Brien turn and walk toward a staircase near the entranceway to the theater. The gang leader downed his drink and quickly followed along. Together, they mounted the stairs and disappeared from view.
Starbuck had a visceral instinct for the truth, some sixth sense for divining what lay beneath the surface. He was suddenly struck by the thought that the operation was bigger than he'd suspected. Quite probably an organized mob, with Denny O'Brien calling the shots and Red Ned Adair pulling the holdups. Something told him it was so, and he'd learned long ago never to go against his instincts.
He decided it was time to go undercover.
Early the next morning Starbuck set out to explore San Francisco. His knowledge of the city was thus far general, and what he needed now was specifics. Every town, much like a timepiece, had inner working forever hidden to the casual observer. He meant to determine Denny O'Brien's place within the underworld mechanism.
Last night, upon leaving the Bella Union, his thoughts were disjointed and without order. He knew essentially what must be done, but he hadn't yet decided
how
it would be done. With some stealth, he had retrieved the mare and left her tied in the courtyard of Crocker's mansion. All the way back down Nob Hill, he had puzzled over the new turn of events. By the time he reached his hotel, he'd arrived at what seemed a logical first step. Before going undercover, he had to establish who was who on the Barbary Coast, and where the owner of the Bella Union fitted into the larger picture. Only then could
he develop a workable approach to Denny O'Brien.
Today, like a wolf prowling unfamiliar territory, he made a personal reconnaissance of downtown San Francisco. The sporting crowd seldom awakened before noon, so he spent the morning on a sightseeing tour. He crisscrossed the Barbary Coast, gaining a sense of direction and a feel for the lay of the land. The seedier dives along the waterfront were of little interest, but the larger establishments, located primarily on Pacific and Broadway, held his attention. These were the joints that competed directly with the Bella Union, and he catalogued them for future reference. In the course of his wanderings, he gave Chinatown a brief once-over, then turned uptown. There, somewhat to his surprise, he found still another vice district. Though tightly contained, and considerably smaller than the Barbary Coast, it had the look of flourishing nightlife. He thought to himself that it merited further investigation.
By noontime, he'd seen enough to satisfy his immediate needs. The saloons were open, and he made his way back to the Barbary Coast. He picked a watering hole directly across from the Bella Union, one with a crowd of heavy drinkers and careless talkers. A schooner of beer entitled him to a free lunch, and he helped himself to cold cuts and cheese from the trencherman's counter. Then he bellied up to the bar and went to work.
A master of subtle interrogation, Starbuck had the knack of engaging total strangers in conversation. He was a good listener, and seemed raptly interested in
the other man's opinion. He also played on their vanity, professing ignorance of the subject at hand, and got them to reveal more than they realized. With adroit prompting, he kept them talking and guilefully steered the conversation along the course he'd planned. When they parted, he had drained them dry of information while saying almost nothing about himself. He left them full of boozy good cheer and a profound sense of their own importance.
Before three o'clock, Starbuck had hit four saloons. At each stop he put away several schooners of beer and generously stood drinks for those he gulled into conversation. He talked with bartenders and pimps, gamblers and street-corner grifters, and one old barfly who supplied a wealth of Barbary Coast gossip. When he walked out of the fourth saloon, he had unearthed everything and more he'd hoped to learn. His view of San Francisco's underworld was by no means complete, but he knew who was who and precisely what it was they controlled. And with one possible exception, he had their names.
The city was split into three very distinct areas of vice and crime. There was a fine line of demarcation separating the areas, almost as though the boundaries had been staked and mapped. Curiously, there was no spillover of activities, even though the three areas abutted one another like wedges sliced from a pie. The city government, from the mayor's office down to the corner policeman, turned a blind eye to the whole affair. The payoffs, everyone agreed, had
made rich men of those in public service.
Denny O'Brien was the acknowledged boss of the Barbary Coast. Nothing happened without his sanction, and he maintained a squad of plug-uglies to enforce his demands. He collected a percentage off the top, and no operation was too small to escape his attention. Even the lowly crib whores and crimp joints paid tribute.
