The Bear: Water & Oil

John Kerr

THE BEAR: WATER & OIL

Copyright © 2019 John Kerr.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-8627-4 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-5320-8629-8 (hc) ISBN: 978-1-5320-8628-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019916976

iUniverse rev. date: 10/31/2019

Contents

1 The Gathering

2 Mr. Roy and Mr. Rogers

3 A Mission

4 The Phone Call

5 The Accident

6 The Plan

7 Dinner

8 The Return

9 A Shocking Revelation

10 A Resolution

San Francisco - 1906

11 The Reporter

12 The Piano Player

13 The Thief

14 Monday

15 Tuesday

16 Death and Destruction

Los Angeles

17 A Wedding

18 The Photographer

19 The Tunnel

20 The Assault

21 Eggs and Chickens

22 The Proposition

23 The Party

24 Death and a Deal

25 Danny Doyle

26 A Moment of Doubt

27 The Deacon

28 The Director

29 The Yacht

30 The Legend

31 The Attack

32 The Shoot

33 Retribution

34 Deacon Isaiah

35 Over There

36 The Argument

37 That’s Show Business

38 The Big Push

39 Lunch

40 The Dinner

41 The Homecoming

42 Down Mexico Way

43 The Photograph

44 The Train Ride

45 The Meeting

46 One Night in Chinatown

47 The Card Game

48 Calamity

49 The Funeral

50 The Raid

51 The Departure

52 Secrets

53 The Favor

Dedicated to my sister, Peggy, who always listened to the tales I told and read the ones I wrote.

1

The Gathering

On January 18, 1904, as inauspicious a day as any, Los Angeles Tribune publisher Otis Grayson and his son-in-law, Harry Chapman, met with Henry Huntington of the Southern Pacific Railroad, Thomas Bard of Union Oil, and Isaias Hellman, the founder of Farmers and Merchants Bank. The meeting took place at Grayson’s private suite at the Aurora Hotel. The drapes were drawn to ensure privacy. The men sat at a large oval table, smoking Cuban cigars and drinking twenty-year-old scotch. The businessmen founded the California Development Association that morning. The public image of the CDA would be one of philanthropy and public works. The primary goal of the elite group was to control the state, or at least the southern portion, as their personal fiefdom. All gathered in the room held a strong anti-union stance, and in the case of Otis Grayson, his hatred for the unions bordered on obsession. The consensus of the group was that the north was a lost cause when it came to labor. There were too many Italians, Irish, and Germans in San Francisco. Those groups controlled the stevedores, the teamsters, and a dozen other trades. Los Angeles and the southern cities, such as San Diego, were a different matter. Los Angeles was a small, dirty city that had retained its outlaw image. San Francisco was the Paris of the Pacific and personified culture and refinement in the new century. Los Angeles was a scrappy city some six hundred miles to the south and held a population of just more than a hundred thousand. Many of the outlying areas still lacked a central water system. Most of the real estate outside the city was farmland. Dairy farms had replaced many of the big ranches. Citrus groves stretched from the San Fernando Valley all the way south to San Diego. Los Angeles was built on the edge of the desert. Its existence was predicated on the availability of water. Grayson knew that if Los Angeles was to grow, the city would need much more water than the local rivers could supply. The southern part of the state also had oil.

Edward Doheny’s oil strike in Los Angeles was like the discovery of gold at Sutter’s Mill some fifty years before. Doheny’s discovery set off a rush of wildcatters who descended upon Los Angeles, Long Beach, and other cities, all hoping to strike a gusher. The oligarchy owned or controlled much of the state’s land. Twenty-three percent of the farmers were tenants. The farmers were easy to control. The railroad set the prices. A farmer survived or perished based on the control the railroad had over the shipment of his crops. Controlling workers in the city was different, especially with all the wildcat wells and the tent cities that seemed to spring up overnight. The gathered businessmen decided that Los Angeles and the southern portion of the state would be an open region and that unions would be aggressively discouraged. They agreed the wildcat oil operations needed to come under control as well. “The price of oil is continuing to decline,” said Thomas Bard, one of the founders of the Union Oil Company. Grayson smiled. “Well, we do have an abundance of it here.” Bard frowned. “That isn’t the issue. The problem is there are too many independents. They’ve flooded the market.” “You simply need to get control of your market,” said Henry Huntington, puffing on a cigar. Bard put his hands together and fixed Huntington with a cool look. “That’s exactly what we plan to do. I have a pair of agents working on that very thing. We don’t want an incident like Muscle Slough, though,” he said, alluding to the shootout that had claimed the lives of six settlers and two lawmen representing the railroad’s interests. Huntington cleared his throat and gave a nod. “Point taken.” “You won’t have trouble from my paper,” said Grayson. “Most of the independents will come around once they are approached. I’m not so certain with Sean McGuire and his Shamrock Oil,” said Bard.

Grayson tugged on his ear. “McGuire is a sticky widget. I would advise caution when dealing with the man.” “I will take it under advisement,” Bard replied. “There is still the matter of water,” said Isaias Hellman. “The chief is working on that problem,” said Harry Chapman, using the familiar term most employed when talking about the Department of Water and Power’s chief engineer, William Mulholland. “Well, he’d better work fast,” Hellman replied. “Without water, Los Angeles can’t grow. Considering the drought, we’ve had for the last couple years, we can barely service the current population. I don’t care if you control all of the oil fields and the railroad lines; without water, Los Angeles will never be more than an insignificant desert town.” “I agree,” said Huntington. “Without sufficient water, there won’t be much of an agriculture industry, which means no produce shipped. engers don’t generate enough profits. Shipping cattle, produce, and dry goods is what generates real profits.” “I have faith in the chief,” said Harry Chapman. “The man has never failed the city yet.” Grayson saw that the meeting might rapidly degenerate into petty arguments. He stood and lifted his cut-crystal glass in the air. “Gentlemen, to California, the Golden State God has delivered to us.” “Hear! Hear!” the gentlemen responded. The railroads owned more than half of all the land in the state, which meant they controlled the state’s agriculture and ranching industries by default. Any item from an orange to a steer was shipped by the Southern Pacific Railroad, and they set the price. Plans were underway to control the oil. While the group didn’t know how to expand the water available to Los Angeles, they had faith they’d find a way. The gentlemen smoked their cigars and sipped their twenty-year-old scotch, assured in the belief that they had been anointed to decide the destiny of the state. Labor would be controlled. Oil would be controlled. It was only a matter of time before water too came under their control.

2

Mr. Roy and Mr. Rogers

A large crow sailed through the cloudless blue sky and alighted on top of a wooden oil derrick. The derrick was under construction and stood nearly forty feet high. Eventually, it would rise to eighty feet above the earth. The derrick’s success was predicated solely on striking oil. Since there had been dozens of wells already sunk in Rancho de los Palos Verdes, it was possible this derrick too would soon pump black gold. A large mutt lay on the ground next to a tent pitched near the derrick. The dog took no notice of the bird. Harlan Garris stepped out of the tent. Garris was in his late twenties and of medium height. He wore work tros and a red long-john shirt and hadn’t shaved in a week. He yawned and stretched. The sun was just coming up. Garris gave the hound a pat on the head. The crow cawed and looked down on the man. Garris scratched his rear, bent down, and picked up a rock. He took aim and threw the stone at the crow. The bird cawed again tauntingly as the projectile missed its mark. Jarred Lenson came out of the tent. Lenson was about the same age and build as his partner, Garris. “Damn bird,” said Garris. Lenson waved his partner off. He walked a few yards away from their tent, dropped his pants, and pissed a stream. A black Buick drove up the road and stopped. The dog stood up at attention as two men got out. “Stay, Jingo,” said Garris. The men looked like bankers in their clean dark suits and hats. One of the men

was tall and husky, with dark brown hair and a mustache. His partner was shorter by a good four inches and thirty pounds lighter. He had black hair and a welltrimmed goatee. “Good morning, gentlemen,” said the slender man. Garris gave a nod of acknowledgment. Lenson lifted his pants, which were held up by suspenders, and walked over to where the three men were gathered. “I am Mr. Roy.” The slender man gestured to the stocky man standing next to him. “This is my associate, Mr. Rogers. We represent a consortium that is interested in purchasing the lease to this site.” Garris kicked the toe of his boot into the dirt. “Who said we wanted to sell? We ain’t even got our rig up.” Mr. Roy smiled. “That’s exactly why Mr. Rogers and I decided to pay you two gentlemen a visit. I’m sure you’re aware there is oil in the area. Two smart men like you wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t. What you don’t realize is that while there are a number of pools, you have to drill vertically to hit one, which means you have to literally be above that pool. If you are off by as much as a foot, your well can come up pure dirt.” “We know that. That’s why we took this lease away from all those others down yonder,” Garris replied. Mr. Roy chuckled and clapped his hands. “I like that—a pair of rugged individualists willing to take a chance. Don’t you like that, Mr. Rogers?” The stout man feigned a smile. “Yes.” “Might I ask what your plans are if you don’t hit pay dirt?” Mr. Roy asked. Lenson spit a wad of tobacco juice and waved the businessman off. “We’re gonna hit oil.” Mr. Roy looked directly at the two wildcatters. “You are so sure. That’s good. But let’s just say you don’t. You’ll be out the money you paid for the lease and

your rig, not to mention all those days you’ve worked.” “What do you want, mister?” Lenson asked. Mr. Roy flashed a smile that was as sincere as a politician’s on Election Day. “Why, I thought I already told you. The company I represent, Consolidated Oil, is willing to pay you $2,000 for your lease. I know you paid $300 for it. Your rig is used. I figure it’s worth $600 at best. That’s a $1,000 profit.” Garris glanced at his partner and then turned back to Mr. Rogers. “We don’t want to sell.” Mr. Roy pushed his hat back on his head. “You’re sure about that?” Lenson rubbed the back of his neck. “We’ll take our chances.” “One in ten comes up dry.” Mr. Roy removed an envelope from inside his jacket and exposed the shoulder holster rig he was wearing. He opened the envelope and flashed the bills inside. “Hard cash, and all you have to do is sign over your lease to Consolidated Oil. You don’t even have to clean up your camp.” Lenson and Garris stood silently with their arms crossed. Mr. Roy shrugged his shoulders. “A good day to you both then, gentlemen.” He slipped the envelope back inside his jacket and tipped his hat. Mr. Roy got behind the wheel of the Buick. Mr. Rogers bent down and cranked the engine and then climbed in on the enger side. Mr. Roy made a U-turn and pointed the Buick back the way it had come. Lenson and Garris worked all day on the derrick. Just before sunset, they stood and ired their work. “We should be able to start drilling tomorrow,” said Garris. “Good. I’m hungrier than a pig on Sunday,” said Lenson. Garris and Lenson walked the two miles to Dawson’s Diner, where they had a meal of pot roast and apple pie. By the time the two men returned to their camp, it was well after dark. They were nourished and tired. Lenson headed into the

tent. Garris sensed something was amiss. He turned and looked out into the dark. “Jingo!” Only the wind answered his call. “Jingo!” Silence. “Damn dog.” Garris ducked inside the tent and retrieved a lantern. “Probably got himself a rabbit,” said Lenson. Garris lit the lantern and exited the tent. “Jingo!” Silence. Garris held the lantern up and walked away from the tent. It was pitch black except for the few feet the lantern illuminated. Garris continued to search the area. Something finally caught his eye. He wasn’t sure if it was just a shadow playing tricks. Garris held the lantern higher and walked toward the object. The wildcatter suddenly froze. The dog’s head was crushed. A large rock sat next to the body. He took a step toward the dead animal. Garris wanted to be certain it wasn’t Jingo. He held the light close. “Oh, Jingo.” Those were the last words Harlan Garris uttered before a two-by-four came down and crushed his skull. A hand grabbed the lantern from the wildcatter as he collapsed and set it down gently next to the body. A few moments later, Lenson stuck his head out of the tent. “Harlan!” When he didn’t get a response, Lenson put his boots on and tramped out of the tent. He spotted the lantern some twenty yards away. “Goddamn it, Harlan, don’t be playing no damn games.” Lenson marched toward the light. Something warned him. He ducked just as a

two-by-four swung. The board whistled as it missed his head by centimeters. Lenson pulled his pistol and fired. A second shot rang out. Lenson looked down at the crimson stain rapidly spreading across his long johns. “You killed me.” He pitched forward face-first on the ground. “It’s done,” said a man’s voice. The two-by-four was tossed to the ground between the two bodies, and footsteps receded. A car started and drove away. A moment later, crickets began chirping in the warm night air.

***

Two days later, the bodies were discovered. By then, the coyotes had done a fine job of picking over the carcasses. “Looks like these two must’ve gotten into a fight,” said Hank Dempsey, the deputy. Karl Kendall, the sheriff, frowned. He disliked when his deputy stated the obvious. He took his hat off, mopped his brow with a handkerchief, and then put the hat back on and returned the kerchief to his back pocket. “You figure that out yourself, Hank?” The deputy remained silent. “Well, let’s get Abe Greene out here to pick up the bodies and bury ’em. There looks like there’s enough gear here to pay for the burial.” The sheriff and his deputy got in their Model C Ford and drove away. Neither man had bothered to take note of the half-eaten dead dog that lay nearby.

3

A Mission

Sean McGuire frowned as he read the morning edition of the Tribune. He was seated at the long dining table in his Beverly Hills home. The four-acre estate sat at the west end of Sunset Boulevard, where the street was nothing but a dirt road. Sean was seventy-four and still a man to be reckoned with. His eyes had dimmed a bit, but his accuracy with a gun was the stuff of legend. The fact he had lived to that ripe old age was a testament in itself. He had fought Californios during the Bear Flag Revolt. After that conflict, he’d fought the Comanche and killed nearly a dozen white men as well. He’d been the first rancher to import cattle into the state and had built a ranching empire that had covered more than fourteen thousand acres at its peak. When oil had been discovered in Los Angeles, Sean used his ranch, the Oso Negro, as collateral and drilled for oil on his Long Beach property. He nearly had gone broke, but Sean’s third attempt had been a gusher. The strike saved the ranch and Sean founded the Shamrock Oil Company a small, independent operation. The men Sean had built his empire with—Rufus Cobb, Charlie Davis, the Native American, Falcon, and Lee Sing, his Chinese partner—were all dead. McGuire was the last man standing in a world filled with ghosts of the past. “Goddamn it,” said Sean. Jenny McGuire-Reynolds, Sean’s daughter, walked into the dining room with a fresh pot of coffee. Jenny was twenty-four, beautiful, and a widow. Six years previous, her husband of ten months, Lieutenant Peter Reynolds, had died in Cuba. The lieutenant had not died in glorious battle but, rather, had ed away ignobly by crapping himself to death, a victim of dysentery. The lieutenant had been among the American forces that had landed with Colonel Teddy in order to liberate the locals from the oppressive Spanish. Jenny was eighteen at the time. In most cases, a woman widowed that young became a casualty of society. Few women owned property, held jobs, or had an education much beyond the eighth grade. Jenny wasn’t like most women. After Peter’s death, Jenny earned a law

degree from Berkeley and was now the vice president of McGuire Enterprises, which included Shamrock Oil. “What is it, Father?” Jenny asked as she refilled his cup. “The damn Tribune. They have an article about a mining disaster in . Another one about the pope condemning the separation of church and state in . You’d think Grayson hired nothing but frog reporters. Not a damn thing about Consolidated Oil muscling out the independents or the kickbacks the mayor is receiving.” Jenny smiled and sat down at the table. This was a regular morning ritual with her father. “Did you honestly expect the Tribune to carry an article about the wildcatters being forced out, Father? The Tribune backed the mayor’s election. They aren’t going to say anything against him. Now, eat your breakfast before it gets cold.” Sean grumbled and tossed the newspaper onto the table. “I should’ve shot that bastard Grayson when I had the chance years ago.” “You didn’t, and there’s no point in complaining about it now,” Jenny replied matter-of-factly as she poured herself a cup of coffee. Sean frowned and poked at his eggs. “That damn Tom Bard is behind these takeovers.” Sean hadn’t been so free with his language at one time, especially around his daughter. After his son, Thomas, was murdered, Sean had become a changed man. He cursed freely and brooded much. Jenny took on an active role in the company at that time. She preferred the ranch to the oil fields, but knew someone had to deal with their oil holdings, as small as they might be. She visited the site regularly and knew the names of all the workers. Sean was now more of a figurehead, and he was content with that. He came to the office downtown, but Jenny ran day-to-day operations. Sean was uncertain, though, how Jenny would handle herself in a war. Jenny put a spoonful of sugar in her coffee and stirred. “Be that as it may, you shouldn’t get yourself riled up over an article that didn’t appear in the paper. The city named San Pedro as its official harbor. You should be happy,” she said in a

soft, soothing voice. “I’d like to shoot that bastard Grayson and his buddy Bard,” Sean replied. Jenny smiled at her father. “You already said that.” Sean grumbled something in Gaelic. “I am well aware that Consolidated is gobbling up the independents. I am also aware they are a front for Union Oil,” said Jenny. “The truth is, most of the wildcatters fail.” “I was a wildcatter once.” “You already had the ranch. You were established.” Sean chuckled. “I mortgaged the ranch to get into the game. When the first two wells came up dry, we almost lost the ranch.” He saw his daughter’s surprised look. “You didn’t know that. If we hadn’t hit it with the third, well, we certainly wouldn’t be sitting here in this fine house.” Jenny sipped her coffee and set the cup down. “I wasn’t aware of that.” “The combine will come after Shamrock.” Jenny looked at her father. “What would you suggest I do?” “Be alert. William is currently absent,” said Sean, referring to William McGrath, his right-hand man. “He should be back in a few days. If approached, do nothing overt, and certainly do not confront. Be cordial and, if need be, condescending but not obvious.” “We do have standing in this city. I don’t believe—” “Girl, have I not taught you anything?” Sean didn’t bother to hide his irritation. “Life is war. The bodies of two wildcatters were found in the fields in Torrance.” He thrust a finger at the newspaper. “Partners murder each other, my ass! I’ll bet you a steak dinner at the Palace that Consolidated has already taken over the lease on that land.”

Jenny didn’t want to argue with her father and replied, “I will be alert and do as you say.” Sean smiled. “Good girl.”

***

William McGrath stood in the shadows of Gunerson’s Mercantile Store and watched as the chief of Water and Power climbed up onto a two-horse buckboard along with Fred Eaton, the former mayor, and rode out of town. Their wagon was loaded with supplies of food, water, and survey equipment. It was obvious the two men were planning a long trip. Sean had tasked McGrath with following the chief. He wore his duster and had a slicker, a bedroll, and three days’ rations of water and hardtack. As soon as the wagon was out of sight, William McGrath walked to his horse tethered to the post, saddled up and rode off in the same direction as the two men. Mulholland and Eaton regaled each other with bawdy songs as they enjoyed each other’s company and shared a seemingly never-ending supply of bonded Kentucky bourbon. The pair traveled through the dry wash of the Rig Tujunga River, laughing and joking. McGrath held his brown mustang back and allowed his quarry ample distance. They were easy to track. McGrath merely had to follow the trail of empty whiskey bottles left in their wake. The morning was uneventful for the travelers. When the pair reached Newhall, things changed. The road was narrow and unpaved and rose forty-two degrees. The two men had to unload their supplies. The former mayor grabbed the harness and pulled the horses forward while the chief pushed the buckboard from behind in order to get to the top. They then had to march back down the road to retrieve their supplies and load them onto the wagon before traveling on. That evening, the chief and Eaton spent the night in Newhall, drinking at a saloon. McGrath camped outside the town. One could have spit from one end of Newhall and hit a man standing on the far side of the city limits. William McGrath did not want Mulholland or Eaton to suspect they were being followed. The presence of a third stranger in town would have aroused suspicion.

McGrath slept out under the stars. He had been doing that for much of his thirtyfour years. William McGrath’s father, Robert, was a captain in the Boston Police Department. His older brother, James, was a policeman in New York. It was expected that William would likewise one day the force, but the boy had no intention of following in the family tradition. From his earliest memories, William McGrath wanted to be a cowboy like the ones he read about in dime novels. He stole the rag merchant’s horse to ride it. When his father discovered the theft, he thrashed his errant ten-year-old son. William stole the horse again and rode it to the park. Robert beat the boy harder. The horse thefts continued, and so did the beatings. The fifth time his father caught him with the horse, he didn’t beat him. Robert McGrath took his young son down to the train station, gave him three dollars, and put him on a train west to live on his uncle’s farm in Oklahoma. Ray McGrath had ten acres of corn growing on the plains. He had a wife and two children who feared him. Another hand was more than welcome, especially a relative who would work for free. Ray McGrath showed no preferences; he was as mean to William as he was to his own children. William received a beating for the slightest infraction. Leaving a basket outside instead of storing it in the barn, spilling the pig slop, and dropping a chicken egg all were causes for a beating. William took the punishment just as he had from his father. He refused to cry, no matter how hard his uncle whipped him. He would bite his lip and fight to hold back the tears. William was determined never to give Uncle Ray the satisfaction of seeing him cry. When William was seventeen, Uncle Ray got it in his mind to beat his nephew for yet another minor infraction. William had reached his limit. He caught his uncle’s wrist when the man swung to hit him. “Don’t,” William said quietly. The older man’s eyed burned with fire and anger at being challenged. Uncle Ray brought his knee up. William anticipated the move. He stepped to the side, avoiding the knee, and bashed his uncle’s face with his fist, breaking the older man’s nose. Blood sprayed. William stepped back with his fists ready. Uncle Ray sucked in a breath. He wiped the blood from his face and glared at his nephew. He knew better than to challenge William and snarled, “Get your things,

and get. If you don’t, I’ll kill you.” William left that night. He hated abandoning his aunt and young cousins to the wrath of Ray McGrath, but there was nothing he could do for them. He took his satchel and a horse and left the farm. The following year, he learned that his uncle had died of influenza, which did much to relieve William McGrath of the guilt he carried for leaving his aunt to the brutal man. McGrath kicked around for the next few years cowboying mostly and working his way up to the Dakotas. When he reached South Dakota, McGrath signed on as a scout for the army. He was assigned to Colonel James Forsyth, who was in command of the Seventh Cavalry in that region. The army was there to set up forts and subdue the natives. William McGrath scouted for the colonel but refused to partake in the subduing. Disgusted with the army’s treatment of Native Americans McGrath took his leave of the colonel and the army thirteen months later, on December 29, 1890, at Wounded Knee. William McGrath traveled south to New Mexico Territory, where he met Chris Larabee, who took him under his wing. Larabee was a hired gun. He favored allblack outfits and shaved his head. Larabee only took jobs that suited him, which meant they usually involved a quick draw, fast women, and hundred-proof whiskey. Larabee was impressed by McGrath’s speed with a gun. The two rode together until Larabee found himself in hot water. The pair had recently arrived in Tucson after completing a job for a Colorado cattle rancher who had a dozen head of cattle stolen. Larabee and McGrath found the rustlers. They were a motley band of five men. The thieves failed to post a guard. Larabee and McGrath boldly rode into their camp and shot all five men dead and returned the livestock to the cattleman. The rancher was pleased as punch and gave them a bonus for their work. After checking into a hotel and washing the road off, the two men proceeded to the Red Garter Saloon. They had a couple drinks. Larabee noticed an empty seat at the poker table and sat down. After a couple hands, he was up more than a hundred dollars. McGrath watched his friend’s back. The dealer dealt from the bottom of the deck. Larabee called him on it. The dealer went for his gun. Chris shot him before the dealer’s gun cleared the holster. The bullet went straight through the card cheat and the saloon’s paper-thin pine wall and struck a civilian on the street, killing him where he stood.