His counterpart in Chinatown was Fung Jing Toy. A tong leader and supreme vice lord, he ran Chinatown with godlike impunity. His
boo how doy
hatchet men collected fees from all underworld enterprises, including gambling, opium dens, and bordellos. He also extorted protection money from legitimate businesses, using intimidation and threats of violence. Finally, with all his rivals killed or whipped into line, he controlled the market in Chinese slave girls. The trade reportedly did a brisk business with Occidental and Oriental alike.
There remained only the area Starbuck had surveyed late that morning. Known as the Uptown Tenderloin, it was a district reserved for swells and the upper strata of San Francisco society. Theaters and opulent restaurants vied with cabarets and plush gambling casinos for the gentry trade. The nightlife was almost decorous, the only exception being the high-priced parlor houses. Discreet madams and beautiful whores served the monied class with all the attention accorded the master of a harem. A parlorhouse whore was the
crème de la crème
of her trade, and a bright girl occasionally snared herself a millionaire.
According to those who knew, more than one matron on Nob Hill had begun her career in the Tenderloin.
Yet there was an apparent contradiction to the Uptown Tenderloin. All afternoon Starbuck had tactfully posed the same question: Who controls the Tenderloin? Each time the question was asked, he'd drawn a blank. The men in the Barbary Coast saloons had scratched their heads and appeared stumped. So far as they knew, the Tenderloin had no boss. Something of a neutral zone, it seemed to run itself. The police kept it cordoned off for the gentry, and the lowlifes avoided it on threat of a billy club upside the head and a night in jail. The playground of the rich, it was thought to be immune to the overtures of crime bosses and vice lords.
Starbuck thought otherwise. A suspicion began to form sometime that afternoon. Vague at first, it slowly blossomed, and by the time he walked from the fourth saloon, it had taken form. Despite all he'd heard, he believed there was most definitely a boss of the Tenderloin. Further, he thought it quite likely that the same man was the underworld czar of San Francisco. An overlord who dictated to both Denny O'Brien and Fung Jing Toy.
He'd seen it happen closer to home. For the past decade, a shadowy, unobtrusive man named Lou Blomger had ruled Denver from behind the scenes. It made sense that a similar situation existed in San Francisco, where the pickings were riper and vice even more prevalent. The temptation was simply too
great. With the amount of money involved, someone who dealt in grand schemes would have built himself an underworld empire. That he stayed out of the limelight, operating in the dark, made it no less real. To Starbuck, it seemed undeniable, chiseled in stone. All he had to do was prove it.
However it turned out, everything he'd learned had merely reinforced his original thought. The place to start was Denny O‘Brien. He even had a cover story in mind, and instinct told him the Barbary Coast boss would go for it bait and all. From there, it was simply a matter of allowing nature to take its course. Red Ned Adair had the balls, and Denny O'Brien called the shots, but they both danced to another man's tune. Time, and a bit of luck, would reveal his name.
That evening Starbuck caught the night train for Los Angeles.
 
The city of angels was somewhat provincial and backwoodsy compared to San Francisco. Yet, while it lacked a cosmopolitan flavor, Los Angeles was nonetheless prosperous. Certain shops in the downtown area catered to those with money to burn. However excessive the demand, a man willing to pay the price could indulge almost any whim. All within a matter of hours.
Starbuck went directly from the train station to a men's haberdashery. He knew little about Los Angeles itself, but he had developed contacts throughout the West. In his business, the tools of the trade
were dictated by the nature of the case, and time was often a factor. From his contacts, he knew where to go and who to see, no matter how strange the request. While he could have satisfied the same needs in San Francisco, it might very well have compromised the case. Secrecy and a whole new identity were essential to his plan. He would depart Los Angeles a different man from the one who had arrived on the morning train. And no one in San Francisco the wiser.