Normally, that type of incident would have been considered an unfortunate accident, but in this case, the unintended victim was the sheriff’s brother-in-law. Chris Larabee was forced to hightail it out of town. William McGrath wanted to come along, but Larabee wouldn’t hear of it. He knocked McGrath out cold, left him in the stable, and then saddled his horse and rode off before the sheriff could put a posse together. The sheriff held McGrath in the jail for two days, but when it became apparent the young man didn’t know where his companion was, he let him go. McGrath cowboyed his way to California and the Oso Negro, where he caught the eye of Sean McGuire. William McGrath had many demons. Sean recognized that and allowed the young man to exploit those demons. He never questioned William or his methods. McGrath saw Sean as the father he’d never had. Sean allowed William to take his wrath out on men. Sean saw much of himself in the young man. Both had a strong penchant for violence and held superior skills when it came to the use of firearms. The dead men they left in their trails were testament to that fact. William McGrath did not have a campfire that night. He wondered what the chief and Eaton were up to. They had enough supplies to last for weeks. Sean had tasked him to follow the chief and report back. McGrath thought it a waste of time but obeyed. Consolidated Oil was forcing out the wildcatters and independents. They hadn’t bothered Shamrock Oil, but McGrath knew it was only a matter of time before their men would pay a call. He wished he were in Los Angeles instead of miles away tracking two men in the wilderness. The following morning, the chief and Eaton climbed onto their buckboard and traveled northwest to Saugus then turned east into Soledad Canyon. William McGrath had no idea where the pair were headed. He sat on his horse nearly a mile back and observed them through a pair of army field binoculars. The chief and his companion were struggling through a narrow . The wagon wheels had become stuck in the soggy earth. The two men removed their boots and waded into the muck. They pushed and shoved the wagon and horses for more than an hour before they reached solid ground. William McGrath clicked his tongue, and the mustang took off at a steady trot. Mulholland and Eaton continued their trek through the tiny town of Palmdale. The chief guided the buckboard across the Tehachapi Mountains. The two men continued their drinking, leaving a trail of dead soldiers as they traveled through

Del Sur, Fairmont, and Willow Springs. The pair finally reached the sunbaked town of Mojave. They checked into a hotel, washed the mud and muck off, and spent most of the night drinking in a saloon. William McGrath spent another night camped on the outskirts of town with no fire. They had traveled some ninety miles in two days. The pair pushed off just after sunrise the following morning. William McGrath knew he could pick up their trail easily. He rode into town; purchased enough beans, coffee, and bacon to last a week; and then went over to the Rose Garden Restaurant for breakfast. He was a bit gamey, but the waitress was used to cowboys. McGrath had a breakfast of pancakes, bacon, and coffee. An hour after riding into town, he was back on the trail. The chief navigated the wagon over the baked desert floor; the wheels crunched the parched earth with their weight. The pair ed headstones of those who had died on their trek across the country. Bleached bones of horses and bridles and harness gear lay scattered along the road. The wind blew, and dust devils whirled across the desert floor through the sage and giant Joshua trees. McGrath followed the pair, still not knowing what their quest was. The chief was the head of the city’s Department of Water and Power. McGrath wondered what they were doing traipsing through the desert. The fourth day out, the chief and former mayor stopped at a hard scrabble farm near Red Rock. The farmer had dug a well. A sign was nailed to the top of the well: “Water 10 cents a pail.” They pushed on, reaching the summit of the canyon some 4,400 feet above sea level. Frequently, the two men had to unload their supplies and push the wagon to get it up the steep grade. Shortly after ing through the small town of Olancha, the pair stopped the buckboard and got out. William McGrath peered through his binoculars. He could see the two men standing and staring off at something. The chief and former mayor jumped up and down and hugged each other. They climbed back onto the wagon and disappeared over the horizon. McGrath clicked his tongue, and the mustang took off. Ten minutes later, McGrath reached the location where the buckboard had stopped. He got off the horse and slowly walked ahead. McGrath froze. He saw what had made the two men jump for joy. He knew now why Sean had sent him

to tail the chief. He had to get back to Los Angeles immediately. McGrath turned the mustang and headed back in the direction he had just traveled at a solid gallop.

***

Mr. Roy and Mr. Rogers entered the Bradbury Building and took the elevator up to the second-floor office of McGuire Enterprises. Effie Dancer, Sean’s secretary, sat behind her desk in the lobby. She looked up as the two men entered. “Good morning,” Effie said with a smile. The two men tipped their hats politely. Mr. Roy produced a card and handed it to the secretary. “Good day, madam. My partner and I would like to speak to Mr. McGuire.” “Do you have an appointment?” asked Effie. Mr. Roy gave the secretary a warm smile. “No. Please inform Mr. McGuire that the representatives of Consolidated Oil would like to see him.” “I’m sorry, but Mr. McGuire is not in.” “Might I ask when he will be back?” “I’m not sure.” Mr. Roy gave his partner a look. Neither man appeared pleased with the information. “Tell Mr. McGuire it is imperative that he us,” said Mr. Roy. The two men tipped their hats and exited the office.

4

The Phone Call

The Oso Negro was a shadow of its former self, a mere eleven hundred acres. The ranch had been in operation for nearly fifty years. Sean had been the first cattleman to bring a herd from Texas and had made the Oso Negro into a premiere enterprise. Business ventures and a grand lifestyle had whittled away at the Oso Negro over the years as Sean sold off sections to cover those expenses. Sean had sold the big house on Hill Street shortly after returning to Los Angeles from hunting his son’s killer. He no longer cared to live there and wanted to get away from the hustle of downtown life. His former partner, Charlie Davis, had died while they were in pursuit of Thomas’s murderer. Davis accidentally had stumbled upon a nest of rattlers, and they killed him straight out. The man they were chasing ended up being shot by a pair of bushwhackers. Sean killed the bushwhackers but not before being wounded himself. When Sean returned to Los Angeles, he became taciturn and kept to himself. He sold off a large section of his ranch to finance the building of an estate some twelve miles west of downtown, in a remote area known as Beverly Hills. There were no paved roads, and that portion of the city was often referred to as “the country.” Sean had a cement swimming pool put in so he could exercise the leg that had taken the .45 slug. Sean offered to build a house for Olivia, Thomas’s widow, and her young son, Michael. Olivia preferred to remain at the ranch. She felt country living and being around the company of the cowboys would be good for Michael. Sean didn’t argue. He liked the idea of his grandson growing up among the cowboys. Jenny had moved into her father’s new home in Beverly Hills after graduating from Berkeley. She handled day-to-day business, as Sean now preferred to remain at home in the country rather than make the trek into downtown. William McGrath took care of business matters that couldn’t be dealt with by Jenny. McGrath had proven to be a very capable man over the years.

Sean had the Oso Negro’s adobe entirely redone when Olivia and Michael moved to the ranch. It now had six bedrooms and two water closets, and the expanded kitchen had a gas stove. The ranch itself might have shrunk in size, but the house, corrals, and bunkhouse looked like something out of a travel magazine. Sean was at the ranch, watching some of the cowboys brand the new calves, when a phone call came from Effie. Sean didn’t care for telephones. He was a telegraph man. When Jenny pointed out that a telephone was a much easier and quicker way of communicating, Sean relented. He had one installed at the ranch and one at the house in Beverly Hills. He rarely used either of them. Sean felt that the new century had changed everything. He was unimpressed by technology and frequently considered it a major step backwards. Electric light replaced gas lamps. Gone was the soft glow that once blanketed the city at night. Streets now blazed with harsh light all night. Noisy, belching automobiles were replacing horses. The telephone replaced the telegraph. Once, a man had been able to settle an issue with a gun or just run his adversary out of town. That wasn’t the case any longer. Jenny employed her charm to deal with thorny business that arose. William McGrath dealt with those difficult cases who failed respond to Jenny’s attractions. Jenny took the call from Effie. She relayed to her father that Mr. Roy and Mr. Rogers from Consolidated Oil had paid the downtown office a visit. Sean didn’t say a word. He stood up and went to get his horse. Jenny followed her father to the corral, where his bay was tethered. “What are you going to do?” “I’m going back to town.” “Take a few men with you,” Jenny said. Sean turned and looked at his daughter. “This is not their fight. I have William for that.” “He isn’t here.” “No, he is not. Please call the Hotel del Coronado and book a room under the

name of Miss Mary Sanger. I will need you at the office tomorrow.” “I will. Please be careful.” Sean brushed aside a lock of Jenny’s hair. “Don’t worry. Consolidated let us know they are coming. That was their first mistake.” Sean kissed Jenny on the cheek, got on his horse, and rode off heading west toward Los Angeles.

***

Sean didn’t bother to hide his movements when he got into town. He left the bay at the stable and went straight to his office. Effie Dancer was sitting at her desk when Sean entered. Without a word, he went into his office and removed the deeds to the Long Beach property from the safe. “Effie, you’re taking a vacation,” Sean said as he entered the outer office. Effie Dancer had worked for Sean for twelve years and had long ago become accustomed to her employer’s eccentric manner. “What is it?” Sean handed Effie the property deeds, a train ticket, and $200. “Take the next train to San Diego. Jenny booked you a room at the Hotel del Coronado under the name Mary Sanger. Enjoy the sun and sand.” He pointed to the deeds. “Be sure to lock those in the hotel safe as soon as you get there.” “How long should I stay?” Sean thought for a moment. He took out his wallet and counted out another $200 and gave it to his secretary. “I don’t know yet. Jenny will get in touch with you. Do not us or your mother. You are an attorney from Chicago taking in the sites of the city.” “I don’t know the first thing about being an attorney,” Effie replied.

“Relax. Nobody is going to ask you to try a case.” “Can I go home and pack a bag?” Sean stuffed another fifty dollars into Effie’s hand. “Have fun.” Effie put on her hat and picked up her purse. “You bet I will.” Sean waited five minutes after Effie departed and then exited the office. He walked down Broadway. He knew he was most likely being followed and wished he had thought to have Effie describe Mr. Roy and Mr. Rogers to him. His primary concern was to get Effie out of town and safe with the property deeds. Sean turned on Sixth Street. He walked up the block and entered a plainlooking building that bore no sign as to the type of business conducted on-site. Sean turned on the light. There was a single desk with a telephone on the wall next to it. Other than that, the room was devoid of furniture. Sean picked up the telephone receiver and gave the operator a number. “Shamrock,” said a man’s voice. “Red, it’s me. How are things at the pumps today?” “Fine.” “Good. Keep an eye out.” “Are you expecting something?” Sean was silent for a moment. “Just keep your eyes open. If any strangers show up, call immediately.” “Yes, sir.” “Good.” Sean hung up the receiver. “Where the hell are you, William?” he said to himself quietly. Sean turned off the light and walked over and opened the door to the cellar. He walked down the steps. He struck a match, took a lantern that hung from a hook, and lit it. The far wall of the cellar had a hole in it just large enough

for a man to crawl through. Sean placed the lantern through the hole and crawled in after it. He dusted himself off, picked up the lantern, and proceeded across the cellar of that building to the far wall, which also had a hole in it. Sean repeated his moves. He walked up the cellar steps of the third building and entered another empty storefront. Sean took a cap hanging on a peg and exited the building from the rear. He pulled the cap down and walked to the end of the alley, where he hailed a cab going down Olive. He instructed the driver to head back to Third Street. Sean spotted a man standing near a black Buick parked across the street from the vacant building he had entered. The man was short and slender, with black hair and a goatee. “Got you,” Sean said to himself as the cab drove past the Buick.

5

The Accident

“We lost a wagon last night, a full shipment,” said Red Cranston, the foreman for Shamrock Oil. He stood in Sean’s office in the Bradbury Building. Cranston was thirty-six and had worked for the company since its first strike. True to his word, Red reported to the company office first thing that morning to make a report. He found Effie absent and Jenny present instead of Sean. Jenny was seated behind the large mahogany desk. “What happened?” she asked. Cranston looked down at the floor for a moment, embarrassed. “The axle broke.” “Was anyone hurt?” “The driver broke his arm when he was tossed from the wagon. Wally Sheridan is a good man. He’ll be right as rain as soon as his wing heals.” “That’s a relief.” Cranston gave Jenny a questioning look. “Is everything all right, Miss Jenny?” Jenny folded her hands and looked directly at the foreman. “What is going on at the field, Mr. Cranston?” Cranston scratched his ear. “I didn’t want to alarm you, Miss Jenny. Nothing that me and the boys can’t handle.” “Mr. Cranston, please tell me what you’re talking about,” Jenny said firmly. Cranston shifted uneasily as he stood before the boss’s daughter. He had promised to tell Sean of any strange occurrences, Jenny was a different matter. “There’s been this pair in a black Buick spending a fair amount of time watching our operation. Dan Barrows walked over to see what they wanted, but they drove

off before he reached their auto.” “When was this?” “Day before yesterday.” That put it the day after Mr. Roy and Mr. Rogers paid a call on Effie at the office. “Mr. Cranston, I want you to listen. Please tell the others not to confront these men.” “They’re Consolidated goons. It’s written all over them.” Effie frowned. “I mean it, Mr. Cranston; do not confront them. Do you believe the axle was tampered with?” Cranston shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know for certain.” “I appreciate your coming directly to me.” “When might your father be back?” Cranston asked. “My father is away on business. He has left me in charge.” The foreman scratched his head. “What is the matter, Mr. Cranston?” “It’s just that with that pair prowling around, you telling me not to do anything makes me wonder—” Effie looked the foreman in the eye. “Wonder if I’m capable of dealing with a hostile takeover?” Jenny asked in a quiet tone of voice, cutting off Cranston. Cranston hung his head. “Mrs. Reynolds, I didn’t mean anything.” Jenny sat back in the chair. “You and the others want to know if I can handle a pair of killers.” Cranston swallowed hard. He was unfamiliar with dealing with such a direct

female, especially one who had just told him she was his boss. The foreman nodded. “The thought did cross some of the men’s minds.” Jenny stood up. Her expression had changed. She was beautiful, but there was something in her green eyes that turned Cranston’s blood cold. They were the eyes of a predator. The foreman gave Jenny a nod and put on his cap. “I’d better get back to the field, ma’am. Thank you for your time, Miss Jenny.” Cranston exited the office. A trolley went by and kicked up dust. Cranston coughed as he got in the Ford Model C. He did not notice the man with the goatee standing across the street watching as he started the Ford and drove away.

***

Sean paced the floor of Chu San’s Chinatown apartment. He had been there for three days, and the walls were beginning to close in. Chu San was a beautiful prostitute Sean had met through his friend Lee Sing. When Sean had returned to Los Angeles after pursuing Thomas’s killer, he did not go home. Sean had been shot in the thigh by the bushwhacker and was forced to perform field surgery or bleed out in the Sierras. He had purchased three bottles of laudanum at a mining camp as he made his way down the mountains. Sean used it liberally on his journey back to Los Angeles. He rode into town dirty, disheveled, and in desperate need of medical attention. He didn’t want Jenny to see him in such a condition, so he went to see Lee Sing. His old friend saw Sean’s condition and immediately placed him in the care of Chu San, a fourteen-year-old comfort woman who belonged to the tong. She alone nursed Sean back to health. It took him two months to fully recover. When Sean finally returned home it was as if he had just ridden into town that day. That was nine years ago. The only people who’d knew about Chu San and her connection to Sean were Lee Sing and his son, Walter. Lee Sing was now dead, which made Walter the sole individual with that knowledge.

Sean and Chu San were not lovers. It wasn’t that Sean didn’t find Chu San desirable—quite the contrary. Her skin was soft; she had an hourglass figure; and her face was highlighted with high cheekbones, a seductive pair of lips, and dark brown eyes. However, Chu San was younger than Jenny. Chu San’s father had sold her to a broker who brought the young girl to Gum Saan when she was twelve. She was barely fourteen when she first met Sean and cared for him. He had attempted to give Chu San money, but she refused to accept it. Sean took to buying the young girl gifts. He got her an apartment off of Alameda in Chinatown which he decorated with fine furniture. Sean didn’t mind Chu San’s occupation. He paid her bills. Chu San only took on a client when it was required by the tong to entertain a visiting lingdao. She spent much of her time painting. Sean occasionally dropped by in the evening to visit. Normally a closemouthed man even with his daughter, Sean found peace at Chu San’s apartment and discovered he was able to talk to her about his troubles and concerns. “Would you like a drink instead of tea?” Chu San asked. She was standing over the small stove, heating water in a kettle. “No,” Sean replied, realizing he had been pacing back and forth. “Sorry. It’s just that Jenny is late with her morning letter.” “Don’t worry. Yip Lee will deliver it,” Chu San said. She was wearing modern clothes. Her dark hair flowed down her shoulders. She spooned tea leaves into the kettle and let it steep. Sean smiled. “Yes, you’re right.” Sean had left instructions with Jenny to him by sending a messenger via a series of Chinese couriers as soon as anyone from Consolidated Oil ed the office. For the last three mornings Jenny had sent a single word message to her father, Nothing. There was a soft tapping on the door. Chu San got up and opened it a crack. Yip Lee, a boy of no more than ten, stood in the doorway. Chu San gave the boy a dollar. Yip Lee handed the beautiful woman a small slip of folded paper. “Wait here.” Chu San closed the door and hurried over to Sean to give him the slip of paper. Sean quickly unfolded the paper and read the message:

No . Lost a wagon and full load. Unable to confirm circumstances. Red says two men in black Buick are watching Shamrock operations. No word from William.

Sean grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper and quickly jotted down a note:

Golden Dragon tonight, 5 p.m.

Sean folded the paper and gave it to Chu San. The young woman handed the note to Yip Lee, informing the boy he should deliver it immediately. The boy raced away. Sean turned and looked at Chu San. The morning light shining through the window formed a halo around her head and shoulders. “If I am correct, the men who wish to take my oil have made their first move against me.” “How long do you plan to wait?” Chu San asked. “Until they make the wrong move.” Chu San walked over and stroked Sean’s temple. “Your man, McGrath—he cannot help you?” “William is out of town.” “You would like to confront these men.” Sean looked at Chu San, his eyes narrowed. “Twenty-five years ago, I could’ve walked up to those sons of bitches and blown their brains out on Broadway, and that would’ve been the end of it.”

“The sheriff might’ve had something to say, even back then.” Sean chuckled. “Are you kidding, darling? This is Los Angeles. The only problem here is that Mr. Roy and his buddy work for a company that has more pull than I do.” “So, you must wait.” “Yes. These men will not stop until they have my land. They know they have to kill me to get it.” Chu San looked at Sean with warm eyes and a loving expression. “Is that land worth dying for? We are but visitors. It once belonged to the Indians. A hundred years ago, the Spaniards called it theirs; then the Mexicans took it; and now you Yankees claim it. The land remains; we die.” Sean met Chu San’s gaze and didn’t say a word.

***

Michael McGuire loved the Oso Negro. His father had been killed when Michael was an infant. Olivia had moved to the ranch once matters were settled with Thomas’s estate. There wasn’t any. It had fallen to Sean to look out for his daughter-in-law and grandson. Sean was glad to have the boy and his mother living at the ranch. A McGuire hadn’t lived there for many years. Olivia was a preacher’s daughter with an eighth-grade education. Her father saw no reason for a daughter to be educated beyond that level. She had attracted Thomas McGuire’s attention at a cotillion at the home of a college friend. Olivia was pretty but not beautiful. She loved to hear Thomas’s stories about California and growing up on a ranch. The truth was, Thomas had grown up in a big house on Bunker Hill and rarely traveled to the Oso Negro. Olivia did not hide her iration for Thomas. He loved the attention. Thomas McGuire grew up in the shadow of a father who was a local legend of sorts. Schoolmates knew the tale of how Sean McGuire had killed a bear and

saved the life of Ben Wilson, owner of Rancho San Pascual. They knew he was responsible for bringing the army to save a group of troopers pinned down by Mexicans during the Bear Flag Revolt. Thomas resented the attention his classmates focused on his father. After the death of Thomas’s mother, Kathleen, Sean sent the boy to military school, then to a prep school, and then off to college. Thomas was intoxicated by Olivia’s attention. She was the first person to shower him with the same attention his mother had once bestowed upon him as a child. When Thomas returned to Los Angeles in the spring of 1895 after graduating from the university, he had a new wife, and a son soon followed. Michael was good looking, just as his father, Thomas was. The similarities ended there. Thomas preferred fancy clothes and parties to cattle and the smell of manure. Michael loved the ranch life. He enjoyed being around the cowboys and reveled in their rough ways, coarse language, and code of honor. Olivia didn’t object and frequently encouraged Michael to spend time with the men. She knew Thomas for the wastrel he was and was determined to see that Michael never turned out like his father. Michael walked down to the creek to go fishing. Most of the cowboys were out tending the herd that day. Michael dug up some worms near the manure pile, put them in a can, and strolled down to the creek with his fishing pole. His mother was working in the house, and he was accustomed to entertaining himself. The creek was barely four feet across due to the drought the area had been experiencing the last two years. The young boy sat down on the landing and baited his hook. He flung his line into the creek. Michael stuck the pole into the ground, took out a pocketknife, and began whittling. After a while, there was a tug on the line. Michael dropped his knife, grabbed the pole tightly, and finally landed the catfish. He noticed a man with black hair and a goatee sitting on a black horse on the opposite side of the creek, watching. Michael held up the fish he had just caught for the man to see. The stranger rode across the stream. “Nice catch,” said the man on the horse. He reached into his pocket, took out a business card, and offered it to Michael. Michael took the card and studied it. “Con … Consolidated,” he said, attempting to pronounce the word phonetically.

“Consolidated,” said the man. “See that Sean McGuire gets that card.” “That’s my grandpa,” Michael replied proudly. “Then see that your grandpa gets my card.” The man turned his horse, rode back across the creek, and quickly disappeared among the brush and trees.

6

The Plan

Sean was waiting with Walter Sing when Jenny arrived at the Golden Dragon, where she was escorted to the restaurateur’s office. After greeting Walter and her father, Jenny took out the business card Mr. Roy had given to Michael and handed it to Sean. “One of those men was out at the ranch and gave this to Michael,” she said. Sean glanced at the card and slipped it into his vest pocket. “We must move quickly. I have a plan, but I will need your assistance, Walter.” “Whatever I can do,” Walter replied. “I need to locate the place where Mr. Roy and his buddy lodge. I need their Buick followed.” “I have a Ford that should be able to do the job,” Walter said. Sean shook his head. “No. These two will be watching for another vehicle. They most likely have been briefed about me and are aware of my connection to your father. No insult intended, but a Chinese driving a car will be too obvious. I need the services of younger men.” “What do you have in mind?” Walter asked. “It will be difficult, but I need the car followed on foot. I will this Mr. Roy and arrange to meet him at a restaurant of his choice tomorrow night for a late dinner. Once I know the location of the meeting, I will inform you. No doubt the Buick will be parked somewhere in the immediate vicinity. Once these reprobates leave, I will need as many men as possible on the streets to trail the car until they arrive at their hotel, hut, or hideaway.”

Walter smiled. “As long as they stay within the city, I think it can be accomplished.” “Excellent.” “You can’t go alone, Father,” Jenny said. Sean looked at his daughter. “I don’t plan to. You must accompany me. I will insist upon a public place, but will allow them to select the restaurant. Your presence will no doubt throw them off. They may prefer to just gun me down but will certainly hesitate in killing a woman, especially in public.” “I will do anything you ask.” “Dining with me tomorrow should be sufficient.” The trio agreed to meet the following day and adjourned their meeting. Sean returned to Walter’s office after seeing Jenny off in a cab. Walter looked up when Sean entered. “Did you wish to tell me something, Mr. McGuire?” Sean smiled. “Your father always knew my mind. It seems you have inherited his talent.” Walter chuckled. “I know you, and I know that explanation of following their car was merely for your daughter’s sake.” Sean looked directly at Walter. “I do plan to meet with these men tomorrow night. They will most likely attempt to kill me. It won’t be at the restaurant. They won’t have their Buick either. The motorcar is a two-seater, and my transport would make that difficult.” “Could you elaborate?” Walter asked. “Mr. Roy and Mr. Rogers will insist I go with them after the meeting, especially once they see Jenny is with me. They will make some excuse as to why my presence is required.” “You shouldn’t go.”

“I must. Giving the business card to Michael was a warning. They know where my family lives. I plan to cooperate with their demands.” Sean flashed a devilish grin. “That’s where you come in. You will drive the cab that picks us up. You will have the location of our meeting as soon as I know.” “What if they attempt to kill you while in the cab?” Walter asked, not bothering to hide his surprise. “They won’t. Tomorrow is Friday. I will hand them property deeds, but they won’t know for sure if the deeds are the correct ones until they can be verified with the county recorder on Monday. They will most likely hold me at some unknown location. I must subdue them before we reach that location.” “It sounds quite dangerous, Mr. McGuire.” “Life is dangerous,” Sean kidded. “You can count on my help.” “Good.”

***

Sean returned to Chu San’s apartment. She had a hot bath waiting for him. After his bath and a cup of jasmine tea, Sean stood at the window, gazing down on the street below. Chu San walked up behind him and put her arms around him. “It is a full moon tonight. That is a good sign.” Sean turned. He smiled at the young woman and deftly removed himself from her embrace. “How come you have never tried to make love to me? You don’t care for Chinese women?” Chu San asked.

Sean smiled. “Quite the contrary. You are very beautiful, Chu San. You are also younger than my daughter.” She laughed. “Many men prefer younger women.” Sean took Chu San’s hand in his. “A good friend was put in harm’s way because of me some years back. She nearly lost her home and life. Another was injured because of me. I will not allow you to be threatened by others due to our relationship. No one must ever know .” Chu San looked into Sean’s eyes and reluctantly gave a slight nod of her head. Sean put his arm around the small woman and continued to look out the window. He knew the odds were stacked against him. Once he met with the agents working for Consolidated Oil, Sean knew he would be lucky to have forty-eight hours to complete his plan, or he would most likely face severe retribution that could put his family in deadly jeopardy.

7

Dinner

Sean and Jenny were seated in the Hotel Nadeau’s dining room when Mr. Roy and Mr. Rogers entered. Sean had called Mr. Roy that morning. The agent had agreed to meet McGuire and suggested the Nadeau. The hotel was located on the corner of First and Spring Street, in the heart of downtown. Jenny was taken aback by her father’s appearance but didn’t say anything. Normally well dressed, Sean wore an old suit and hadn’t shaved, and he was using a cane. Mr. Roy and Mr. Rogers appeared nonplussed at Jennifer’s appearance. Sean rose unsteadily using his cane and introduced his daughter to the two agents. Jenny remained seated. She gave a polite nod but did not shake the hand of either man. The three men sat down. Mr. Roy studied Sean. He looked way beyond his years as a hard man. His rumpled suit and unsteady manner requiring the use of a cane solidified the obvious: he was a frail man and easy quarry. A waiter appeared and took the table’s order. Another waiter quickly appeared with a bottle of champagne. “I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered a bottle for the table,” Sean said, his head slightly nodding back and forth as he talked. Mr. Rogers glanced at his partner. Sean caught the look. The waiter poured the champagne and departed. Sean raised his glass, his hand trembling slightly as he did so. “To new beginnings.” The table toasted, and the first waiter appeared with an entrée-filled silver tray.

He served the table and silently vanished. Dinner was quiet. Business was not discussed. Conversation was held to a minimum. As soon as they finished their meal, two busboys appeared out of thin air and cleared the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to powder my face,” Jenny said as if on cue. The three men stood, and Jenny departed. Mr. Roy gave his partner a glance. Mr. Rogers excused himself, saying he needed some air. No sooner had the two men retaken their seats than a waiter appeared with snifters of brandy. “I congratulate you on this evening’s meal, Mr. McGuire.” Sean smiled. “It is nothing. But that is not what you care to talk about.” Mr. Roy cocked an eyebrow. “No. I am sure you know the subject that interests my partner and me, so we’ll cut to the chase. We are prepared to offer you $3,000 for your Long Beach property.” “I accept,” Sean replied matter-of-factly. “Your Signal Hill property.” “Yes.” “Might I inquire why you are willing to turn over this property?” Sean nodded. “It is obvious that Consolidated Oil has been involved in some rather hostile takeovers. I wish no harm to come to my family. I am an old man and would like to die peacefully in my own bed. Does that answer your question, Mr. Roy?” The agent took a sip of his brandy and studied Sean. After a moment, he replied, “Yes, I believe it does.” “Fine.” Sean reached into his coat pocket and removed a deed. He slid it over to

Mr. Roy. “The deed has been signed and witnessed. All Consolidated has to do is have it recorded.” Mr. Roy studied the deed. It listed tract numbers and an address on Signal Hill. He smiled and slipped the deed into his coat pocket. He handed Sean three thousand dollars in two bound stacks of hundred-dollar bills. “I am glad you are a reasonable man.” Sean slipped the bills inside his coat. “As I said, Mr. Roy, I wish no harm to come to my family.” Mr. Roy sipped his brandy. He glanced at Sean’s cane resting against the table. The cane was made of ebony and had a gold crown in the shape of a bear. Just below the crown was a series of three inlaid rings of carved ivory. “Interesting-looking cane. Might I see it?” the agent said. Sean handed the cane to Mr. Roy. The agent inspected it and pulled on the crown. Seeing that it was solid, he handed the cane back to its owner. Sean leaned it against the table. “Old age and a wound I received some years back have slowed this old man down,” Sean said. Jenny emerged from the ladies’ room. Mr. Rogers quickly sidled up next to her. “Your purse, miss,” the large man said. Jenny stopped and glared at the agent. “Excuse me.” Mr. Rogers pointed to Jenny’s bag. “Open your purse.” Jenny frowned. “Of all the nerve.” Mr. Rogers stood in front of Jenny, blocking her advance. Jenny threw open her purse. The contents were the typical items a woman carried: perfume, a comb, and a compact. Satisfied, Mr. Rogers gave a grunt and nodded. Jenny and the agent continued back to the table. No sooner had Jenny and the agent arrived back at the table than Mr. Roy stood.

He tapped his breast pocket and gave a slight nod to his partner. “Mr. Rogers and I would like to thank you for the fine meal, Mr. McGuire.” He tipped his bowler to Jenny. Mr. Rogers whispered something to his partner. Mr. Roy smiled. “Mr. McGuire, we would feel better if we could the property. If you wouldn’t mind accompanying us back to our office, we can check it against a plot map.” “Certainly,” Sean replied. Jenny looked at her father but remained silent. This was not part of the plan they had discussed with Walter Sing. Sean paid the bill, and the group exited the hotel. A horse driven cab approached the group. “I’m coming with you,” Jenny said. “No, I can go alone,” Sean replied. He looked at Mr. Roy. “This won’t take long, will it?” “I don’t expect it should,” Mr. Roy replied. Sean patted Jenny’s arm. “Go home, and I’ll be along soon.” The cab rolled up to where the group stood. Walter Sing pulled back on the reins and the horses halted. He sat in the driver’s seat and wore a large wool cap that was pulled down and a dark scarf that covered most of his face. Mr. Rogers gave the driver the address. Mr. Roy opened the cab door. Jenny did not recognize Walter. Not be deterred she climbed into the cab. Sean was not pleased, but under the circumstances, he could say little. He got in the hansom, followed by the two agents. Walter Sing clicked his tongue, and the horses pulled away from the hotel, heading west.

No one said a word as the cab continued out of the city. Finally, when they had crossed Fairfax and were well into the country, Jenny sat forward and asked, “Where exactly is your office, Mr. Roy?” Mr. Rogers glanced at his partner. Mr. Roy flashed a smile that could have sold manure to a dairy farmer. “Santa Monica.” “I see.” Sean adeptly turned the ivory rings on the cane with his fingers, unbeknownst to the others, as they rode in silence. Walter Sing pulled the cab up to the address Mr. Rogers had given him. The two agents got out. They stood on either side of the door. Sean got out of the cab, hoping Jenny would remain. Mr. Roy kept his eye on Sean. Jenny was the last to climb out of the hansom. As she did, her purse slipped from her hand. Mr. Rogers bent down to pick it up. When he straightened up, Jenny was holding a double-shot derringer leveled at his chest. “Is this some kind of joke?” Mr. Roy asked. “Hardly,” Jenny replied, stepping out of the cab. “I would suggest you return whatever my father gave to you.” Mr. Rogers took a step. Jenny pointed the derringer directly at his face. “Stop.” The agent froze, and a great frown filled his fat, well-fed face. “You are making a big mistake,” said Mr. Roy. Jenny stood resolute for a moment and then slowly lowered the derringer. Mr. Rogers marched menacingly toward her. Jenny fired. The bullet hit the agent’s kneecap. The man cursed and collapsed to the ground. Mr. Roy took a step toward Jenny. A six-inch blade flashed from Sean’s cane and came within a centimeter of the agent’s throat.

“I wouldn’t suggest that,” said Sean. Walter Sing jumped out of the cab. Sean gave his daughter a reassuring smile. Walter and Sean quickly bound the hands of both agents. Mr. Rogers groaned and cursed Sean and his ancestors. He clubbed the stout agent with his cane, knocking him out cold. He and Walter Sing picked up the unconscious man and tossed him onto the floor of the cab. Sean shoved Mr. Roy toward the hansom. “Get in.” Mr. Roy had little choice but to do as he was commanded and climbed into the cab. Sean took the derringer from Jenny and got in, keeping the gun leveled at Mr. Roy. Walter Sing climbed up to the driver’s seat, took the reins and turned the cab back toward downtown. Sean wanted to say something to Jenny, but his focus was on Mr. Roy. It was time to put the fear of God into the man, not hand out compliments to a daughter. Mr. Roy nodded to the cane. “The rings—they’re some type of combination. That’s why the blade didn’t release at the restaurant.” Sean smiled like a cat that had just killed a fat pigeon. No one spoke after that. Mr. Rogers started to come to. Sean rapped him in the head with his cane and knocked the man out again. Walter Sing stopped the cab in a downtown alley. He jumped down and opened the door. Jenny got out. Sean followed. “Out!” Sean snarled. Mr. Roy did as he was told. Sean handed the derringer to Jenny. He and Walter dragged the bleeding Mr. Rogers out of the cab and dropped him on the ground. Sean quickly frisked Mr. Roy, relieving him of a fine Colt, which he stuffed in his belt. He then patted Mr. Rogers down, removing a knife and pistol. Sean handed the weapons to Walter Sing. He walked over and opened a door on the back of a building. “Inside.” Mr. Roy stood defiant for a moment. Jenny raised the derringer and leveled it inches from the agent’s head. “Do as my father said,” she commanded in a flat tone of voice.

Resigned to his fate, Mr. Roy marched inside the dark building. Walter Sing and Sean dragged the unconscious agent inside and closed the door. It had once been a dry-goods store many years previous. Sean had purchased the building when the former owner died. It was left empty for a singular purpose. The shop had a deep basement that offered the perfect place to deal with business matters that called for more persuasive methods. Walter Sing struck a match and lit a lantern. Sean opened the door to the basement. “Down.” Mr. Roy started toward the stairwell and then suddenly turned and grabbed Walter Sing. His bound arms slipped around the slender man, choking him. The lantern crashed to the floor. Flames licked the dry wood. Sean pulled his knife and pressed the point to Mr. Roy’s throat. A trickle of blood raced down and stained the agent’s collar. Mr. Roy released his grip. Jenny and Walter Sing quickly put out the fire. Sean struck a match and kicked Mr. Roy down the stairs. The agent landed with a hard thud. “Are you all right?” Sean asked his friend. Walter Sing nodded. “Yes. I was careless.” The two men dragged Mr. Rogers to the stairway and shoved him down the stairs. The agent’s body landed with a thud on top of Mr. Roy. Sean looked at his daughter. His eyes said everything she needed to know. Sean was as proud of Jenny as he ever had been. She was a true Irish daughter of a hard man. “Go home. I will be along shortly. I can handle it from here.” Jenny hesitated. Walter Sing put his arm around her shoulder, and the two left the building. Sean waited until he heard the cab drive away. He picked up a lantern, lit it, and descended the stairs. The basement sat fifteen feet below street level, and its walls had been reinforced with adobe bricks. Sean set the lantern down. He handcuffed Mr. Roy to a post and then did the same to the still-unconscious Mr. Rogers. “What if he bleeds to death?” Mr. Roy asked.

“That would be a shame.” Sean grabbed the lantern and began to ascend the stairs. “Where are you going?” Mr. Roy shouted. Sean stopped and glanced down at the bloodied and battered agent. “I am going home to get some sleep. I would suggest you do the same.” He walked up the stairs. “You can’t leave us here! Do you know who we work for, you Irish bastard?” Mr. Roy shouted. Sean closed the cellar door. The agent’s voice could not be heard. He exited the building on the alley side and walked around to the front. Walter Sing had left a horse and carriage tethered to a post. Sean got in the carriage. He clicked his tongue, and the horse trotted briskly down the street.

8

The Return

“Those men were planning to kill you, weren’t they?” Jenny asked over breakfast the next morning. Sean speared a piece of ham on the platter and cut it into smaller pieces. “More than likely. Many who have refused to cooperate with Mr. Bard’s operatives have met with unfortunate accidents. I didn’t plan for us to be another statistic. Even if I’d handed over the deed, you could have certainly caused Consolidated Oil time and money by tying them up in court. They would have come after you as well. I could not allow that to happen. Who would have guessed you’d come armed?” Jenny reached across the table and patted her father’s hand. “I have to congratulate you on your shooting skills,” said Sean. “By the way, where did you hide that derringer?” Jenny blushed. “My garter. I knew those men would search my purse.” Sean took a sip of coffee. “You’re lucky that was all they searched. It could’ve gone hard for you.” Jenny buttered a cornbread muffin. “I suspected they were overconfident. I played on that mistake.” Sean flashed his daughter a smile. “I do wish you would’ve told me what you had planned.” Jenny looked her father directly in the eye. “Likewise, Father. Had I not accompanied you, the situation might not have turned out so favorable.”

“Touché, my dear.” Beatty, the maid, showed William McGrath into the dining room. He had road on him from riding the last four days. The maid quickly departed the room. Sean gestured to a chair. “Please have a seat and something to eat, William.” McGrath removed his hat and smiled sheepishly. “Thank you kindly, Mr. McGuire, but it’s been ten days since I last saw a bath. I just got into town and wanted to report to you immediately.” Sean wiped his hands on a cloth napkin and looked at McGrath. “What do you have, William?” “I did as you asked and trailed Mulholland and Eaton all the way to Owens Valley. There’s a ton of water there.” Sean sat back and thought for a moment. “They’re going to steal the water.” McGrath and Jenny both shot Sean questioning looks. “Los Angeles has gone from a couple thousand to more than a hundred thousand residents in just twenty years. The Los Angeles River is not enough to sustain that type of growth. In short, we need another source of water if Los Angeles is to grow. Mulholland and Eaton didn’t travel that distance for pleasure. They were looking for a source to tap. I’ll bet the Oso Negro they plan to take control of the water in Owens Valley.” Jenny held a skeptical expression. “Even if they get the people to sell them their land, how will they get the water all the way to the city?” Sean shrugged. “That is beyond me, my dear. Engineering is not my strong suit. Mark my words, though: they will take the water for Los Angeles.” “That’s pretty rugged terrain, Mr. McGuire,” said McGrath. “Grayson and his cronies have been purchasing land in San Fernando Valley. They wouldn’t do that unless they knew they could get water to it.” “Maybe we should purchase land there, Father,” said Jenny.

“I already have, in Burbank and a bit farther north. Decent property sections if you can get water to them. Thank you for your efforts, William.” McGrath gave a nod. “I hope all was well during my absence.” “Certainly, my boy,” Sean replied. “Nothing that Jenny and I couldn’t handle. Go get yourself cleaned up, and meet me at the shop at four.” “Very well.” McGrath placed his Stetson on his head, tipped the brim to Sean and Jenny, and departed. Sean turned to Jenny. “Please wire Effie and let her know she can come home.”

***

William McGrath was shaved, bathed, and wearing a clean, pressed suit when he and Sean met in the alley behind the former dry-goods store that afternoon. A buckboard was parked in the alley. It was empty except for a canvas tarp lying in the bed. Sean quickly briefed McGrath on the agents and Consolidated Oil before the two men entered the building through the rear door and descended into the cellar. McGrath lit a lantern and hung it on a nail protruding from a beam overhead. Mr. Roy looked up and glared at Sean. “The man is in pain.” He nodded toward Mr. Rogers, who lay on the floor groaning delirious. Sean glanced down at the wounded agent. The knee was swollen, bone was exposed, and caked blood covered his pants. Sean fixed Mr. Roy with a cold look. “He’ll live. Who hired you and your gimp friend here?” “What do you mean? Mr. Rogers and I are employees—” William McGrath sent a hard fist into the agent’s gut, cutting him short. Mr. Roy coughed. “You’re making a big mistake, McGuire,” the agent said after regaining his

breath. “You told me that last night. You had with my grandson. I do not take kindly to men who threaten my family and want to steal my property.” “You were paid.” Sean smiled and chuckled at the man’s boldness. “Yes, and you have the deed for that property.” Mr. Roy looked questioningly at Sean. “I take it the deed is Shamrock Oil property.” “You are correct, Mr. Roy. The deed you hold in your pocket is for land on Signal Hill, just as you stipulated. Whether it has oil on it remains to be seen. The lot is undeveloped.” “That’s fraud,” Mr. Roy barked. McGrath sent another solid fist into the agent’s gut. Mr. Roy coughed, spit, and looked at McGrath. “You have no idea who you are fucking with.” McGrath met the agent’s threat with silence and a cold stare. “Just business,” said Sean. “You asked for my Signal Hill property, and that’s what I sold you. You and your friend on the floor meant me harm. It appears you boys are in the wrong profession.” “What do you plan to do with us? My associate needs medical attention.” “He shall get it as long as he hangs on. As far as what I’m going to do with you, I’m inclined to just shoot you and have done with it.” Sean let his words hang for a moment. He could see the fear in the agent’s eyes. “I’m sure my associate would agree with me.” Beads of sweat formed on Mr. Roy’s forehead. “My daughter and others tell me that this is a new era, and business is settled in a

courtroom, not at the OK Corral. Against my better judgment, I am agreeing with that point of view. You have the property. You can tell your employer that if any other agents from Consolidated Oil show up at my office or ranch or disturb my family, I will take it as a personal threat and will rain hell down upon them.” McGrath stuffed a gag into Mr. Roy’s mouth and threw a burlap sack over his head before uncuffing him from the post. He then put the cuffs back on the agent. Finished, McGrath went over to Mr. Rogers. He looked at the injured leg. “They might have to amputate.” Sean shrugged his shoulders. “We don’t have to worry about a gimp. They can’t run, and you can always hear them coming. Let’s get them out of here.” McGrath gagged Mr. Rogers and slipped a sack over his head. They got the stout man up. Sean and McGrath took a shoulder each and brought the agent up the stairs. McGrath opened the door, and they marched out and set the injured man in the wagon. He groaned loudly. McGrath pulled his Remington and clubbed Mr. Rogers’ head, knocking him unconscious. They tossed the tarp over him and went back to retrieve Mr. Roy. They set him in the buckboard next to the unconscious Mr. Rogers. “Your partner squealed like a damn pig. Keep your mouth shut, or you’ll receive the same,” Sean said as he shoved the agent down and pulled the canvas tarp over him. McGrath climbed up to the driver’s bench and took the reins. “Deliver them to Walter. He will handle it from there.” McGrath nodded. He shook the reins and clicked his tongue, and the wagon started down the street.

9

A Shocking Revelation

Agents for Consolidated Oil Caught in Chinese Crib, roared the headline in the Examiner. The fact that the house catered to sodomites, as the newspaper described the facility, only heightened the salacious nature of the subject. What wasn’t reported was that after William McGrath delivered the two Consolidated agents to Walter Sing, they were drugged and taken to the joy house and placed in bed with male prostitutes and then the press was called. The reporters did uncover the facts of the two agents. Mr. Roy was Roy Gifford of Missouri, who had been fired as a sheriff’s deputy for beating an innocent man senseless in front of his family. Rather than charge Gifford, the sheriff took Roy’s badge and gave him twenty-four hours to get out of town. Mr. Rogers was George Rogers of Boston, who’d nearly beat his wife to death in a drunken rage. The jury had found Rogers not guilty due to the extenuating circumstance that Mrs. Rogers had the audacity to pick up a frying pan and hit her husband with it in an attempt to defend herself. “Son of a bitch,” Thomas Bard groused, tossing the newspaper aside in disgust. He and Otis Grayson were having breakfast in a private dining room at the Aurora. Grayson chuckled. “I warned you about McGuire. He may be old, but he is still a formidable foe.” Bard frowned. “He’s a damned nuisance.” The newspaper publisher shrugged. “What do you plan to do with McGuire and his Shamrock Oil Company?” “I’d like to send an army of men to settle his hash,” Bard replied.

Grayson cut a strawberry and speared a piece with his fork. “That would be unwise.” “And let this hooligan get away with it?” the oil man asked, surprised. Grayson took a sip of his coffee and set the china cup down. “McGuire is old. He is nearly as old as me. Neither of us has that many years left. That is why I’ve turned over the Tribune to my son-in-law. McGuire only has a daughter. Bide your time.” “McGuire’s daughter was the one who shot my man and made him a cripple.” “Your man should’ve known better than to charge an armed woman. He’s lucky she didn’t shoot his pecker off.” Grayson nodded toward the newspaper. “We don’t need that type of publicity. You don’t need it. Better to concentrate on the long view.” Bard buttered his muffin. “It just galls me.” Grayson cut up another strawberry. “You’re new to California. Sean McGuire is as close to a hero as the state has in many people’s eyes. The man is a legend. Your men bungling their job only adds to that mystic. They should never have involved McGuire’s grandson, Michael. To be honest, I’m surprised Sean McGuire allowed your boys to live.” Bard set his knife on the plate. “I don’t like it.” Grayson nodded. “It’s business, Thomas.” Thomas Bard took a bite of his muffin and reluctantly nodded in agreement.