At the haberdashery, Starbuck spoke privately with the proprietor. He indicated that money was no object, so long as the service met his demands. He wanted a complete wardrobe—expensive clothes with the look of hand-tailored garments—and he wanted it no later than four o'clock that afternoon. The proprietor, with a nose for profit, assured him the deadline was no problem.
A clerk materialized at Starbuck's elbow, and a tailor was summoned from the back room. Under the proprietor's watchful eye, an array of clothing was selected from the racks and paraded before Starbuck for his approval. He chose four single-breasted suits, all fashionably cut and dazzling in color, ranging from pearl-gray to lush chocolate. He next selected several brocaded vests, gaudy to the extreme and color-coordinated with the suits. Then he picked out ruffled linen shirts, cravats and string ties, and a halfdozen sets of silk underwear. A brown derby and a gray fedora, along with three pairs of kidskin boots, were added to the pile. His last purchase was a
matched set of hand-rubbed leather luggage.
A meticulous fitting session followed. One at a time, Starbuck changed into the suits and stood before a full-length mirror. The tailor, his mouth stuffed full of pins, took a nip here and a tuck there. When he finished, the suit jackets and trousers draped perfectly, with the rich appearance of clothes crafted stitch by stitch. Once more in his old suit, Starbuck paid the bill and added an extra hundred for good measure. The proprietor, bowing profusely, escorted him to the door. His wardrobe would be packed and waiting at the appointed time.
On the street, Starbuck hailed a hanson cab and gave the driver the name of a local dentist. Pleased with his progress thus far, he rolled himself a smoke and settled back in the seat. He'd spent somewhat more time than intended at the haberdashery, and he quickly calculated the cash left in his money belt. He judged the amount—$3,000—adequate for what remained to be done. If not, then he would wire his bank in Denver and arrange a speedy transfer of funds. Bankers, very much like whores, would always accommodate their select clientele.
Starbuck worked at his profession by choice rather than need. He was a man of considerable means, with a portfolio of municipal bonds and commercial real estate valued in excess of $250,000 on the open market. Not quite two years ago, he had inherited the largest cattle spread in the Texas Panhandle. The owner of the ranch, who was his closest friend and something of a surrogate father, had no
family and had therefore designated him sole heir. Forced to choose between ranching and the detective business, he'd found it to be no contest. He sold the ranch for $200,000 and worked out an arrangement whereby the bank would manage his holdings for a fixed fee. So far, he had no complaints. The bank had shown a respectable return on his investments, and the financial independence enabled him to accept only those cases that piqued his interest. His net worth was a matter he thought of only rarely. He considered manhunting a far more rewarding endeavor.
The dentist was a slender man, completely bald, with innocent brown eyes. After being ushered into his office, Starbuck explained precisely what he had in mind. He wanted a gold sleeve fitted over his right front tooth, and anchored securely. Once in place, he concluded, it must appear to be a genuine gold tooth.
“A fake tooth?” the dentist asked, as if he couldn't have heard correctly. “You want a fake
gold
tooth?”
“A fake tooth,” Starbuck corrected, “that looks like the real article.”
“Why?” the dentist said, bewildered. “To what purpose?”
Starbuck smiled. “Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies. Can you do it?”
“I suppose so”—the dentist shrugged, eyebrows raised—“assuming you're willing to pay the price.”
“How much?”
“A hundred dollars, plus the cost of the gold.”
“Done.” Starbuck pulled out his wallet. “One
more thing. It has to be ready by four this afternoon.”
“Impossible! I'll need at least a week.”
Starbuck extracted three hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and spread them on the desk. “A day's work for a week's pay. Interested?”
The dentist pocketed the bills and pointed to a high-backed operating chair. “Have a seat. I'll have to take some measurements.”
“You come highly recommended, Doc. Don't disappoint me.”
“Recommended by whom?”
“Like I said, ask me no questions—”
“Very well, no more questions. Let's get on with it.”
Starbuck moved to the chair and seated himself. The dentist selected several instruments from a cabinet, then pried Starbuck's mouth open and began taking measurements. Ten minutes later he walked from the office and flagged another hansom cab.

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