10

A Resolution

Sean lost no time after his encounter with Mr. Roy and Mr. Rogers. He worked the phone at his office, setting up a meeting with as many independent producers as he could reach that day. There were whispers of Sean McGuire vanquishing the two Consolidated agents. Mr. Rogers, minus a leg, would be sent back to Boston. Mr. Roy was quietly paid off and counseled by the Chief of Police to leave the area. While the agents’ methods had produced some results, the fact remained that the CDA could ill afford to be associated with hired assassins. Grayson’s Tribune didn’t bother to carry the story about the two agents. Hearst’s Examiner played up the David-versus-Goliath angle, putting Sean in the spotlight, a place he had no desire to be. Hearst was smart enough to leave Jenny out of the article. Just nine years ago, an irate citizen had walked into the offices of the Examiner and put a bullet into the managing editor. The editor survived, and the incident had provided great fodder for the rival Tribune. Sean knew he and the other independents had a small window before Bard came at them from different direction. Bard’s company was big, with boatloads of cash and a corral of Harvard attorneys whose sole job was to employ every legal trick in the book to take control of the opposition. The independents simply couldn’t succeed in that arena. Sean knew it would be better if the independents formed a collective and negotiated from a position of unity rather than individually. Many agreed. They formed the California Oil Producers Association, better known as COPA.

***

A black Ford Model C awaited Franklin Hale when he got off the train at Central

Station. He was rail thin, with gray hair and milky blue eyes. William McGrath drove Hale directly to Shamrock Oil’s office. Effie showed the two men into Sean’s office as soon as they arrived. Sean shook hands with Hale and offered him a seat. McGrath took his position standing near the door. “I would like to thank you, Mr. Hale, for coming to see me on such short notice,” said Sean as he took a seat behind his desk. “It isn’t every day Standard Oil gets the type of proposal you made, sir,” Hale replied. Sean smiled and offered Hale a cigar from the box sitting on the desk. “Negotiation is the key to business.” The Standard Oil representative took a cigar. McGrath struck a match and lit the man’s cigar. Hale leaned back in his chair and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “You didn’t care to negotiate with Consolidated Oil.” Sean looked at the man sitting across from him. “I found their methods rather crude.” “And what are you prepared to offer Standard Oil?” Hale asked pointedly. “COPA can offer your company exclusive rights to its oil.” “And we, of course, keep Consolidated Oil from acquiring any further properties in the area,” Hale replied in a bemused manner. Sean held his hands open in mock surrender. “We call that a Mexican standoff.” “Eighty-twenty in our favor.” “I was thinking eighty-twenty in our favor.” Hale smiled. “And if we don’t sign, where does that put you independents? You know Bard will pick you off one by one.” Sean shrugged and kept a look of indifference. “Maybe. COPA can provide your

company with eighteen hundred barrels a week. If Bard picks us off, as you suggest he will, you wind up with nothing. If COPA succeeds in finding another company to do business with, you get nothing. The Dutch might be interested in our offer.” Hale puffed on his cigar. “Seventy-five, twenty-five.” Sean sat silently for a moment. He hated to give up 75 percent of his oil income, but he knew it was only a matter of time before Bard made another attempt to put him out of business permanently. He looked at Hale. “Seventy, thirty, your favor. I think I can sell that.” The two men shook hands. Sean put it to the other independent oil men in COPA that it was better to have 30 percent of something than 100 percent of nothing. It wasn’t an easy sell, but in the end, Sean prevailed. By the end of the day, the independents signed over their leases to Standard Oil. Franklin Hale boarded the train the following morning for New York. Sean McGuire had checkmated Consolidated Oil—or so he believed.

San Francisco - 1906

11

The Reporter

Tom Reagan sat back in his wooden chair and stared at his article still in the typewriter. All the reporters at the San Francisco Gazette shared a common room. Except for the single cub reporter, a kid named Harvey Hickman, the room was empty. Reagan liked to come into the newsroom early on Sundays. The Bible thumpers were at church. Reagan hated priests. He hated nuns even more. They had been his persecutors at the orphanage where he’d spent his childhood in New York before escaping at the age of twelve. Eighteen years ago, Reagan had fled the nuns, jumped a train and ridden the rails all the way to San Francisco. He was medium built with trusting, plain face that often allowed him to vanish into the scenery without others taking note of him. As a reporter, this frequently worked to his advantage. Reagan relit his cigar and wondered if his headline had enough punch: Schmitz and Ruef Graft Plagues City. The newspaper’s artist had drawn a cartoon of Mayor Eugene Schmitz and Boss Abe Ruef as two large rodents sitting on piles of money while ragged, emaciated citizens fled from their army of rats. Unless a person had been living under a rock for the last four years, just about everyone in San Francisco knew Abe Ruef ran the city’s political machine. Ruef had plucked a violin player from the orchestra pit and run him as mayor. Because of Ruef’s alignment with the Union Labor Party, the good citizens of San Francisco had believed Schmitz was the workingman’s champion and elected the fiddle player. In office, Schmitz read speeches that Ruef wrote for him. He was the boss’s mouthpiece. Ruef lined the council with cronies who turned a blind eye to his graft. The Union Labor Party served a singular purpose for Ruef: to get the Italians, Germans, and Irish to vote for his candidates. As far as Ruef was concerned they were nothing more than an ignorant bunch of dagos, krauts and micks. They deserved to be fleeced. It was the survival of the fittest. Ruef made sure he was the wolf, not the lamb. For every dollar of public money, Ruef saw that half went to himself. There wasn’t a city street or public building

that Ruef didn’t have his grasping fist in to steal treasury tax dollars. For the most part, the other newspapers left Ruef alone and focused on the mayor and his poorly run istration. The plague had come to the city just after the turn. It struck first in Chinatown. No one gave a damn until white folks began dying. The city hired dozens of rat catchers. When there were no further outbreaks in the white section of the city, the mayor declared the plague eradicated. That had earned Mayor Schmitz points with the press and the people. Not with Tom Reagan. He knew the mayor was nothing more than a front for Ruef. Reagan made it his mission to take them both down. The Gazette backed their reporter and accepted his argument that going after Ruef would set the paper apart from the Call and the Chronicle. Reagan wrote about the shoddy buildings south of Market that were owned by Ruef. He wrote about the kickbacks on the trolley system and the joy-houses that paid Ruef tribute. Reagan had a steady and reliable source: Seamus Kennedy, a captain with the San Francisco Police Department. Kennedy hated Ruef and his graft machine like sin. When Tom Reagan first arrived in San Francisco at the age of twelve he lived on the street and stole food to survive. Reagan’s budding criminal career was cut short when he was apprehended by Sergeant Seamus Kennedy. Reagan was in the process of stealing a crate of oranges from a grocery. The scrawny boy was racing away with his booty, when he ran right into Kennedy. Seamus cuffed the young lad and made him return the crate to the grocer. The policeman and his prisoner left the grocer and walked down the block. Seamus inquired what the scrawny boy had intended to do with a crate of oranges. “Eat ’em,” Reagan replied. “Never got ’em in New York, and they don’t go bad like most food.” Seamus studied the boy. “Is that where you’re from—New York?” Reagan nodded. “Saint Mary’s Orphanage, Five Points. Send me to jail, but don’t send me back there.” The policeman shook his head. “How old are you?” Reagan shrugged. “Twelve, I think. We didn’t have birthdays at St. Mary’s. The nuns used to beat you with a razor strap and count the years you were. That was supposed to keep you from getting high thoughts of yourself they’d say. Last

time they beat me they stopped at twelve. Two weeks later I escaped. It did take me some time to reach San Francisco.” “I’ve got a son your age,” the big man said. He took the cuffs off the boy and walked him home. From that day on, Tom Reagan became a member of the Kennedy family. Dan Kennedy was twelve. He and Tom Reagan became brothers. Dan’s older brother, Kieran, was already on the police force. Their grandfather Joseph had been one of the first men on the force when it was founded. The Kennedy clan were coppers through and through. Upon graduation from high school, Reagan expressed a desire to become a reporter. Seamus Kennedy got him a job at the Gazette as a devil’s apprentice. Reagan worked his way up through the newspaper. He knew the city streets like the back of his hand. He wrote about the people and never sensationalized his reporting—a distinct contrast to Hearst’s Examiner. The Gazette was a smaller paper, but its readership was loyal. One of its favorite and most-read reporters was Tom Reagan. Only one other person knew of his connection to the Kennedys, the now retired typesetter Seamus had approached to get Tom the job as a devil’s apprentice. Reagan never divulged his sources, even to his editor. Since his information was always impeccable his editor never made it an issue. Tom Reagan was accepted in nearly every saloon, grog house, and blind pig in the city save for some on the Barbary Coast that were owned by Ruef. It would have destroyed his credibility with the underworld and many of his readers if it had become common knowledge that his adopted family were coppers. Seamus believed it was for the best as well. He dealt his adopted son information over the years when the pen proved mightier than the billy-club in fighting crime. Seamus knew well enough that both he and Reagan would lose credibility and possibly their lives if their relationship were exposed. They worked out a means of communication, when either man wanted to meet: they would hang a flag from their respective windows—the Fenian Maid of Erin flag if they were to meet on the Oakland ferry or the tricolor Meagher’s flag if they were to meet in Golden Gate Park. When Tom Reagan had ed the Kennedy house on his way to work that morning, the Maid of Erin had been clearly displayed from the upper window of the master bedroom.

Reagan glanced up at the clock on the wall. He had just enough time to make it to his meeting with Seamus Kennedy. The reporter pulled the article from the typewriter, slipped it into his desk drawer, and locked the drawer. He grabbed his coat and hat and left the newsroom. Tom Reagan boarded the Oakland ferry. A few minutes after the ship pulled away from the dock, the reporter went to the stern. Reagan was surprised to see Dan Kennedy standing by the rail instead. He pulled his hat down and casually walked over to Dan. “My father’s gone missing,” Dan whispered as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Reagan took out a box of matches, struck one, and offered the light to the policeman. “What happened?” Kennedy bent down and lit his cigarette. “He went to Angel Island last night to meet with Langton and Spreckels. He wanted the district attorney to request a federal investigation into Ruef’s government. He never made the meeting. Langton called last night. Da hasn’t returned home either.” Reagan blew out the match and tossed it into the water. “Any ideas?” “Monk Murphy. He works for Ruef.” “Makes sense. I’m not overly welcomed at Murphy’s establishments. Do you think Monk knows your father’s been the one slipping me the dope about Ruef?” “Don’t know.” Kennedy slipped Reagan the pack of cigarettes. “Da thought this might help you.” He placed a hand on the reporter’s shoulder. “Watch your back, boyo.” Dan Kennedy walked away. Reagan put the cigarette pack in his coat pocket. He didn’t see if Kennedy got off when the ship docked. Reagan remained at the stern for the return voyage across the bay. After the ferry docked, he got off and hailed a cab. “The Gazette,” Reagan told the driver as he got into the cab. The driver gave a nod and started off as soon as his enger was seated.

Reagan removed the cigarette pack. Inside were two folded pieces of paper. Reagan took them out and unfolded them. They were two sheets from a ledger that listed names and amounts of money paid. The list contained the names of several prominent judges, of the city council, and a number of policemen. Reagan knew that type of information could be devastating to Ruef if it proved to be his handwriting. He folded the sheets and returned them to their hiding place inside the cigarette pack. The objective now for Reagan was clear. He had to obtain a sample of Ruef’s penmanship. It would be a nearly impossible task since he knew the man would be loath to be interviewed, let alone offer a sample of his writing.

12

The Piano Player

Marcellus Dunning’s fingers glided across the piano keys of the upright. He was playing something called jazz. Some of the customers at Bessie’s Parlor did not care for the lively music, but Marcellus didn’t care. Those men weren’t coming to Bessie’s for the music. Bessie’s house was located in the Uptown Tenderloin district. It was a fashionable house whose regulars included judges, bank presidents, and of the city council. Bessie Teagarden paid Marcellus to play piano in the main parlor. Six days a week, from five o’clock in the evening to two o’clock in the morning, his fingers danced across the ivories. Rags were a favorite, but now a new musical form was becoming popular: jazz. Many nights, after leaving Bessie’s, Marcellus went down south of Market to the Black Crow to jam with other musicians after hours. They would play jazz until the place closed at five. Monk Murphy owned the t. Monk didn’t give a damn what the musicians played as long as he was selling liquor. The players could have farted through their horns for all he cared. In Monk’s eyes, all musicians were lazy bastards who would rather play than engage in an honest day’s labor. When Marcellus finished up at Bessie’s that evening, he didn’t go to the Black Crow. He stuffed his tips into his coat pocket and hurried home to tend to his grandfather. Aristotle Dunning was eighty and in poor health. Up until the previous year, Aristotle had worked for the city health department as a rat catcher. The plague was said to have stopped that year after 121 fatalities. Aristotle was checking on an infested home in Chinatown, when a rickety stairway gave way. He fell and broke his hip. He was now crippled, out of a job with no income, save what Marcellus brought home. Years ago, Aristotle had been the servant of an English aristocrat who had lost him in a poker game. The Englishman sailed home, and Aristotle was left as the property of a con artist. The con man took Aristotle under his wing, and they

worked the small towns together. When the pair were found out and the local authorities pursued, they fled into the desert. The con man perished. Aristotle was discovered in the desert by the Mexican army and taken prisoner. He escaped by ing up with Sean McGuire and his cattlemen who had also been captured by the Mexican army. The former servant found himself herding cattle to California. It was unsafe for a black man to travel alone in 1856 Texas. People might suspect he was an escaped slave. Riding with McGuire was the perfect cover. Once they reached his ranch with the cattle Aristotle took his wages, thanked Charlie Davis, the foreman and beat a hasty trail for the city that billed itself as the Paris of the Pacific: San Francisco. The smell of manure and steers did not appeal to a cultured man, like Aristotle Dunning. Aristotle could speak three languages, but that didn’t help him procure employment in the bustling city where gold had transformed a third-rate hilly seaport town into a bustling metropolis of the West. Aristotle could play Brahms, Beethoven, and Mozart on the piano and violin, but the orchestras were not color blind. His elocution was the Queen’s English, but that generally only got him stares when he spoke. Most white folks had never heard a black man speak proper English. A theater troupe hired him to play Othello. That lasted two nights until some rowdy audience threatened to shoot the nigger who dared to kiss a white woman, even though they couldn’t pronounce the name, Desdemona properly. California was a free state, but there was nothing free about it when it came to Asians, blacks and Mexicans. These groups had to toe the line or suffer the consequences, which usually meant being shot, lynched, or set on fire. Sometimes all three were employed in order to make certain the violator was dead. These gross miscarriages of justice were frequently carried out by the very same people Reuf and Grayson were grinding under their iron heel. Such are the ironies of the working class. Marcellus hurried down the street to his apartment. The cook had given him a pail of potato soup and biscuits, and he wanted to get back to the apartment before the soup turned cold. His mother had abandoned him when he was still an infant. She ran off with a trumpet player who promised to show her the world. That was the last anyone heard from her. Marcellus was brought up by his grandparents. When he was eight, his grandmother died of the fever. Aristotle raised Marcellus from that point on. He’d taught the young boy to read, write, and play the piano. By the time Marcellus was twelve, he’d sured his

grandfather as a musician. Marcellus had a gift. He could hear a song once and play it back note for note days later, often seamlessly slipping variations into the melody. The new century hadn’t changed much for many. Negroes were still prohibited from playing in white orchestras. Joy-houses were a different matter. They catered to men looking for a good time. The music of Brahms and Beethoven was not what one wanted to hear, especially when a gentleman had a spirited and pretty young lady sitting on his lap. Bouncing piano rags had the desired effect. They were jaunty melodies that embodied a carefree feeling and good times. Marcellus mixed in some blues but made sure they were generally up-tempo numbers. He loved playing those minor chords. He was a good-looking man of twenty-three. He kept his hands off the girls and his mouth shut and played a fine piano. Bessie Teagarden was pleased with her piano man. She paid Marcellus twelve dollars a week, plus tips. Marcellus thought he had the best job in the world. He could sleep until three and play music all night long. It was a dream come true for the young musician. His previous job had been as a hotel houseboy with duties that included collecting and emptying the guests’ chamber pots each morning. Marcellus bounded up the stairs to his third-floor apartment. It was a shotgun design: front room, kitchen, and bedroom in the rear. The privy was at the end of the hall, shared by all the tenants on the floor. Marcellus entered the apartment. Aristotle was asleep in his stuffed chair in the corner of the front room. Marcellus quietly walked into the kitchen and set the pail of soup on the old wooden table. He removed his coat, hung it on a peg, sat down at the table, and counted his tips: thirteen dollars. Not bad for a Sunday night. He got a blanket from the bedroom and covered his grandfather. Marcellus sat and watched the old man sleep. Aristotle had given him much. He’d saved Marcellus from being sent to the colored children’s orphanage and given him the gift of music. Marcellus went outside on the landing and had a smoke. Aristotle was still sleeping when he returned. Not wanting the soup to spoil, Marcellus set the pail on the fire escape landing outside their kitchen window and went to bed. He quickly fell asleep, dreaming of the big house he would one day buy for his grandfather.

13

The Thief

Danny Doyle stood inside the room and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness. “Never use a lantern or match” was English Jack’s rule. Jack Stuart, better known as English Jack, had taught Danny Doyle everything he knew about the art of thievery. But English Jack had broken his own rules. English Jack’s illustrious career had abruptly ended when he got drunk before pulling a job, slipped off a roof, and landed on the electrical wires that ran like a spiderweb throughout the city. English Jack was fried like a slab of bacon. Smoke rose from his body as it bounced from the wires and hit the street with a dull thud. Doyle saw the charred body with his own eyes. Four years after English Jack died, Danny Doyle was still practicing the craft. He worked alone. “Take no partners; the more who are aware of a heist, the greater the chance of capture” was another of English Jack’s rules. He had dozens of rules, but English Jack hadn’t bothered to heed them. He took Doyle on as a partner when Danny was just a scrapper stealing from the drunks and running a three-card monte game on the Barbary Coast to survive. Doyle was now twenty-years old and at the top of his game. Danny Doyle only robbed the homes of the wealthy. He didn’t mess with banks or businesses. Those jobs put the coppers on a thief faster than flies on shite. The wealthy often didn’t report thefts, as police scrutiny might uncover that they themselves were guilty of crimes committed in the acquisition of the pilfered goods. Doyle specialized in jewelry, paintings, and whatever cash was on hand. Those items were generally easy to fence and hard to trace. Doyle never fenced anything himself. “Be willing to take less. ’Tis the price of freedom,” English Jack had counseled. English Jack always used a go-between to fence his goods. Doyle had perfected English Jack’s rule and employed two buffers between himself and the fences whenever he lifted paintings or jewelry. Doyle knew he only got a third of the take’s value, but the coppers never even questioned him as to the time of day. He also knew there were only two types of thieves: those who

the coppers have caught and those who were going to get caught by the coppers. Doyle had the dream of every thief: he wanted to make a big enough score to retire from the life. That night’s job wasn’t that big score. Danny Doyle was breaking into some posh gent’s house in Pacific Heights. He had no idea what the house contained, only that it was well fixed, according to his source. It was a meat-and-potatoes job for Doyle—a snatch-and-grab. He had watched the house and its residents and staff. He knew that on Sunday nights, the staff were away on their day off. The wife went to evening church services, and the man of the house was a regular at Bessie’s Parlor. The house was empty for a good two hours—more than enough time for Doyle to grab whatever valuables he might find. He would have preferred a sure thing, but that required inside information which would mean taking a partner on, which meant someone else knew Doyle’s business. Danny Doyle preferred to play his cards close to the vest and keep his business to himself. Those who knew his craft were few. He didn’t dress loudly or flash his cash. When he frequented the saloons, he kept his mouth shut and his ears open. He rarely offered an opinion among the drinking men. Most took Danny Doyle for a regular guy who would occasionally stand a man to a drink. He would pick up a word or two of conversation from the working stiffs and tradesmen employed in the houses of the wealthy. Doyle rarely asked questions. He let the men talk. He might steer the conversation in a particular direction, but he was careful never to allow his subject think he was inquiring about a specific person or address. A plumber who had worked at the house Doyle was going to rob that night had mentioned what a posh place it was. Doyle remarked about how the yahoos on Nob Hill sure had the life. The plumber corrected him and told him it was a Pacific Heights residence where he had been working. The tradesman had gone on to describe the house in such detail that only a blind man would have been unable to figure out the address. The following day, Doyle paid a visit to the neighborhood. He kept an eye on the house for two weeks before deciding to act. Even though he didn’t know exactly what valuables the residence contained, the description the plumber had given made Doyle certain there would be something of value to be had. Danny Doyle climbed over a wall facing out onto an alley. The house was dark. He quickly ascended the back side of the house like a circus acrobat and quietly

stepped through what looked to be a woman’s bedroom. He made his way across the room and slowly opened the door just enough to squeeze through and make his way downstairs. The dining room had a buffet that contained a full set of sterling-silver utensils. Doyle wasn’t interested in cutlery; it was too heavy, and the payoff wasn’t worth the risk. He walked into the living room. The moon shone in through the curtains and gave him enough light to recognize the painting. It was a Van Gogh. Fifteen years ago, the artist couldn’t have gotten arrested. Now his work was popular and selling. The painting was of some sailboats beached on a shore. Doyle took down the painting and removed a knife from his jacket. With a flick of his wrist, the razor-sharp four-inch blade extended. He quickly cut the painting from its frame, rolled it up, and placed it inside his jacket along with the knife. Doyle quickly went through the rest of the downstairs. There was some cash in a tin box in the pantry, which he pocketed. The painting would fetch him at least a couple hundred. That would be enough to carry him for a while. Doyle deftly made his way back up the stairs and made a quick reconnaissance of the other bedrooms. He discovered more cash and a gold watch and gold cufflinks, which he took. Satisfied with his take, he made his way to the bedroom he’d come through. On his way out, Doyle spotted a locket sitting on the dresser. He picked the locket up. It was a gold locket about the size of a quarter. He popped it open. Inside was a photograph of a young woman. Doyle could just make out the woman’s face. She had soft curls, doe eyes, and a warm smile. She was the most beautiful girl Danny Doyle had ever seen. He placed the locket back on the dresser, made his way out onto the landing, and silently climbed down to the street. In a flash, Doyle vanished like a spirit in the night. He knew he would be back. He had to find the woman whose photo was in the locket.

14

Monday

Marcellus rose early. Aristotle sat at the small kitchen table, eating the cold potato soup. Marcellus looked at his grandfather. “Why didn’t you heat that?” “Why waste the wood?” Marcellus rubbed his arms, trying to warm himself. He grabbed a few pieces of kindling from a bucket next to the iron stove and removed a burner cap. He tossed the wood in and lit it. “Well, I want some coffee, and I sure ain’t gonna drink it cold.” “Do not use the word, ain’t or gonna. It sounds uneducated,” said the old man. Marcellus spooned coffee into a pot and set the pot on top of the burner. “Don’t you go mindin’ my English. I made thirteen dollars in tips last night, and I get paid today.” Aristotle waved his grandson off and went back to eating his soup. Marcellus peered inside a cupboard. It was bare. “I’ll pick up some groceries on my way home.” “I thought Bessie paid on Sundays.” “She don’t pay the girls until five in the morning. I get off at two and didn’t want to wait around.” “Doesn’t pay. Son, you sound like a fool sometimes,” Aristotle said. Marcellus shook his head and grabbed a towel off the peg and a razor that sat on

the windowsill. “I’m not in the mood this morning, Gramps. I was going to ask how you were doing, but I can see you’re doing all right.” Aristotle shot his grandson a perturbed look. “I’m eighty years old. My back hurts. My pecker hasn’t worked properly in years. It takes me fifteen minutes to pee, and when I do go, it burns like Satan stuffed a hot poker up there. That certainly is not all right.” “Okay, Gramps,” Marcellus said, and he went down the hall to the bathroom to wash and shave. Aristotle was still eating his soup when Marcellus returned. He noticed that the coffeepot had been moved to a different burner. “It was going to burn,” said Aristotle. Marcellus gave a nod. “Thanks.” He poured himself a cup. He took the teapot from the cupboard, filled it with water, and put it on the stove. By the time he finished his coffee, the water was hot enough to add tea. He set the teapot on the table and set a single china cup next to it. “I’ve got to go to Bessie’s.” Marcellus knew his grandfather disapproved of his employment at Bessie’s, but it paid better than any other job he could obtain. Aristotle frowned. “You already said that.” Marcellus smiled, kissed the top of his grandfather’s head, and was out the door.

***

It was just after nine when Marcellus reached Bessie’s. The house was quiet. Monday was generally a slow business day and all the girls were still sleeping. Marcellus bounded up the stairs and knocked on the door to Bessie’s office. “Come in,” said a female voice.

Marcellus opened the door and stepped inside the room. He realized he had made a mistake. Bessie sat behind her weathered desk. A large man with red hair and a barrel chest sat in a stuffed chair. A short, wiry man with the face of a ferret leaned against the wall. Marcellus recognized the stocky man. He was Red Randy, Monk Murphy’s enforcer. Marcellus didn’t know the ferret-faced man but knew he must have been one of Murphy’s gang. The musician removed his hat and gave a nod. “Morning, Miss Bessie. I don’t mean to disturb you. Just came for my wages.” Red Randy remained seated and spread a big grin. “You’re just the nigger we want to talk to.” Ferret Face held out the Gazette’s morning edition and thrust a finger at Tom Reagan’s article about Boss Ruef. “You know this fuckin’ mick?” “Watch your mouth, ya’ damn kike,” snarled Red Randy to his companion. The ferret-faced man bowed his head. Red Randy looked at Marcellus and asked in a calm tone of voice, “Do you know this reporter?” Marcellus slipped into his Uncle Tom persona. He gripped his hat and shuffled back and forth. “I’s sorry, Masa Randy, but I’s can’t read.” Marcellus could read. He could also speak French. They were skills his grandfather had taught him. Aristotle also had taught his grandson to be circumspect with whites. “White folks tend to think every black man doesn’t have the sense to wipe his rear. No need to disabuse them of that notion in most cases,” the old man had told his grandson many years before. Red Randy sat up in the chair. “Don’t gimme that shite. You read music.” “Pardon, sir, but I’s don’t read music either. I’s plays by feelin’.” Marcellus mimicked playing the piano with his hands. Red Randy stood up. He grabbed the newspaper from Ferret Face. “Gimme that, Izzie.” The big man stabbed a thick finger at the article held inches from Marcellus. “It says Mr. Abraham Ruef is a thief. Now, that just ain’t true. The

sap that wrote these lies is Tom Reagan. That name ring a bell?” Marcellus knew Reagan. The reporter had interviewed Aristotle for an article about the plague and the men that trapped rats for the city health department. He scratched his head. “Dat might be da man talk to my grandpa awhiles ago.” Red Randy threw the paper back at Ferret Face. He fixed Marcellus with a mean look. “The same. Now, how you been feedin’ him information.” The accusation surprised Marcellus. “I ain’t seen da man since he talk to my gramps. What’s my gramps gots to do wit all dis?” “Only somebody who knew the joy-houses could’ve given this scribbler the lowdown. Now, we know it ain’t no working girls. They ain’t gonna jeopardize their job by talkin’ to a reporter. That leaves the niggers that work in the houses. We talked to the maids; none of them can read. Two of the piano players is blind. That leaves you and two other niggers.” Marcellus nodded. “I’s sorry, masa, but I sho’ never talked to no reporter.” Red Randy did a slow burn. He looked at Bessie. “Pay him.” Bessie took out a small cashbox and counted out twelve dollars, which she laid on the desk. Ferret Face looked surprised. “You pay this nigger twelve dollars just to play the piano?” Bessie looked at the short man. “Marcellus is a talented player. The customers like his music.” Red Randy took six bills from the stack and stuffed them inside his vest pocket. “That’s for our time.” Marcellus reached for the remaining bills on the desk. Ferret Face brought a sap down hard on the musician’s hand. Bones cracked. Marcellus dropped the bills and grabbed his injured hand. “You son of a bitch,” said Bessie.

Ferret Face smiled at the madam. “Guess the nigger doesn’t want his money. Looks like he ain’t in shape to play either. I’ll send my cousin Abe over. He can play Mozart better than any nigger.” Red Randy glared at Marcellus. “Looks like you’re out of a job, boy. You should leave town. This city don’t tolerate vagrants. We might have to pay you a house call to make sure you took my advice.” Marcellus bent down to pick up the bills. Ferret Face stomped his foot down on the money. “Don’t you listen, nigger? I already told Bessie here you didn’t want her money. Now, git!” Marcellus’s hand ached. He knew it would be a futile gesture to try anything. He nodded and walked out the door. The laughter of the white men trailed after him.

***

Tom Reagan walked into the newsroom. He wore a big grin and had a copy of the morning edition under his arm. “Hell, of a story,” said Ben Sloane, the reporter who sat across from Reagan. “Thanks,” Reagan replied. He removed his coat, hung it and his hat on a rack by his desk, and sat down. He pulled out a pack of smokes and offered one to Sloane. Reagan grabbed a match from the holder sitting on his desk, struck it, and lit their cigarettes. “That was some damning material. Our esteemed mayor and his boss aren’t going to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner this year.” “I’m crushed, Ben,” Reagan replied with a glint in his eye. Reagan’s phone rang, and he picked it up. “Newsroom. Reagan.” The reporter suddenly sat bolt upright. “When?” There was another pause. “I’ll be right down.”

Reagan hung up the receiver. He jumped up and grabbed his coat and hat. “Ben, do me a favor. Will you handle the Caruso interview for me?” He tossed two tickets to the opera onto Sloane’s desk and then grabbed his hat and threw his coat on and headed toward the door. “Sure, thanks. Where’re you going?” Sloane asked. Reagan didn’t answer. He was already out the door. Ten minutes later, Tom Reagan got out of the cab and paid the driver. He was surprised to see Kieran standing on the docks with a half dozen other policemen. Reagan walked over, introduced himself to the officers, and told them he was a reporter for the Gazette. “We received a call that Captain Seamus Kennedy’s body was found,” Reagan said. He didn’t reveal that it was Dan Kennedy who had called. Peter Hagan, a tall copper with bushy sideburns, eyed the reporter. “Here to pick the bones, eh, scribbler?” Kieran Kennedy looked at Hagan. “This is the fella who wrote the piece about Ruef.” Hagan rocked back on his feet and studied Reagan. “Really … Well, what do you want to know? I can tell you that none of you scribblers are going to see the body.” Kieran steered Reagan away from his fellow policemen. When they were out of earshot, the tall blond cop asked in a hushed tone, “What’re you doin’ here, boyo?” “Dan called. He said your father’s body washed up on Angel’s Island.” Kieran cursed silently. “Danny doesn’t have the brains to pour piss out of a boot sometimes. Da is dead.” “I’m sorry, Kieran.” “You’d best be out of here. We don’t want anyone putting two and two together

and figuring out you was Da’s man.” “Dan gave me two pages from a ledger. It looks like payouts Ruef made to elected officials.” “It was from the ledger Da was taking to Spreckels and Langton. The ledger has vanished.” “Where did Seamus get it?” The tall policeman eyed the reporter. “I’m not at liberty to say. That party could be in danger now as well.” Kieran saw the look of surprise in Reagan’s eyes. “Don’t think you were the only one Da worked with, Tom.” Reagan nodded. “I’ll see you at the wake.” “Don’t be daft,” Kieran snapped. “If they were able to get to Da, how hard do you think it going to be to find you? Best that you lay low and steer clear of the Kennedys for a bit.” Reagan’s face filled with grief. Kieran placed a meaty hand on the reporter’s shoulder. “Danny and I know you will be there in heart, Tom.” He glanced over at the group of policemen. “Now, get.” Reagan walked away and hailed a cab. As he got in, he looked over at Kieran and the other policemen. They were huddled together, talking. “The Gazette, please,” he said to the driver. The man clicked his tongue, and the horse and cab headed toward downtown.

***

Danny Doyle perused his suits. He didn’t want anything flashy. As a burglar, Doyle had many outfits to disguise his true intent. His closet included workman’s clothes, dressy suits, and formal attire. Doyle selected an understated

dark brown suit and a black derby. He needed to blend in rather than stand out. He checked the morning-edition newspapers. There was nothing about the Pacific Heights job he’d pulled the previous evening. Possibly no one had returned to the house that evening. That was a good sign. The painting was hidden in a compartment at the rear of his closet. Doyle planned to Casey Kinsella that afternoon and have him take it to the fence. Doyle hurried with his breakfast of coffee and toast, donned his hat, and bounded outside to catch a ride on the trolley. “Avoid cabs whenever going to or coming from a job” was another of English Jack’s rules. “Cabbies have memories like a bloody elephant and can place you at the scene. Never use one unless you’re in extreme circumstances, and even then, you’re better on foot or a public conveyance,” he had told his young apprentice. Doyle was about to break another of Jack’s rules: “Never return to the scene of your crime.” Danny Doyle got off the trolley three blocks from the house he’d burgled the previous evening. He purchased a bouquet of flowers from a street vendor. His plan was rather unformed. He would deliver the flowers to the young woman living in the house. Beyond that, Doyle planned to wing it. As he approached the block, Doyle noticed policemen standing in the yard of the burglarized home. An ambulance was parked, along with a police wagon in front of the house. Doyle was about to turn around, when he saw the young woman pictured in the locket come down the front steps. Danny’s heart leaped. The beautiful woman was followed by a matronly looking dowager. A pair of attendants carrying a stretcher with a body followed the matron down the steps. A sheet covered the body. The attendants placed the stretcher inside the ambulance, and the two women got in. The men climbed into the front, and the ambulance drove away. A number of people stood across the street, watching the activity at the house. “What happened?” Doyle asked a well-dressed middle-aged gentleman. The man looked at Doyle and replied, “Bad business. They murdered Ben Jacobs.”

Doyle maintained his composure. “Do the police know who did it?” he asked in a hushed tone of voice. The man waved him off. “The coppers aren’t worth the powder to blow ’em to hell. Most are on the take from the man most likely behind Ben’s murder.” Doyle broke his own rule and volunteered information. “You mean, Monk Murphy?” The gentleman cocked an eye at Doyle. “Who else pays off the coppers in this city like it’s Christmas?” The man noticed the flowers in Doyle’s hand. “On your way to see a lady?” Doyle grinned sheepishly. “Yes.” He pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. “Looks like I’m running late.” He tipped his hat, wished the gentleman a good day, and headed back in the direction he had just come. Doyle contemplated his moves as the trolley crept over a hill. The painting was currently worthless. He knew that trying to fence the Van Gogh could get him convicted of murder—a murder he hadn’t committed. He got off the trolley and headed into the Golden Bear, a tavern frequented by working men. It was early, but Doyle needed a drink. He didn’t think the coppers would be knocking on his door, but it had been too close of an encounter for him. Louis Henson, the owner, was standing behind the bar when Doyle entered. “Danny Doyle, what a sight for sore eyes,” Henson said in a jovial voice. “Good day to you too, Louis,” Doyle replied. He wasn’t overly fond of the proprietor. Louis always asked too many questions and was more than a tad nosy. On the other hand, he served decent whiskey, not the bathtub concoctions sold at Monk Murphy’s establishments. Henson set a glass in front of Doyle and poured a shot of whiskey. “You look like a man with heavy thoughts.” Doyle dropped a coin onto the bar and took a sip of the liquor. “Not a care in the world,” he replied. The barkeep scratched his beard. “That’s good. I knows a man who would love

to be in your shoes. A bloke who owes Monk Murphy a sizeable amount of—” Henson rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “To hell with Murphy and his bunch,” Doyle replied, and took another drink of whiskey. Henson refilled the glass and looked Danny straight in the eye. “I got a proposition for you, my fine lad.” Doyle shot the bartender a suspicious look. “How’s that?” Henson leaned close and said in a hushed tone, “This gent I’m talking about owes Murphy $10,000. Monk has given him till the end of the week to pay up. The gentleman is a banker and has access to large sums. He’s still in town. He holds position and undoubtedly believes that will save him from Monk’s henchmen. You and I both know that isn’t so.” “What does this have to do with me?” Doyle asked, getting annoyed at Henson’s dancing around. The bartender gave Doyle a wink. “I am certain this gent plans to either pay off Monk or skedaddle out of town. Either way, he will have a fair sum of cash in his possession. A talented fellow such as yourself could grab the goods and leave the man to face Murphy with empty pockets.” “And I suppose you know the name of this gentleman?” Henson grinned, exposing a mouthful of bad teeth. “Not only do I know his name, but I can supply you with his address.” “For a fee.” The bartender shrugged his shoulders. “This type of information should be worth something—say, thirty percent.” Doyle thought of English Jack’s advice regarding taking on partners. Henson ran his mouth. On the other hand, Monk Murphy was most likely responsible for Doyle’s current inability to fence the Van Gogh. “You know if Monk gets wind that someone stole from him, those persons

responsible wouldn’t last twenty-four hours.” Henson wiped the bar with a rag. “Who’s to tell ’em?” Doyle thought about it for a moment. “Twenty percent seems more fitting for that type of information.” “Thirty.” Doyle looked at the barkeep and grinned. Henson chuckled. “I knew you were a bold lad, Danny. The mark is Randolph Carrington.” He wrote down the address and held it out to Doyle. “You’ve got to work fast. Carrington must either pay Murphy or face his reprisal by this Friday.” Doyle glanced at the slip of paper. He memorized the address and then downed the rest of his drink and left the saloon without saying another word. That evening’s editions of the newspapers all carried coverage of Benjamin Jacobs’s murder. They all reported that robbery had been the motive and that Mr. Jacobs had become a victim because he’d been at home when the robber entered. None mentioned the theft of the Van Gogh. Danny Doyle cursed. The painting was as worthless as a child’s drawing. The only option he had was to destroy the Van Gough or hold it and hope he could sell it sometime later. Since he had no money coming in at the moment, Doyle decided to check out Randolph Carrington’s residence. The night was cool but not cold, an exception for San Francisco at that time of year. Carrington’s house was in the Haight-Ashbury District, an area originally intended to be part of Golden Gate Park when it was being developed during the Civil War. The eastern portion of the park narrowed into a panhandle. In the 1880s, wealthy folks had begun building homes on the streets that ran south of the panhandle. That was where Carrington had his home. Doyle found the house and scoped out the neighborhood. The house was a freestanding Victorian; unfortunately, there was no alley to access from the rear. Doyle would have to enter from the front door. The neighborhood spoke money but was not ostentatious like Nob Hill. Doyle strolled to a café situated on the opposite side of the street. He took a seat at a table outside and ordered an

espresso. A copper made the rounds every ninety minutes during the evening. Doyle observed him while sipping his espresso. Doyle counted up the cons. Entering through the front meant picking the lock. That was not impossible but could attract attention if it took too long to gain entrance. He didn’t know where Carrington would keep ten grand. Most likely it would be in a safe which he would have to open. All of that took time. Under the best of circumstances, Doyle would have a little better than an hour to locate the money and make off with it before the copper made his rounds again. Doyle left the café. He hailed a cab and told the driver to drop him at Pacific Avenue. Doyle hit a number of the saloons in the Barbary Coast, which was Monk Murphy’s turf. Doyle wasn’t sure what his plan was beyond attempting to find out why Monk would bump off a man like Benjamin Jacobs. Earlier that afternoon, Doyle had done his research on the murdered man. Benjamin Jacobs owned a packing plant. He was married and had a daughter, Lillian. Jacobs frequented Bessie’s Parlor and was a regular at King Tatum’s weekly poker game at the Palace Hotel. Doyle made the rounds, finally stepping inside the Black Crow. The establishment was dimly lit, and business was bustling. A man with frizzy hair sat at the piano, playing a lively rag. In the rear, men gathered around a small ring, urging on the two cocks who battled it out. Doyle ambled over to the bar. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” said a voice. Doyle turned. It was Izzie Stein, one of Monk Murphy’s men. Doyle flashed Stein a smile. “Izzie, still trying to slip Chinamen wooden nickels at the lavender cribs?” Stein frowned. “Smart talk coming from the likes of you, Doyle. You were English Jack’s bitch, and now you’re just a flea without a dog.” In a flash, Doyle slammed Stein up against the wall and held a knife to his throat. He said in a whisper, “You might care to apologize for that foolish remark.” Stein’s eyes glared hate. Doyle pressed the tip of the knife harder. A drop of blood trickled down Stein’s neck.

A beefy paw clamped down on Doyle’s shoulder. “Don’t kill the little Jew bastard, Danny. I have need of him.” Doyle saw Red Randy standing behind him. He released his grip on Stein. The ferret-faced man rubbed his neck and snarled, “Next time, you’d better bring more than a knife, you fuckin’ bog mick.” “Go on. Get outta here before I decide to let Doyle slit your throat, you fuckin’ Christ killer,” said Red Randy. Stein slunk off. Red Randy slapped Doyle on the back. “What are you drinkin’, mate?” “Irish. What else?” Red Randy laughed, pounded the bar, and held up two fingers. “Whiskey.” The bartender filled two glasses. Red Randy snatched up his glass. “To bowlegged women.” The big man downed the entire contents of the glass in a single gulp. A redheaded woman with a painted face, wearing a bright green dress, sidled up next to Red Randy. Doyle knew she was a working girl. His eyes caught the locket that hung around her neck. It was Lillian Jacobs’s locket. Danny kept a straight face. “Hey, Randy, gimme a couple dollars. Me and Nancy want to bet on the birds,” said the whore. Red Randy pulled a few gold coins from his pocket and handed them to the whore. “That’s a nice locket,” Doyle said. The whore smiled and ran her hand around the chain. “Randy gave it to me.” She gave the big man a kiss on the cheek. “Go on and get outta here, Sophie,” said Red Randy.

The whore gave Red Randy another peck on the cheek and then hurried off. The big man grinned sheepishly. “Sophie’s a good slag.” “She must be; you’re rather generous tonight.” Red Randy waved off Doyle. “Just flush. Did a job for Monk—some gambler who didn’t pay. Can’t let that type of riffraff run around town. It’s bad for business.” Suddenly, the doors blew open, and a dozen coppers marched in. Kieran Kennedy spotted Red Randy and walked over to him. “Where’s your boss?” Kieran asked. “Who might that be?” Red Randy replied with a sarcastic tone. Kieran punched the big man in the face and drove him to the floor. The room went silent. The patrons stared at the coppers. Dan Kennedy stood ready with the other policemen. “Let that be a warning,” said Kieran. “We want Monk Murphy. Any who harbor him will be given no quarter. Any who aid him will be taken down like rabid dogs.” The tall copper turned and unloaded his revolver into the liquor bottles lined on the shelves behind the bar. When the gun was empty, he pulled another revolver. Kieran looked directly at Danny Doyle and nodded at the unconscious Red Randy lying on the floor. “He your friend?” Doyle looked down at Red Randy and shook his head. “An acquaintance.” Kieran eyeballed Doyle. “You’d do wisely to avoid such scum.” “Yes, sir,” Doyle replied. The tall copper gave a nod to his brother. Kieran and Dan Kennedy slowly backed up toward the door. The squad of police followed them out of the saloon.

15

Tuesday

Marcellus woke up face down in the mud. After leaving Bessie’s, he’d wandered the streets for hours. His hand throbbed and had swelled. If he moved his fingers a searing pain shot up his arm like an electric shock. Marcellus soaked it in a fountain until a copper walked by and ordered him to be on his way. His right hand was clearly damaged. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to go home. He didn’t want to tell his grandfather that he’d lost his job and might never play again. Instead, Marcellus had purchased a bottle of bathtub gin and proceeded to get drunk. He stopped at a bar and purchased a bottle with his tips from the previous night. When he’d finished that bottle, he bought another. The liquor eased the pain from his hand. By the time the second bottle was gone, Marcellus had been unable to feel much and could hardly walk. He finally stumbled and fell. He stayed there until morning, when another copper on patrol jabbed the musician with his night-stick and ordered him to move on or be arrested. Marcellus slowly got to his feet and staggered home. Aristotle was sitting at the table when the young man entered the apartment looking like the wrath of God in filthy clothes. “What happened, son?” Aristotle asked, getting up and shuffling over to his grandson. Marcellus flopped down into a chair and cried, “They fired me, Grandpa!” Aristotle smacked the young man hard across the face. Marcellus stared at his grandfather in disbelief. “They fired you, so you went out and got drunk?” Aristotle barked. “They broke my hand.” Marcellus held out his hand for the old man to see.

“Who did that to you?” “One of Monk Murphy’s men. They think I talked to that reporter who wrote about you.” Aristotle walked away and exited the apartment. He returned a minute later, followed by a gray-haired gentleman carrying a bag. Marcellus recognized the man. He was Joe Turner, a man who lived down the hall. Turner had once worked with racehorses. He set his bag down on the table. “Lemme’ see your hand,” said Turner. Marcellus held it out for Turner to examine. “It’s broke all right,” said Turner. He dug in his bag and pulled out some tape and a small piece of wood. Turner placed the wood on the palm side of Marcellus’s damaged fingers and bound them with the tape. “That’s the best I can do. Don’t use that hand. Hopefully it will heal up properly.” “Will I be able to play the piano?” Marcellus asked. Turner shrugged. A large black man entered the apartment. His shoulders and arms were like twin oak trees. He stood more than six feet and wore heavy boots, work pants, and a loose-fitting shirt. Seeing the man, Turner shook his head. He tossed the tape into his bag. “Watch the hand, son.” He picked up the bag and exited the apartment without another word. “This is Blue,” said Aristotle. “Tell him what you told me.” Marcellus held out his left hand, which was smothered by the big man’s when they shook. “Some of Monk Murphy’s men were at Bessie’s. They accused me of talking to a reporter about the mayor’s business and told me to leave town.” Blue frowned and looked at Aristotle. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do anything.”

“What do you mean?” Aristotle asked, not bothering to hide his surprise. “If me and the boys go after Murphy’s gang, that could start a riot. Plenty of colored folk would die. Some coppers busted up one of Murphy’s places last night. The man hasn’t been seen all week. He’s gone down a rabbit hole, and he’ll stay there until it’s safe.” “You’re telling me we should just let this go?” asked Aristotle. “No, my advice to your boy is to heed their warning and get the hell out of the city.” Blue saw the hopeless expression in the eyes of both men. He turned and walked out of the apartment with his shoulders drooped and his size seemed to diminish from when he had entered. Aristotle looked at his grandson. “I don’t know what it is you got yourself into, but if Blue says you best go, you had better heed what the man tells you.” “What about you?” “Me?” Aristotle laughed. “Hell, boy, I’ve been taking care of myself ever since Lord Carlton lost me in a poker game.” The old man walked over to the pantry. He opened a cupboard, took out a tin, and unscrewed the lid. Aristotle removed some bills and held them out to his grandson. “There’s fifty dollars. That should be enough to get you down to Los Angeles and tide you over.” “Los Angeles?” Marcellus asked, surprised. Aristotle put the rest of the bills back in the tin and replaced it in the cupboard. He took a seat across from the young man. “One of the few white men that treated me fairly was a man by the name of Sean McGuire. Go see him. He has a big ranch down there. If he’s still alive, he’ll give you a fair shake.” “I ain’t goin’ to Los Angles to work for some honky on a ranch,” Marcellus replied defiantly. “The hell you say. You already got your hand busted. You going to wait until they kill you? Besides, who said Mr. McGuire is going to give you a job? You don’t know a damn thing about horses or cattle.”

“Then why you sending me down to Los Angeles?” “Because there are people who want to hurt you, boy. We got no other kin. If Mr. McGuire is still alive, he’ll point you to those who can help.” “Are you coming with me?” Aristotle braced himself with the table and stood up. “No. Now, get yourself cleaned up.”

***

Danny Doyle paced back and forth in his apartment. He wasn’t sure what to do. He had a painting he couldn’t fence. The job Hansen had suggested was as dicey as snake eyes. The coppers knew he was talking to Red Randy and had been in one of Monk Murphy’s saloons. He had been clean with the coppers up until last night. He was getting low on cash and needed the job. Doyle berated himself for going into the Black Crow. It had been a foolish move. “Never be a fool when it comes to the trade,” English Jack counseled him long ago. “Always watch your back, and never take a chance unless forced to.” It was the girl in the locket. Doyle knew deep down that he’d gone to Murphy’s saloon in hopes of finding out more about the girl and why her father had been murdered. Doyle got his answer. He also got a big copper staring him straight in the face. If he was going to pull the Carrington job, he had to do it by tomorrow. The mark would no doubt be gone before Friday. Doyle pulled a flask from his jacket and uncapped it. He stared at the flask. Never drink before a job. English Jack’s words echoed in his head. He ed watching in horror when his mentor slipped on the roof and fell to his death. Doyle capped the flask and returned it to his coat pocket. “You’re getting the jumps,” he said to himself.

He held out his hands. They were steady. Doyle smiled. He knew he could do the job. He just needed to stay calm. He was Danny Doyle, master B&E man who had worked with English Jack. Doyle sat down in a chair and collected his thoughts. To hell with the coppers.

***

“I wanna kill those damn Kennedys,” said Monk Murphy. Abe Ruef stabbed a piece of cantaloupe on his plate. “All in good time.” The two men were meeting in Ruef’s private office at the Pup, a French restaurant located near the intersection of Stockton and Market. A copy of the Gazette sat on the table by Ruef. Murphy stood with his derby in his hand while the boss finished his meal. Murphy slammed a fist into the palm of his other hand. “We should hit that smart-ass reporter hard.” Ruef took a sip of coffee and set the china cup down. “Stay away from Reagan.” Murphy looked at the political boss with surprise. “Reagan’s the one that started this mess with his damn articles.” He thrust a finger toward the newspaper on the table. “And who do you think has been giving him the information he’s been putting in those articles?” Murphy lowered his head. “We checked all the joy-houses, boss. Izzy gave whatfor to the nigger we thought was talkin’ to Reagan, but it weren’t him. We’ll find the bastard who did talk to that scribbler.” Ruef dabbed his lips with the linen napkin and set it on the table. “It was Seamus Kennedy who was feeding Reagan information. Apparently, the good captain obtained one of my ledgers. How it came into his possession I am still uncertain. Unfortunately, you and your accomplice, Izzie were a bit hasty in the dispatching

of Captain Kennedy and failed to search him.” Murphy lowered his head. “We didn’t have time to search the copper. The deck was clear of engers for just a moment.” “Yes, well, the ledger is lost, and Captain Kennedy had the temerity to wash up onshore after you and you friend tossed him over the side. As long as the ledger remains missing, Mr. Reagan will not have anything to write about, now that the senior Kennedy is no longer with us.” Murphy looked at Ruef. “The damn Kennedy brothers busted up my place last night—shot the bar to hell. I can’t show my face for fear some copper will arrest me.” Ruef held up a hand. “Patience, Mr. Murphy. You will be my guest tonight at the opera. Caruso is performing.” Murphy smiled and nodded his head. “That dago sure can sing.”

***

Tom Reagan stood outside Vodrazka’s Funeral Home. John Vodrazka had buried the Irish for years. Reagan knew that was where Kieran would bring his father’s body. It was late. Reagan had waited for the Kennedy family and the police to pay their respects. He did not want to make an appearance until the place had cleared. Two patrolmen were stationed outside the mortuary. As Reagan approached the entrance, the coppers gave him the once-over. Reagan went inside. The body was laid out in a mahogany casket. Reagan knelt down and made the sign of the cross. It had been years since he had prayed. He wasn’t the praying type. He did it out of respect for the man who had saved him. Reagan thought about how Seamus had come to him with a plan to take down Abe Ruef: he would give the reporter information to write about and put the city’s focus on the scandalous activities of Ruef and the city council. Reagan had

greedily taken whatever information Seamus gave him and written a series of scathing pieces that condemned the activities of the mayor and Ruef. Looking down at his benefactor, Reagan concluded it hadn’t been worth the price. Seamus was dead. Kieran obviously blamed him in part for his father’s death. He made up his mind never to write another political article again. Reagan stood up. He kissed two fingers, laid them on Seamus’s forehead, and walked out of the mortuary, his footsteps echoing after him.

16

Death and Destruction

Marcellus was sitting in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette. He hadn’t been able to sleep. Suddenly, the building shuddered as if a giant hand grabbed hold and shook it like a child’s toy. Aristotle was tossed out of his chair in the front room. Plaster cracked. Dishes and anything not bolted down flew across the room and crashed to the floor, which continued to undulate for forty-five seconds. Then it suddenly stopped. Marcellus hurried over to his grandfather and helped him up. “We gotta get out of here.” The young man gripped his grandfather by the arm, and they hurried to the stairway. They had just reached the street, when the earth shook again, harder. It continued to shake for nearly sixty seconds. Buildings collapsed. Fissures ran through the streets, opening the ground and exposing gas lines and water pipes. Power lines came crashing down, snapping electrical wires. Sparks flew and the hot wires whipped about like deadly snakes. A piece of facade came crashing down and crushed Aristotle, narrowly missing Marcellus. The young man stood staring in disbelief at his dead grandfather; blood was already pooling around the body. A man came rushing by. He saw Marcellus and grabbed his arm. “Come on. Get to the park. It’s safe there.” Marcellus stood rigid. The man yanked the musician’s arm harder. “Come on. You wanna die?” Marcellus snapped out of it. People were racing about. Fire had broken out in some homes. Smoke filled the air, and the earth began to shake again. Marcellus took off running.

***

Danny Doyle was tossed from his bed. He tried to stand up, lost his footing, and was slammed against the wall. He managed to crawl across the room and grab his boots. As soon as the shaking stopped, Doyle jumped to his feet. He grabbed the Van Gogh and his jacket. Doyle stuffed the painting into his coat and raced for the streets. The shaking started again. Doyle saw a building collapse on a dozen people just yards away from him. A woman with a child raced down the street. The asphalt split, and the two were swallowed in the cavern that ripped up the street. Then the shaking stopped. There were cries for help. Pandemonium was everywhere. Doyle raced over and began pulling bricks off a girl who was crying for help. Another man stopped to assist him. After what seemed like an eternity, they pulled the young lady from the debris. She was battered, bloodied, and bruised. Doyle helped the woman to her feet. “My brother,” she said. Doyle and the man looked at the destroyed building. Doyle took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the young lady’s face. “I don’t think your brother is alive, ma’am.” The trio stood and watched as smoke and fire arose from the buildings a few blocks away.

***

Tom Reagan fell from the park bench he had been sleeping on. After leaving Vodrazka’s Funeral Home, the reporter had gone out and gotten drunk. He’d wandered the city aimlessly and finally found a bench in Golden Gate Park and

fallen asleep. The earthquake had rudely awakened him. Reagan staggered to his feet. His head felt as if he had gone ten rounds with Tommy Burns. At first, Reagan thought the shaking was part of his hangover. When the second temblor hit, he sobered up enough to realize it wasn’t the effects of alcohol that caused him to feel like the earth was moving. The ground was moving. Reagan picked up his hat and headed across the park. He had one thought: to get to the Gazette. There wasn’t a cab in sight. Panic ruled the streets. People raced to the park, nearly knocking the reporter down in their surge. Some people raced about like decapitated birds, wailing and wringing their hands. Some helped dig out survivors from the rubble. Some sat on the street and cried. Reagan couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a world gone mad. A woman raced by Reagan. She was carrying what looked to be a dead baby. The infant’s face was bloodied, and it wasn’t crying. A man charged past carrying a large clock. There were screams and cries. Horses whinnied in fear. It was a visual and aural cacophony of pain, suffering, and horror. It took Reagan nearly ninety minutes to reach the newspaper’s offices, when it normally would have taken him no more than ten by trolley. Power lines were down across the city. Water mains had broken, and the fire department was helpless against the fires that began to rage. The Gazette building was a pile of rubble. Reagan stared in disbelief. The place where he had worked for years had vanished. Scattered brick, smashed desks, and twisted wooden beams lay where there had moments before been a newspaper office. Reagan wondered how many reporters, printers, and personnel had perished in the destruction. He dug into his pockets. He always carried a pad and pencil with him. Reagan began taking notes of the ruin that seemed to be everywhere. South of Market looked like something out of Dante’s Inferno. The ground had liquefied, and many structures had sunk and completely vanished. It was a wasteland of destruction, ruin, and fire. Chinatown hadn’t fared much better. Years of forced ramshackle building of wooden structures lay in ruins. Rats outpaced the residents in fleeing the area. Reagan watched as military servicemen shot two men with a wheelbarrow of goods.

“How do you know those men were looters?” Reagan asked the officer in charge of the dozen enlisted men patrolling the street. The lieutenant, a thin man with aristocratic bearing, looked at the reporter and replied, “I would suggest you move along before one of my men suspects you of looting.” Reagan made his way up the street, and the patrol marched off in the opposite direction. A few blocks later, he spotted a trio of policemen approaching and signaled to them. It was Dan Kennedy with two other coppers. “The army is executing people in the streets,” said Reagan. “What would you like us to do?” asked Dan. “Well, something should be done. We can’t have innocent people being shot down like dogs.” “Give me a hand,” said Kieran Kennedy. He had just emerged from a building and was standing in the doorway, holding an unconscious woman in his arms. Dan and the other two policemen raced over, took the woman, and carried her to the curb. “There’s more in here,” Kieran said, and he disappeared inside the building once again. Dan tried reviving the woman. Her blouse was bloody, and she had a large gash on her forehead. The two policemen accompanying him stopped a man ing with his cart and mule. They put the women in the cart. There was an explosion. The building the woman had come from erupted in a ball of flame. “Kieran!” Dan shouted and raced for the building. “It’s the gas lines,” said the man with the cart. He gave a shake of the reins and started up the street. Reagan watched as the two coppers wrestled Dan to the ground. The reporter

had never seen such destruction and death before. He knew there was little he could do. Buildings and homes were being dynamited, fire raged everywhere, the military was executing civilians, and what control the police might have had upon the city had vanished. He helped the coppers with Kennedy. “Danny, he’s gone. There’s nothing that can be done.” Dan cried and hugged Reagan close. “Come on, Danny we got a job to do,” said one of the policemen. Dan rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his soiled shirt. He fought to regain his composer. “Take care of yourself, Tom.” Dan Kennedy hurried away with the two policemen. The air was thick with smoke. Reagan quickly lost sight of Dan and the two coppers with him. He stuffed his pad and pencil into his pocket and, like many others fleeing the inferno, made his way to the docks and crossed over to Oakland. He spent the next three days in a hastily erected tent camp across the bay, watching San Francisco burn to the ground.

Los Angeles

17

A Wedding

After the encounter with the Consolidated agents, Jenny spent more and more time away from the office. She had proven she could hold her own in a war. Jenny did not relish the experience, though. The Oso Negro offered her refuge from businessmen, bankers, and attorneys. The fact that Olivia lived at the ranch was a bonus as well. The two women were as different as water and oil. Olivia was small, retiring, and soft-spoken. Jenny was outgoing and had her mother’s good looks and sharp tongue. Jenny moved back to the Oso Negro two months after the encounter, as Sean referred to the evening with the Consolidated Oil agents. Sean did not argue with his daughter. He resumed his daily trips to the office again. As a means of keeping an eye on Sean, Olivia suggested Michael go live with his grandfather. The boy jumped at the opportunity. The idea of living in town and away from the watchful eye of his mother and aunt seemed like a dream come true. William McGrath came to the house each morning and took Michael to school. Michael took an immediate liking of McGrath. There was something about the taciturn man that intrigued the young boy. His grandfather and McGrath were similar to the cowboys at the ranch, but different as well. They both had an edge the cowboys at the ranch lacked. Those men worked hard, laughed, and often played practical jokes on each other. McGrath rarely smiled and was a man of few words. Michael never feared the man. He told his grandfather that when William McGrath walked into a room, he got the feeling that someone had just left feet first. Sean laughed and told Michael his observation was correct. Michael wanted to be like his grandfather and William McGrath. The cowboys had filled Michael with tales of Sean’s deeds, which, depending on the narrator, bordered on the epic. The fact that both men carried guns also fascinated young Michael. He had read the dime-novel tales of Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill Hickok and envisioned his grandfather among those men who had actually tamed the Wild West.

Ward Howard was now the foreman at the Oso Negro. He had taken over the job when Carl Ferguson, the last of the original band of cowboys who’d started out with Sean, retired. Howard brought a modern business sense to running the ranch. He saw it would be more profitable to lease land for grazing than to own it. Sean sold his excess land to developers. Much of that money went into the Beverly Hills estate and other ventures. Howard began to diversify the ranch’s operations. Raising horses and cattle was still profitable, so were dairy cows. As more and more people moved into the area, the demand for milk became greater than the demand for beef. Howard began to shift the Oso Negro from mainly a beef operation to one of mixed use. It bothered Ward Howard at first when Jenny moved back to the Oso Negro. He thought his leadership would be undermined. Jenny offered no resistance to the changes Howard made. She preferred to enjoy life on the ranch and leave the duties of running it to someone else. Jenny saw that Ward Howard had a modern approach and understood how to maximize ranch operations and run them efficiently. The two met each morning and discussed the ranch’s needs for that day over breakfast. Jenny took on the job of handling the dairy operations and doing the books. Howard saw to all other duties of running the ranch. He suggested they change the dairy’s name to Golden Valley Dairy. Jenny disagreed. She pointed out that the Oso Negro was a well-known name, and the ranch did not exist in a golden valley. Howard didn’t argue. Olivia ran the house. Jenny oversaw the dairy operations, and Howard handled all other duties running the ranch. Within three months of Jenny’s return, the ranch was running more efficiently than ever. There was a harmony at the Oso Negro that hadn’t been seen since the days of her mother, Kathleen, and her father’s partners, Rufus and Charlie. Sean recognized this and was pleased. Though they worked side by side daily, Jenny did not give the foreman much thought, until Ward asked Jenny if she would like to accompany him to the Fourth of July celebrations in town. Jenny happily accepted. It had been years since a man had even approached her. Most of the eligible young men were too intimidated. Jenny was an educated woman, a widow and the daughter of Sean McGuire. Howard took Jenny to Santa Monica that day. They ate hot dogs and candied apples on the boardwalk and rode the carousel. Later, they went dancing and watched the fireworks. Jenny was surprised that a quiet man like Ward Howard

could be so entertaining, not to mention a good dancer. Olivia enjoyed watching Jenny each morning when she came to breakfast. Prior to their date, Jenny hadn’t been overly concerned with her appearance. After that day in Santa Monica, Jenny made sure that even her work clothes were neat and pressed, and she often wore a ribbon in her hair. The courtship went on through the summer. Jenny was twenty-five. Howard was twelve years older, but that didn’t seem to matter. He was a gentleman with old ways, which Jenny found endearing. “I know I’m older than you, but I would be the proudest man ever if you saw fit to marry me,” said Howard one evening. He and Jenny were sitting on the porch after dinner, enjoying the sunset. Jenny looked at the man with a droopy mustache and kind eyes. “Of course,” she replied without hesitation. They were married that December. Sean gave the couple his blessing. He had long ago given up on interfering in his daughter’s social life and secretly hoped she would marry one of the ranch hands someday. Ward Howard took his new wife to Chicago for their honeymoon. It snowed the entire time they were there. Jenny caught a terrible cold and spent the entire two weeks there in bed. They returned to the Oso Negro and business resumed as usual. A few months after the wedding, Jenny began to notice something was missing. Howard ran the ranch like a pro. He was attentive to Jenny and treated her with great kindness but he lacked ion. Jenny soon discovered that kindness was nice, but ion was what she desired. Her first husband had been young and inexperienced. Their lovemaking had been haphazard at best. Howard wasn’t any more experienced in the bedroom then Peter, with the exception that he was older. For Howard, lovemaking was perfunctory. It was a job to complete, like roping a steer. Jenny found that highly unsatisfying. She did not dare disappoint her father. She did not want to hurt her husband. Jenny stoically accepted her role as a wife in a ionless marriage. Olivia noticed the change. When Jenny now came to breakfast, she rarely adorned her hair with a ribbon anymore and was casual about her appearance.

Four years went by before Jenny became pregnant. Sean was ecstatic. Ward Howard was proud. Jenny was ambivalent. Sean was thrilled at the thought of having another grandchild. Howard was pleased by the thought of being a father. Jenny was apprehensive, angry, and disenchanted with the thought of having a child. Her mother had died while giving birth to her. A child meant the loss of freedom. A child would not fill the void in her marriage. Jenny kept those thoughts to herself. She did not want to disappoint her father. Sean was wild about the idea of a new having a new McGuire in the house. Olivia recognized something was troubling Jenny. She attempted to get Jenny to talk about it but was rebuffed. “You don’t seem happy,” Olivia said one morning after Howard had left the dining room. Jenny wasn’t feeling the best that morning and lingered over a hot cup of tea in an attempt to settle her stomach. “I don’t know how you did it, Olivia,” she replied. “Having a baby is a wonderful thing. Why, Michael is the best thing that ever happened to me,” said Olivia, taking a seat across from her sister-in-law. “It’s like my body is possessed. I can’t go riding. Ward worries when I’m even in a buggy. I’m sicker than a dog nearly every morning, and I’m as fat as a house. I don’t know the first thing about being a mother.” Olivia reached across the table and held Jenny’s hand. “Everything will be fine.” Jenny forced a smile and gave the slightest nod of her head. She was not a happy woman.

18

The Photographer

Joseph Ratavensky stepped off the train with his wife, Ruth, and their young daughter, Sarah. The family had been traveling for weeks. They had gone by ship from Morocco, landing in New York, and then by train across the continent. Joseph had never seen such a vast country. Africa was larger, but it was made up of dozens of countries, and many were colonial fiefdoms ruled by European nations. This was a single country with an elected leader. This was a country like no other Joseph had lived in, and he had lived in many. Joseph Ratavensky was the sole son of a prominent family in Prague. His father, Abraham, was an ophthalmologist and taught at the University of Prague. Abraham had fathered three daughters with his wife, Martha, so when Joseph was born, Abraham rejoiced. Joseph was given wide latitude. When he chose to go to art school instead of pursuing a medical career, Abraham gladly agreed to his son’s wishes. Joseph became fascinated with photography as a teenager. His father purchased a Kodak box camera for Joseph’s sixteenth birthday. Upon graduation from the university, Joseph left home and traveled to southern Africa. He opened a photographic portrait shop in Johannesburg. It was there he met Ruth Friedman, the timid daughter of a prominent attorney. Ruth’s father was more than happy to see his daughter finally catch the interest of a nice Jewish man, even if he was an artist. A year after they married, the Second Boer War broke out, and Joseph soon lost his studio, as family portraits were no longer in great demand. A cousin of Ruth’s suggested Joseph try Morocco, pointing out that wealthy and middleclass French used it as their playground and would pay well for photographs of their stay. Morocco proved to be a good move for the young photographer. In addition to the French, many European tourists were happy to find a continental man able to photograph them, instead of a local Arab. Sarah was born in Morocco.

Everything seemed perfect until the Algerians had the temerity to demand better treatment from their French occupiers. Having already lost one business to a war, Joseph did not plan to lose another. He sold his studio and much of his equipment and purchased age to the United States for his family. Joseph was shocked when he got off the train at La Grande Station. He turned to Ruth and said, “There are no cowboys.” Ruth held Sarah’s hand and gazed at the people coming and going at the station. “There are people here. You take photographs of people. We will do all right.” The family found an apartment downtown with an area upstairs Joseph could use as a studio. He put up a sign: Ratavensky’s Fine Photography. Business was slow. A friend suggested he offer his services to the police. Much of Joseph’s work involved shooting corpses, some in coffins and some seated to appear lifelike. Occasionally, the police asked Joseph to take photographs of a crime scene. Joseph listened to the cops joke. They all had dark senses of humor and often made cracks about the dead victims. They referred to Joseph as Rat, and when he inquired why, the police only laughed. One of the cops took Joseph aside and explained it was a derivative from his surname. Joseph told Ruth about the police making fun of him. Ruth held his hand and smiled. “So, change your name. This is America. You can be whoever you choose to be.” Joseph kissed Ruth. “You always know the right thing to say.” The following week, Joseph had his sign removed, and another took its place. The new sign read, Royal Photography: Portraits Fit for a King. Business soon picked up. Joseph Ratavensky was now Joseph Royal. In late spring, a woman entered the studio. She was carrying a young daughter who looked to be no more than a year old. They were accompanied by a middleaged man with a droopy mustache. “We’d like a photograph of the family,” said the man. “Certainly,” said Joseph.

He was struck by the woman’s beauty and the difference in age between the man and the woman holding the infant. Joseph seated the family. The mother sat on a chair, holding the baby, and the man stood behind her. Joseph stepped behind the camera and took a series of shots of the family. He was taken by the woman and her infant. They reminded him of paintings of the Madonna. “Would you like one of just the child and mother?” Joseph asked. The man thought for a moment. “Naw, that’ll be fine. How much do I owe you?” “It would be no extra charge,” Joseph replied. “Go ahead then,” said the man. Joseph repositioned the woman and infant. He got behind the camera and checked his shot. “Hold, please.” He pressed the shutter release. The child started to fuss. The woman got up and put the girl on her shoulder. The child continued to cry. “Bawls like a sow, she does,” said the man as he took out his wallet. “That will be two dollars,” said Joseph. The man sighed, shook his head, and paid Joseph. He turned to the woman and barked, “Can’t you shut her up? I told you coming into town was a mistake.” Joseph smiled. “Your pictures should be ready Wednesday. What name should I put them under?” The man scratched his jaw. “I’ve got work to do. I can’t be racing into town to pick up some photographs. Put them under her name.” Joseph looked at the woman. “Mrs. Jennifer Howard,” said Jenny. Joseph wrote a receipt and handed it to Jenny. She smiled. The baby finally settled down as the family departed the studio.

That evening, Joseph developed the plates. When he printed the photograph, he couldn’t get over the faraway look in the woman’s eyes. She had the same stare Joseph had seen in the eyes of men who had been to war. He showed the photograph to Ruth. “She is beautiful. Something has taken her life away. She has seen too much for such a young woman,” said Ruth. “You have seen much,” said Joseph. Ruth hugged her husband. “But I have had you. This woman has lonely eyes.”

19

The Tunnel

“Cave-in!” someone shouted. Danny Doyle turned. Rock, dirt, and timber came down in a thunderous roar. The tunnel that had existed just moments before was sealed. “Son of a bitch,” Doyle said to himself as he sat down on the cool earth. Except for the dim light coming from his lantern, it was dark. His mind raced. He wondered if any from the crew had made it out or if they all had been killed. If so, how long would it take to realize he was still alive? What if no one survived, and Mr. Payton, the crew boss, decided to go from a different angle? He might be left forever in the tunnel. Doyle took a breath. “Best keep your wits about you,” he said to himself. “Panic gets you dead,” English Jack once had told young Doyle. “A clear and steady mind is necessary when working.” Panic had certainly killed English Jack. He was going for diamonds that a jeweler kept in a safe at his home. It was to be the score of a lifetime. The jeweler kept much of his inventory at home, where his wife spent most of her days. When she wasn’t home, the maid and two large dogs remained. The job had to be done at night, when the jeweler and the rest of the household were asleep. Doyle drugged the dogs, tossing them a couple slabs of meat laced with English Jack’s own Mickey Finn concoction. English Jack didn’t have confidence in himself that night and drank before climbing the roof to access the house. He slipped and paid with his life. Doyle picked up a clod of dirt and tossed it against the tunnel wall. Damn English Jack. Doyle was determined to live. He had survived the San Francisco earthquake. This was nothing more than a cave-in. There had been many during the work on

Mulholland’s aqueduct. Doyle quickly checked his pockets: three dollars, a stick of gum, a canteen of water, and two biscuits. He also had a box of matches and a half pack of cigarettes. Doyle didn’t smoke; he used them as barter with the other men on the crew. When the big one hit the city, Doyle got out with the clothes on his back and little else. His apartment and the entire area south of Market vanished in fire and smoke. What wasn’t destroyed by the quake was burned by the fires that ravaged the city. Doyle did have the Van Gogh. After the quake, there wasn’t much left to rob. The wealthy had lost their homes right along with the poorest of the city’s residents. Those who did make it with their possessions were in the minority. Pulling a heist was risky and could easily cost one his life. A sense of reform pervaded the city. Vigilante squads sprang up in various neighborhoods. There were incidents of thieves and looters being shot, hung, and sometimes both right on the spot where they were captured. Danny Doyle saw that his days in the life had reached an end, at least in San Francisco. His future lay somewhere else. Doyle quickly parlayed the few dollars he had with his three-card-monte routine. He made sure not to push his luck. In three days, he had enough to purchase a rail ticket to Los Angeles and hold him over for a few weeks. Los Angeles was much smaller than San Francisco, but it was spread out. Doyle also quickly discovered that many residents carried firearms with them. Most citizens of San Francisco felt it ill-bred and out of style to walk around with a Colt strapped to their hip. When he first arrived, Doyle couldn’t make head or tails of the city. It had no style the way San Francisco did. Its architecture was a hodgepodge, running from aging Victorian mansions to clapboard homes to Spanish revival and Gothic castles. Doyle quickly discovered that no one truly controlled the city’s crime. There were gangs, but there was no single boss, as San Francisco had with Ruef. Vigilante justice was common in Los Angeles. Frequently, if one was caught in the commission of a crime, many citizens didn’t bother with the formalities of drafting a jury and holding a trial. Justice was dealt on the spot, which meant the culprit was either shot or hung. Doyle enjoyed the warmer climate and knew he had to find another line of work. Doyle tended bar and worked as a laborer and a surveyor’s assistant. While working for the surveyor, he found out about Mulholland’s Folly, as some had

come to call it. The chief planned to build an aqueduct from the Sierra Nevada Mountains all the way to Los Angeles, a distance of 233 miles. Doyle signed on. He had been digging tunnels ever since. Some men only lasted a few months working underground. The darkness and closed-in area got to them. Doyle didn’t mind trading work in the sun for digging tunnels. Outside, the men labored in triple-digit temperatures daily. The tunnels stayed a cool sixty degrees. Sure, there was frequently water to contend with in the tunnels, but that was an easy trade-off. Being occasionally soaked was far preferable to having the heat beat him down daily. Doyle ate, slept, and worked in the tunnels. He only came out when they were setting off dynamite or on Saturday nights, when the crews were paid. Doyle didn’t gamble. He could easily have taken many of his coworkers at cards, but that might have gotten him dead. He knew a worker clipped on a Saturday might be inclined to turn a blind eye when a cave-in occurred or someone was lighting a fuse. There were regular minor disruptions with rocks coming down. Doyle dug tunnels and kept to himself. Tunneling paid twenty cents more an hour. That was eight dollars more each week than the poor suckers breaking their backs in the blazing heat received. Doyle saved his earnings. He planned to open a proper saloon with a bandstand once the job was completed. Now he was sitting in a dark tunnel with one end caved in. Another crew was digging out the opposite end. They had started some ten miles on the other side of the mountain. Doyle had no idea how far they had come, but knew they wouldn’t break through before he ran out of air or died of starvation. Lewis Gray, the foreman, raced over to the superintendent’s tent. A white Packard was parked outside. A well-dressed black man wearing a white Panama hat sat in the driver’s seat, smoking a cigarette. He seemed oblivious to the heat. The foreman burst inside the tent. Superintendent Joel Tilden was talking to an elderly man. The man wore a gray Stetson and a black suit and packed a Colt on his hip. A boy in his teens stood near the elderly man. The teenager bore a resemblance to the older man. “There’s been a cave-in,” Gray announced, out of breath. Tilden jumped up. “How many men were injured?”

“No injuries. Two that I know of were killed, Eddie Rochford and Emile Cantral. A Chink was crushed too. Everyone else got out okay, except Danny Doyle, sir. He was on the other side of the cave-in.” The superintendent glanced at the elderly gentleman. “If you will excuse me, Mr. McGuire.” “Certainly. My car is at your disposal to take any wounded men to the hospital,” said Sean McGuire. “Thank you, but I hope that won’t be necessary. We have our own ambulance.” Tilden turned to his foreman. “What happened?” “Looks like water loosened some of the braces. We’ve got to be careful so more rocks aren’t loosened. We can pump out what’s there, seal it, and clear the debris.” “How long?” Gray tugged on his ear. “Hard to say. A day, maybe two if we’re lucky.” “Do you think Doyle is alive?” Gray glanced down at his dusty boots and then looked Tilden in the eye. “I have nothing to offer as evidence he is, but Danny was right quick. If he heard the call, he jumped. I do know you don’t leave a man buried if there’s a chance he’s alive.” Tilden was silent for a moment. He finally nodded. “Get your crew going, Mr. Gray.” The foreman raced out of the tent. “I’ll let you get back to work,” said Sean. “Sounds like you have a job on your hands.” “Thank you. The chief sure isn’t going to be happy when he hears we stopped progress on the tunnel.” The two men shook hands.

Sean and Michael exited the tent. The driver stood with the door open for them. “Thank you, Marcellus. If you don’t mind, I’ll ride up front with you for a way,” said Sean. Michael climbed into the backseat. Marcellus Dunning closed the door and got in on the driver’s side. Sean took a seat on the enger side. Marcellus started the car, and the Packard roared out of the camp. “You think they gonna rescue that man?” Marcellus asked when they had gone a few miles down the road. Sean pushed his Stetson back. “I don’t know. I’m glad we came out here to see Mr. Mulholland’s aqueduct.” “You think they’re really going finish it?” asked Michael. “Yes, I do believe that Mr. Mulholland will bring the water to Los Angeles.” They rode on in silence for a while. “It will be nice to get home,” Sean said finally. Michael leaned forward and looked at Sean. “Grandfather, what will happen to the man trapped in the cave?” “Hopefully they will be able to dig him out.” “They dug plenty people out after the quake,” said Marcellus. “What was it like during the quake?” Michael asked. “It was like hell opened up the earth,” said Marcellus. “Were you afraid?” asked Michael. Marcellus thought for a moment. “Yes, I was. I was scared right down to my bones.”

20

The Assault

Marcellus’s left hand danced across the keys, playing chords. His right fingered the ivories tentatively, playing a swinging groove. The damage to his hand prevented him from playing with the smooth style he once had. It didn’t matter; he switched his style. Timing was everything, and no one knew that better than Marcellus. Eighty percent of San Francisco had been destroyed in the quake. Bessie’s hadn’t survived. Marcellus lived a hand-to-mouth existence in an Oakland camp city for a while. He eventually left the city and drifted south. He picked produce in the valley, but that was backbreaking work. Musicians on the whole tended to shy away from heavy manual labor. Marcellus was no different. He played jukes and blind pigs that had pianos, but the pay was poor. Many cribs didn’t have a piano. Guitar players were becoming the thing. The music was changing. Marcellus eventually left the valley and traveled down to Los Angeles. Three days before Marcellus arrived in the city, Sean purchased his first automobile and promptly ran it into a tree. The collision broke his foot, did severe damage to the car, and left the tree mostly unscathed. When Marcellus presented himself, Sean hired him on the spot as his driver. It didn’t matter that Marcellus had never driven a car before. He could learn. Jenny refused to allow her father behind the wheel. Sean knew he was getting too old to ride a horse. It was getting dangerous with the proliferation of automobiles now on the road. Sean was determined not to spend the rest of his days sitting on the porch, whittling wood. Marcellus learned to drive quickly. He lived in the apartment above the garage that housed the Packard. Sean McGuire proved to be a better employer than Marcellus had believed possible. Sean paid him a good salary, plus his lodging and meals. Marcellus drove Sean during the day. His nights were mostly free. On Thursday nights, Marcellus liked to go down to Central Avenue, an area of the

city where many black folks were moving. Nat Birdwell ran a blind pig on Eighty-Ninth Street. On Thursday nights, Birdwell barbecued chicken on a grill behind the club. Musicians came and jammed. It wasn’t that difficult to get down to Birdwell’s, but getting home after midnight presented a problem for Marcellus. When Sean discovered that the reason his driver was always sleepy on Fridays was because he walked most of the way back to Beverly Hills, he allowed Marcellus to drive the Packard. Birdwell’s was packed that evening. Besides Marcellus playing an old upright, Little Willie Brown, a 240-pound, six-foot giant, plucked the strings on his bass fiddle and laid down a heavy bottom. Elmore Taylor played a mean blues on his guitar. Outside, the scent of orange blossoms filled the warm night air. Inside, Birdwell’s was a den of raucous music, drinking, and sweaty bodies bumping and grinding to the beat of the music. Blues was easier to play for Marcellus. His right hand didn’t have to work as hard as it did when he played rags. He could play slow, and the crowd loved it. He kept his business to himself. He didn’t tell anyone where he lived or what he did for a living. He would park the Packard in a lot three blocks away and walk to Birdwell’s. He always left before the party petered out, usually when the other players were getting the folks dancing. It earned him the nickname Ghost. Marcellus slipped out that evening, just as he had done nearly every week. Pinetop Johnson was playing the keys when Marcellus stepped outside for a smoke. It was an up-tempo number about a gambler named Stack-O-Lee. Before he finished his cigarette, Marcellus was gone. He walked to the lot where he’d left the Packard, got in, and pulled out onto the street. Marcellus drove up Avalon Boulevard. It was mostly an open area with small farms and chicken ranches. Just before he reached Jefferson Boulevard, a group of white men blocked the road with a wagon. Marcellus slowed the car but did not cut the engine. “What you doin’ out this late, boy?” asked the man who appeared to be the leader of the half dozen men. He was middle-aged, had graying hair, and wore bib overalls and a straw hat. “Maybe you should ask the nigger where he got a car like that, Ray,” said a thin man with a receding hairline.

The other men laughed. Ray gave the driver and the vehicle the once-over. “Where you get this car, nigger?” Marcellus remained silent. Ray produced a gun. “Are you gonna answer me, boy, or should we just shoot you for being an uppity nigger?” “The car belongs to my employer,” Marcellus replied. Ray grabbed Marcellus and, with the aid of two other men, pulled him out of the vehicle. “You tell your boss he shouldn’t be letting niggers drive such a fine automobile. You tell him that niggers shouldn’t be on the streets at night. We’ve got womenfolk, and it ain’t safe with you niggers driving around at all hours of the night.” “My employer is Sean McGuire,” Marcellus said. That information had no effect on the men. Ray fixed Marcellus with a mean look. “I don’t give a damn if you work for Jesus Christ himself, boy. We don’t want niggers on our streets after sunset. Understand?” “Yes.” “Yes, sir!” “Yes, sir.” Ray kicked Marcellus in the rear, causing him to fall to his knees. The other peckerwoods laughed. A short man with narrow eyes walked up and coldcocked the musician, knocking him to the ground again. The men laughed louder. “Go on. Get outta here, nigger, before I send Donnie to fetch some rope and we hang your black ass.” Marcellus knew he was out numbered. It would have been futile to fight. He

stood up. His cheek was swollen from the punch. He brushed himself off and walked away. The laughter and jeers from the white men grew fainter as he continued down the street.

21

Eggs and Chickens

The crew broke through the rock and reached Danny Doyle late that evening. There was more water in the tunnel than expected, and the work was slow. The crew was able to insert a tube through which Doyle could get fresh air. They were also able to feed him by rolling hard-boiled eggs down the tube. Joel Tilden drove to Los Angeles and informed the chief that it would probably take another two days to get Doyle out and back on schedule. The chief was not pleased. Mulholland looked at the superintendent and said, “Three days? Is this Doyle being carried on the payroll as an active worker?” “Well, yes, sir. It wasn’t his fault there was a cave-in. Doyle is a good worker. He’s been with us for over a year now,” Tilden replied. The chief was silent for a moment. “And you’ve been able to feed him by rolling eggs down a tube?” “Yes, sir.” “Are you deducting his meals from his salary?” Joel Tilden wasn’t sure if the chief was serious or not. He mumbled a response then quietly excused himself from Mulholland’s office. He exited the building, got in his car and drove back to the site. By the time he arrived the crew had dug a hole large enough to retrieve Danny Doyle. The foreman was glad to see Doyle had made it out alive and uninjured. He gave Doyle a day off to recover and put the crew immediately back to work. There was a schedule to keep.

***

The following morning, Sean McGuire read the story about Doyle’s rescue in the Tribune. Michael sat across the table from him. He had just finished reading an Examiner piece about the California Development Agency purchasing more land in the San Fernando Valley. The Hearst newspaper had recently gone on the attack against Mulholland’s aqueduct and the oligarchy that ed the project. Sean had hired a full-time cook once Michael moved to the house. Maria Padilla was a lean woman in her forties with no family. She fit right into the household. Maria brought out a tray with a glass of juice, a pot of coffee, and a basket of biscuits, all of which she set in front of Michael. “Thanks, Maria,” said Michael. She refilled Sean’s cup with coffee, set the pot down, and disappeared back into the kitchen. Michael downed his orange juice in a single gulp. He took a biscuit and buttered it. The young boy enjoyed breakfast with his grandfather. It was a special time of the day when the two of them were alone. Afterward, Sean would head off to the office and Michael would go to school. “Grandfather, if you hate Otis Grayson so much, how come you read his paper?” Sean looked up from the newspaper and fixed his grandson with a serious look. “To know what the enemy is thinking.” Michael took a bite of the biscuit. “Oh.” William McGrath entered the dining room. He walked over to Sean and whispered something to him. “Really?” Sean asked. McGrath nodded and whispered something else to the older man. Sean tossed the newspaper onto the table and frowned. “That is unacceptable.”

“What is unacceptable, Grandpa?” Michael asked. “Apparently, Marcellus is missing, and so is the Packard.” “What happened?” Sean stood up. “That is exactly what I intend to find out.” He shot his grandson a look. “Michael, come along. This will be educational, I am certain.” Michael downed a cup of coffee and grabbed another biscuit as he hurried to follow Sean and McGrath, who were already walking out the door. “Red Cranston called. He spotted the car on his way to work this morning,” said McGrath as he climbed in on the driver’s side of the Garford Six-Fifty. Sean got in on the other side, and Michael scrambled into the back. The car sped out of the long drive and onto the dirt road, heading east. “Do you know where Marcellus is?” Sean asked. “No, but I’ve a good idea where he might be,” McGrath replied. Sean took out his Colt, inspected the weapon, and then slipped it back into its holster. Michael leaned forward. “What are you going to do, Grandfather?” Sean turned to his grandson. “I would think that was obvious. We are going to retrieve my motorcar.” “Did somebody steal it?” Michael asked. “That is to be discovered.” “Why do you always carry a gun? Plenty of folks don’t wear guns.” Sean shot Michael a cold stare. “I’m not plenty of folks, Michael. Better to have a weapon and not need it than to find a feller pointing a pistol at you, and all you’ve got is your pecker in your hand.” McGrath kept a steady speed of thirty miles. He turned down Avalon Boulevard.

“There it is up ahead,” said McGrath. Sean turned to Michael. “Stay in the car, and say nothing.” “What should I do then?” “Watch and learn.” The Packard sat in an open field. Someone had painted “Nigger Car” on the windshield. McGrath slowed the Garford and stopped near the vandalized Packard. The two men got out and inspected the car. The roof was slashed. A single bullet had totaled the radiator. A large mound of feces sat on the driver’s seat. The short man who had coldcocked Marcellus bounded up with a smile on his face. One of the other peckerwoods from the previous evening followed him. “This your vehicle?” asked the short man. Sean looked at the man. “You are?” The short man looked Sean in the eye. “Donnie Holbrook.” He thrust a thumb at the man next to him. “This here is Warren Jenkins. We belong to the South City Vigilance Committee. A nigger drove that vehicle through our neighborhood last night.” “Where is this man?” Sean asked in a quiet tone of voice. The two peckerwoods grinned. “Hell, if I know,” said Holbrook. “That boy just up and left a perfectly fine automobile. Can’t trust a coon to do anything.” Like a cobra striking, Sean’s arm flashed out, grabbed Holbrook by the neck, and slammed his face into the pile of feces. Jenkins took a step. McGrath had his hand on his gun and gave the man a mean look. Jenkins stopped and held up his arms in surrender. “Now, I know you aren’t the leader of this bunch of idiots,” Sean said quietly. “Give me the name of the man who led this escapade, and I promise not to make you eat this turd.”

Holbrook resisted. Sean shoved the man’s face harder into the excrement. “It was Ray Wilkes. He owns the chicken ranch two blocks down,” said Holbrook. Sean released his grip. “See? That wasn’t hard.” He removed a handkerchief, wiped his gloved hand, and dropped the handkerchief onto the ground. “I’m sending a man to pick up this car. When he arrives, the seat and windshield had better be clean.” Holbrook picked up the handkerchief and wiped his face. “Understand?” Sean said. The two peckerwoods nodded. Without another word, Sean and McGrath got back into the Garford and drove off. “That was incredible, Grandfather!” Michael exclaimed as they headed down the street. Sean fixed his grandson with a cool look. “A group of yahoos vandalized my car. That is not something I find incredible.” “I meant the way you handled that man when he sassed you,” Michael said, trying to make amends. “Never curse a man or put your hands on him, Michael. Do not allow anyone to do so to you. If they do, you’d best be ready to respond decisively.” “Marcellus has a girlfriend named Nadine Lyons. Lives near Chinatown,” said McGrath. “Let’s try there then,” said Sean. Nadine Lyons lived in ramshackle clapboard that hadn’t seen a coat of paint since Grant was president. McGrath parked the car, and the two men got out. Sean turned to his grandson. “Michael, come along.”

Michael jumped out of the car and followed the two men. They walked up to the house, and Sean knocked on the door. A woman came to the door. She wore a dark blue kimono and had a white orchid in her hair. Her skin was the color of coffee. She looked to be in her twenties but had the eyes of a woman who had experienced much hardship and sadness. “You must be Mr. McGuire,” said the woman. “Miss Lyons?” said Sean. The woman smiled, showing a set of beautiful teeth. “Ain’t been a miss in years. You can call me Nadine.” She opened the door for the men. “Marcellus is inside.” The men entered the house. The outside of the house was in dire need of attention, but the inside was neat and spotless. Marcellus walked out from the kitchen. Sean did not miss his swollen face. “What happened, Marcellus?” Sean asked. The piano player’s eyes shed tears. “Some white boys blocked the street. They beat me and forced me to leave the car. They was gonna lynch me. I’m sorry ’bout your car, but what you ’spect me to do?” Sean looked Marcellus in the eye. “I expect you to come to me, not run to this woman and make me go looking for you. I realize now that this was my fault. Allowing you to have the use of my car put you in jeopardy. That makes me vulnerable. That is an untenable position for me to be in.” Sean glanced at McGrath. The fixer pulled out a wallet, counted out $500, and laid the money on the table. “I will have your things sent here,” said Sean. Sean tipped his hat to Nadine and marched out of the house. McGrath and Michael followed. Marcellus stared at the money. It took him a moment to realize he had just been fired. Marcellus bounded out the door and down the porch in pursuit of his employer. “Wait a minute, Mr. McGuire! I ain’t done nothin’ wrong, and you firing me?”

Marcellus clamped a hand on Sean’s shoulder. Sean turned quickly. A Colt appeared in his hand seemingly out of thin air. Marcellus’s hand fell away. “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong.” Sean holstered the gun. “No, you didn’t, but the fact remains that I can no longer afford to have you in my employ.” Marcellus frowned. “What about those men that beat me up?” Sean pushed his Stetson back. “What about them?” “They the ones that started all this.” “Yes, they did. It is an unfortunate business all the way around.” Sean turned, marched to the Garford, and got in the car. Marcellus started toward him. McGrath gave the black man a cold look, easing his coat back to reveal the Remington in its holster. Marcellus stopped. Michael scrambled into the car. McGrath slipped behind the wheel and started the engine. Marcellus stood on the sidewalk and watched as the automobile disappeared down the street. “That wasn’t fair,” said Michael. Sean shot his grandson a cold look. “Life isn’t fair.” The three men rode in silence. Two days later, Ray Wilkes was found naked and tied to a tree on his property. The letters KKK were carved on his chest. An entire chicken coop and its inhabitants had been burned to the ground. When the police investigated the incident, Wilkes’s only of the event was that he had been drinking at home, had ed out, and didn’t know anything else about the matter. Wilkes sold his farm soon after and moved south to Lakeside, a small rural community east of San Diego.

22

The Proposition

Danny Doyle waited in Sean McGuire’s living room. The house was posh but nothing like the ones Doyle had been in when working the trade. Those Victorian behemoths shouted wealth and were garish in decoration. This was understated elegance. Doyle noticed an automaton sitting on a table. He walked over and gazed at the toy. It was a mechanical man playing a cups-and-ball monte game. Doyle smiled. He had often resorted to that very game as a means to raise quick cash. “That is my grandson’s,” Sean said, entering the room. Doyle turned. Sean gestured to a chair. “Please have a seat, Mr. Doyle.” Doyle sat down. Sean took a seat on the green velvet sofa across from him. “You are probably wondering why I asked you here today,” said Sean. “Yes, sir.” “I need a driver.” “Might I ask what happened to your previous driver?” Doyle asked. Sean kept a blank expression. He liked the man’s directness. “Unfortunately, I was forced to let the man go. He put me in a position of vulnerability. That is something I cannot afford.” “I see.” “What did the men at the camp tell you about me? What did Mr. Tilden tell

you?” Sean asked. Doyle looked down at the floor for a moment and then met Sean’s gaze. “Mr. Tilden told me you are one of the few honest men he ever met. He also said that your honesty cost you some over the years. The guys at the camp …” Doyle grinned and rubbed the back of his neck. “The fellas at the camp love telling tales, Mr. McGuire, and I’m sure you’ve already heard them. Might I ask what the job pays?” “I haven’t offered you the job yet. I know you’ve worked for the DWP for the last eighteen months. I know you were originally from San Francisco. What did you do there?” “I was in the business of acquiring various goods and liquidating them.” “The earthquake didn’t allow for a return to your previous profession?” Doyle nodded. “I lost everything in the great fire, like many others. I believed it was best to find another trade.” Sean gave Doyle a knowing look. “A wise decision, Mr. Doyle. The job pays forty dollars a week, plus lodging and meals. Your apartment is over the garage. You have Sundays and Mondays off. The duties would entail driving me to my office and around town. Are you interested?” Danny Doyle didn’t hesitate. McGuire had just offered him nearly three times what he was making as a digger. He stood up and extended his hand. The two men shook. Sean took out a roll of money and counted off three bills. “Get yourself a decent suit. You might try Solomon’s on Fifth Avenue. You can start tomorrow.” Doyle smiled and tipped his hat. “Thank you, sir.” Sean fixed Doyle with a hard look. “Don’t disappoint me, Mr. Doyle. If you do that, I will cut off your bullocks and feed them to you.” “I’ll not disappoint you, sir,” Doyle replied, and he walked out of the room.

23

The Party

Joseph Royal set up his four-by-five view camera. He popped his head under the cape and looked at the image. He came out from under the cape and looked at Jenny, who stood nearby. “The light is good. We should take the photo now,” said Jacob. They were standing in the courtyard of the adobe at the Oso Negro. “Let me get my father,” Jenny replied, and she left the photographer in search of Sean. There were dozens of people at the ranch. It was Sean’s birthday. Sean wasn’t overly pleased that his daughter had arranged the shindig, as he called it. He had ed another year and didn’t need to be reminded of the fact. Jenny had done a fine job. Colorful streamers hung around the courtyard. The tables all had red, white, and blue bunting. A mariachi group serenaded the guests. She and Olivia had been preparing for the party for weeks. Jenny grabbed Emily, her three-year-old daughter, as Emily raced by squealing with joy. She bent down and smoothed the little girl’s dress. “Emily, you must stay clean, at least until we get Grandpa’s photograph taken.” The girl glanced at the ground. “Yes, Mother,” she replied in a bored tone of voice. Jenny put her finger under Emily’s chin, brought her head up, and arranged her hair. “There. Now you look like the perfect young lady.” Emily frowned. “I don’t want to be a perfect young lady.”

“She does have a mind of her own,” said a man. Jenny turned. A well-dressed man in a navy-blue suit smiled. He had a devilmay-care air about him. He tipped his hat and extended his hand. “I’m James Doyle, your father’s driver.” Jenny smiled and shook Doyle’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Doyle. Aren’t you the one who was trapped in the tunnel?” Doyle flashed a grin. “Guilty, ma’am.” Jenny gazed about at the groups of guests, her eyes searching for her father. Realizing she wasn’t paying attention, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m looking for my father. The photographer wants to take his picture.” Doyle’s eyes ran across the guests. He turned to Jenny, shrugged, and chuckled. “I know he is here. I brought him.” “I know where Grandpa is,” said Emily. “Where?” The little girl pointed a chubby finger toward the big tree and creek that sat some fifty yards behind the adobe. Jenny brushed a lock of hair back. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Doyle. It was nice meeting you.” Doyle tipped his hat again. “Likewise, ma’am.” Jenny took Emily by the hand. “Come along.” The mother and daughter headed off toward the creek. Sean was sitting on a wooden kitchen chair in front of his wife’s gravestone. Emily dashed ahead of her mother and ran up to Sean. “Oh, my dear!” Sean exclaimed, picking up the little girl and giving her a hug. Emily giggled and then looked at Sean with serious eyes. “Why are you here,

Grandpa? Don’t you want to go to your birthday party?” “Grandpa needed some time with Grandma,” Sean replied. The little girl looked at Kathleen McGuire’s headstone. “Grandma died on Mama’s birthday.” Jenny put her hand on Sean’s shoulder. “Yes, she did.” “Grandma’s old,” said Emily. Sean arched an eyebrow. “Out of the mouths of babes.” Jenny smiled. “Emily, why don’t you go see if John Bear and Angelina are here yet?” John Bear was the son of Falcon, the Luiseño who had scouted for Sean when he brought his first herd from Texas to California. Falcon had been killed on the drive by a crazed half-breed. John Bear grew up on the Oso Negro. His mother, Running Dear, was buried in the McGuire family plot alongside Kathleen and Sean’s uncle Patrick. Emily raced off. “Emily!” said Jenny in a stern voice. The little girl froze. “Ladylike, Emily.” The little girl frowned as she walked back toward the adobe. Jenny put her arms around her father. “How are you doing?” Sean gave his daughter a quizzical look. “What kind of a question is that?” “You don’t seem to be enjoying your party.” “I’m fine. I just miss your mother.” Sean looked at Jenny. “Are you happy?” The question caught Jenny off guard. She was silent for a moment. “I guess.”

“You guess?” “Well, yes, I suppose I am happy.” Sean held his daughter’s hand and looked her in the eye. “Suppose, that doesn’t sound promising. Does your husband beat you?” “No, Ward would never do anything like that.” “Does he have other women?” Jenny frowned. “No.” “Jenny, dear, I know I’m to blame for involving you with that Consolidated business back then. I just want you to be happy and would do whatever it took to make it so.” “I’m happy, Da.” Sean stood up and hugged his daughter. “Your mother would be so proud of you.” Jenny fought back tears and smiled. “The photographer wants to take the picture. He said the light is perfect.” Sean looked up toward the adobe and then set his gaze on Jenny. “The light is perfect. Let’s go see this photographer of yours.”

***

William McGrath drove the Garford Six-Fifty down a dusty, sand-blown road. Michael was riding shotgun. Sean had tasked them that morning with the mission of rousting Roy Gifford, the former agent for Consolidated Oil. Gifford had returned to California, and one of Walter Sing’s men had seen him in town. Walter reported the matter to Sean. Both men knew Gifford’s presence was a threat. Sean immediately offered to deal with the matter since it was his oil

property Gifford had come after as an agent for Consolidated. McGrath had located where Gifford was now living. The former hired gun was staying in a run-down cabin near Lake Arrowhead. Sean sent Michael and McGrath to deal with Roy Gifford. There were no specifics in Sean’s orders; he just told them to deal with the man. Michael asked his grandfather, “Is this the man who threatened Aunt Jenny and was going to kill you?” As a boy, he had heard Sean discuss the incident with McGrath. It had been Gifford who had given Michael the card and message to deliver to Sean. “Yes,” Sean replied. Michael picked up his hat and walked out of the house. Sean looked at McGrath. “See that no harm comes to Michael.” McGrath gave a nod and marched out of the room. Michael didn’t say much on the drive to the lake. He checked his Colt. Satisfied, he pulled his hat down, sat back in his seat, and relaxed. McGrath was taciturn by nature, so the trip was spent in silence. Sean had introduced Michael to the finer points of exacting justice with Ray Wilkes, the man who had beaten Marcellus. Michael had stood guard while Sean and McGrath dealt with Wilkes and his chickens. When he wasn’t in school, Michael now accompanied McGrath on his daily rounds to make collections. By the time the Standard Oil deal was finalized, the lawyers had done their work: John D.’s company owned 85 percent of Shamrock Oil. COPA fell apart as the independents quarreled with each other. That was the exact outcome the oligarchy had hoped for. Rockefeller’s and Bard’s combined trusts now controlled the majority of California oil. The Oso Negro was paying for itself, but the margin was slim. Sean was forced to sell off property to make up for the lost income. He had to find a new source of revenue quickly. The banks were tightening their loan policies. Sean put his money out on the street. If the banks wouldn’t loan a citizen money, Sean McGuire was happy to do so at 10 percent, compounded weekly. He and Walter Sing were silent partners in a Chinatown mahjong gambling hall. Sean’s

premiere club was the Continental, a posh restaurant that boasted both French and Chinese chefs and a private casino in the rear of the establishment. If companies could bend laws to take over independent businesses, then Sean would bend the law as well. McGuire Enterprises now operated in a nether world, not necessarily criminal, yet not what polite society recognized as legitimate. Michael accompanied McGrath when he made his collections from the gambling halls and marks. Sean was grooming him to take over the business. When Michael accompanied McGrath, he rarely said anything, preferring to observe how McGrath interacted with those who owed Sean. With some, McGrath was lenient, only issuing a stern warning. He would break the legs or hands of others in order to ensure payment was met. McGrath told Michael, “You only want to do what is necessary for the mark to pay. You never want to kill a mark. It is a sign of weakness, and a dead man will never be able to pay back the money he owes.” Michael took it all in. Olivia initially voiced concerns over Michael’s steady involvement with McGrath. Sean turned a deaf ear to his daughter-in-law’s concerns. There was no one else in the family to handle the business. Jenny had retreated to the Oso Negro and was married and the mother of a young girl. Michael was the sole heir. Sean pointed that fact out to Olivia. She agreed to allow Michael to continue his education of the family business, as the patriarch referred to the matter. Olivia was willfully ignorant of the family business. She had chosen that path ever since Thomas became embroiled in an oil scam that ended with his being murdered. Olivia had the house to keep her busy, and she was content with that. McGrath slowed the car. Gifford’s cabin was half a mile up ahead. Michael looked at the older man. “Why’d you stop here?” “I thought surprise would work in our favor.” Michael kept a stone-faced expression. “Drive up to the cabin.” McGrath shrugged, put the engine in gear, and drove right up to Roy Gifford’s cabin. Michael was out of the car before McGrath cut the engine. “Roy Gifford,” Michael shouted.

The crack of a rifle sounded. A shot whizzed by Michael, missing him by a whisker. Michael pulled his Colt and rushed into the cabin. McGrath was caught off guard by Michael’s quick action. He jumped from the car with his Remington in hand. There were two shots, followed by silence. McGrath stood stone still with his gun ready. Roy Gifford appeared in the doorway. He had his rifle. McGrath aimed his Remington. Gifford pitched forward face-first and hit the ground hard. He didn’t move. A moment later, Michael emerged from the cabin. He looked down at the body and then up at McGrath. “He shouldn’t have threatened the family.” McGrath holstered his gun, walked over to Michael, and patted him on the shoulder. They loaded the body into the car and drove to the lake. They wrapped a heavy chain around the body for weight and dumped the dead gunman in the water. Michael’s eyes scoured the area for any witnesses. Satisfied, he and McGrath got back in the Garford Six-Fifty and drove down the mountain.

***

The family were gathered for the group photograph. They were situated in front of the large magnolia tree that sat in the middle of the courtyard. Kathleen had planted the tree the year after her arrival from Ireland as Sean’s bride. Jenny tried to calm a fidgety Emily. Ward Howard shifted his weight, uncomfortable in his dress suit and tie. John Bear; his wife, Angelina; and their son, Samuel, and daughter, Helen, sat quietly in their chairs. Olivia sat next to them. Michael was conspicuously missing. “Michael is not here. We’ll wait,” said Sean. Howard gave a sigh of relief. Jenny frowned and kept a tight hold on Emily, who

was threatening to run off. John Bear and his family sat silently. Joseph Royal threw his hands up in frustration. “The sun—it is good now.” Sean looked at the photographer. “We’ll wait.” “Can we at least take your photograph, Mr. McGuire?” asked Joseph, trying not to be frustrated. Sean gave the photographer a quizzical look. “What on earth for?” “Father, please don’t be so difficult,” said Jenny. She turned to the photographer. “Mr. Royal, please excuse my father. He believes since it is his birthday, we must indulge him.” Joseph Royal hid a smile that threatened to creep across his lips. Sean shook his head in frustration. “Where would you like me to stand?” Joseph immediately jumped under the cape. “A bit to the left, please.” Sean took a step to his left. “I’m sorry—two steps to your right,” said Joseph, still under the camera’s cloak. Sean did as he was instructed. “Perfect.” Joseph came from under the cape. “Don’t move.” The photographer squeezed the shutter release. “Fine. Thank you, Mr. McGuire.” Sean took a cigar from his pocket. He bit the tip and spit it out onto the ground. He retrieved a match from another pocket, struck it on the seat of his pants, and lit the cigar. “The sooner your grandson arrives the better. We are losing the sun,” said Joseph. Sean tossed the match to the ground and put it out with the toe of his black boot. He drew hard on the cigar and exhaled a ring of smoke. “The sun will wait,” he said, and he marched away.

***

Hadley Cobbs-Morrison stepped out of a cream-colored Chrysler. She took off her duster, tossed it onto the seat, and adjusted her hat. She was followed by her husband, Charles Morrison, a man in his forties. He wore a duster and a straw boater. Charles removed his duster and tossed it into the backseat. He brushed the sleeves of his tailored brown suit and adjusted his hat. They had driven up from San Diego. “Do I look presentable, dear?” Charles asked his wife. Hadley centered her husband’s tie and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You look every inch a marine biologist and gentleman, Charles.” “I wouldn’t want to disappoint your friend, Mr. McGuire. He’s quite the legend, my students tell me. Did he actually kill a bear with nothing more than a hunting knife?” Hadley smiled. “I believe that is a bit of an exaggeration.” Charles sighed, relieved. “He killed the bear with a single shot from a rifle,” said Hadley. “Oh.” Hadley gave Charles a pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Charlie. Sean only kills and eats rattlesnakes on Thursdays.” Charles realized Hadley was teasing him and chuckled. “Well, I’m certainly looking forward to meeting a living legend.” Hadley took her husband’s arm and whispered, “I’d take it easy on the ‘living legend’ business.” Charles nodded in understanding.

Jenny spotted Hadley walking toward the adobe and ran to her. The women hugged gleefully. “I’m so glad you came, Hadley.” “Jenny, this is my husband, Charles. Charlie, this is Jenny Reynolds.” “Jenny Howard now; my first husband died in Cuba. I’ve remarried.” “I’m sorry,” said Hadley. “It has been a while.” “Fifteen years,” said Jenny. “Mommy, look what I found!” exclaimed Emily as she dashed up to her mother, holding a frog in her hand. Her dress was soiled along the hem. “My goodness, who is this?” asked Hadley. “Emily, this is Hadley—” “Morrison.” “This is Hadley and her husband, Charles. Hadley’s daddy was a very good friend of Grandpa’s. He helped Grandpa build this ranch.” Emily shook Hadley’s hand. “My daddy is the boss of the ranch.” “I bet he’s a good boss too,” said Hadley. Emily nodded and ran off with her frog in tow. “She’s beautiful, Jenny.” Jenny smiled. “Thank you.” “The place looks better than ever,” said Hadley, iring the ranch. “Dad had the house redone shortly after you left.” There was an awkward silence.

“It was time for a change,” said Hadley. “Besides, if I hadn’t moved to La Mesa, I wouldn’t have met Charles.” Hadley put her arm through her husband’s. “Charlie is a marine biologist. He works at the Scripps Memorial Marine Biological Laboratory.” Jenny gave Charles a look. “Very impressive. Do you still have your ostriches?” “Oh yes. They were Daddy’s first love—after Mom, of course. I would never get rid of them,” Hadley replied. “I agree,” Charles said. “If it wasn’t for the ostriches, I never would have met Hadley.” Jenny smiled. “There’s a story.” “No story, just a stuffy old scientist who finally took the advice of his students and came out to see the ostrich lady and her birds,” Hadley kidded. Charles grinned and nodded. “She’s right. I spent days in the lab and tide pools. My students kept telling me about the woman who owned an ostrich farm. Finally, one Saturday, I took a drive out to see for myself.” Hadley gave her husband’s arm a squeeze. “Ten months later, we were married.” She saw the questioning look on Jenny’s face. “It was a private ceremony, just us and two witnesses. Your father was quite upset when I refused the Lincoln Park land, he traded to Otis Grayson for my Venice property. I do hope he has mellowed. It was John Bear who wrote me about the party. I hope you don’t mind a couple of crashers.” Jenny laughed. “Of course not. I should’ve been the one to invite you.” She took Hadley’s hand. “Come along. Father will be so pleased to see you.” As they walked to the adobe’s courtyard, Jenny leaned close to Hadley and whispered, “Your husband is very handsome.” Hadley laughed. “I think so too.”

***

William McGrath drove the car up the long drive leading to the adobe and parked away from where the other guests had left their cars and carriages. He looked at Michael. “You did well.” “Thank you.” “It was rash to charge in like that.” “He gave up his position when he shot wild,” said Michael. McGrath considered the young man’s words. “If you had gotten injured or worse, your grandfather would’ve raised hell.” Michael remained silent “Go change; you’ve got blood on your shirt,” said McGrath. Michael looked down. The front of his shirt was speckled with Gifford’s blood. He got out of the car and looked at McGrath. “I won’t fail my grandfather— ever.” McGrath gave a nod. He stepped out of the car and walked away. Michael dashed into the house and nearly collided with Olivia. “Oh, excuse me, Mother,” he said. Olivia saw the blood on her son’s shirt. She turned and silently retreated to the courtyard. Michael hurried into his old bedroom. He poured water from the pitcher into a china basin and washed his face. Michael dried his face with a towel and sat down on the bed. He was seventeen, and less than two hours ago, he killed his first man. Michael held out his hands. There wasn’t the slightest tremor. He stood up and looked in the mirror. “You can do this,” he said to his reflection.

***

William McGrath walked to the courtyard. Sean was talking to Hadley and her husband. McGrath entered the adobe, went directly to the library, and waited. A few minutes later, Sean came in and took a seat at his desk. “How did it go?” Sean asked. “Gifford no longer presents a problem,” McGrath replied. “Excellent. You did a good job, William.” “It was Michael who dispatched the bastard.” Sean was caught off guard and was silent for a moment. “What happened?” he finally asked. McGrath quickly related the events at the cabin. “How was Michael?” “Michael was as cool as December. Never saw anyone deal with a situation as calculated like he did. Didn’t say a word after. I’d hate to go up against him.” Coming from William McGrath, that statement carried a lot of weight. Sean nodded. “What is done is done.” There was a knock on the door, and Jenny entered. “Michael is here.” Sean stood. “It looks like I’m wanted for a photograph, William.” He and Jenny left the library.

***

William McGrath spotted Danny Doyle standing near the bar set up on the veranda. He knew Sean had hired the man as his driver but had not had the opportunity to talk to Doyle face-to-face. McGrath took out a cigar, bit the tip, and ambled up casually to Doyle. “Have a light?” McGrath asked. Doyle took out a silver cigarette lighter, struck it, and held it up for McGrath to light his cigar. Doyle snapped the lighter closed and held out his hand. “Danny Doyle.” McGrath shook the man’s hand. He drew on the cigar and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I’m aware of who you are, Mr. Doyle. You were lucky getting out of that tunnel. You were also very lucky in landing this job. You weren’t so lucky when you were with English Jack—or, I should say, English Jack was the unlucky fellow.” Doyle stiffened. He took a healthy shot of his whiskey and smiled at McGrath. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir.” McGrath narrowed his gaze on the driver. “I’m not sure what your game is, Doyle, but a word of advice: don’t try anything smart. Then you would have to deal with me.” Doyle adjusted his coat sleeves and looked McGrath in the eye. “Mr. McGrath, I am aware of who you are and the duties you perform for our mutual employer. Since you know my past, then you must also know I’ve never ratted out anyone and always played straight with those I did business with.” McGrath drew on the cigar and exhaled a perfect smoke ring. “That’s good for you. Keep it that way.” He looked at the bartender. “Water, please.”

***

The sun did not wait. By the time Michael ed his grandfather and the rest of the family, the light was no longer optimum in the courtyard. Joseph Royal was

forced to find a new location for the family portrait. The photographer was exasperated when he discovered the best light was now in front of the corral, where the cowboys were having a rodeo, riding broncs. That didn’t bother Sean. He led the group, which now numbered ten, over to the corral and set his chair down. The others took their place around Sean. Joseph swiftly positioned the camera in order to get the best shot. Dust was another issue as the cowboys continued to ride the broncos. Joseph ducked under the cape to check his shot. Satisfied, he stood up and looked at the group. “Hold it.” The photographer squeezed the rubber bulb to release the shutter. In the background, a rider cleared the saddle and was airborne at the decisive moment as the McGuire family looked straight ahead at the camera. It would go on to become one of Joseph Royal’s best-known photographs. After the picture was taken, Sean motioned to Michael. The young man followed his grandfather into the library. “I understand you shot Roy Gifford,” Sean said, taking a seat behind his desk. “Yes,” replied Michael. “Why didn’t you just run him off?” “He fired first. I responded.” Sean took a cigar from the humidor on his desk. He bit the tip, spit it into a waste basket, and lit the cigar. “Why didn’t you let William deal with Gifford?” Michael kept his grandfather’s gaze. “Mr. McGrath was driving the car. I was first out and had a better chance of getting Gifford. I wasn’t wrong.” “This time,” Sean replied, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “The first one through the door is frequently the first killed.” Michael sat mute, never faltering in his steely gaze upon his grandfather. “What is done is done,” said Sean. “Next time, do be more careful. I don’t want to have to tell your mother that her son has been injured or worse because of some rash decision. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“I only want to prove that you can always depend on me to do what is best for the family. In this case, killing Gifford seemed the right thing to do,” Michael replied without hesitation. Sean allowed a smile to slip across his face. Michael was everything and more he wanted in a son. Sean knew that Michael would be more than capable of carrying on the family business and doing what had to be done. He exhaled a thick ring of smoke. “Yes, I won’t argue that. Just be careful.” “I will. Have you reached a decision about Eddie Woo?” Michael asked. Eddie Woo was the head of the Woo Tang tong. He had approached Walter Sing about importing cocaine. The sheriff was closing down the opium dens, and cocaine was quickly becoming the drug of choice. Employers gave it to their laborers in order to keep them working fourteen-hour days. A den and pallets weren’t required, as they were with opium smokers. “Why?” Sean asked. Michael shrugged. “Just curious. We are due to meet with Walter Sing later this week.” Sean nodded. “I am aware of the meeting. I haven’t made up my mind yet.” “I think this is something we should get in on,” said Michael. Sean laughed. “Killing a scoundrel doesn’t mean knowing how to run a business, especially one such as ours. Killing is easy. You just found that out. It is keeping the appearance of respectability that is difficult.” Michael frowned. “We are currently going through a phase of social reform,” said Sean. “What does that have to do with the deal with Eddie Woo?” “Everything and nothing,” Sean replied matter-of-factly. “The coppers are shutting down the opium cribs because the police chief is up for reelection, and the best way to show you’re tough on crime is to crack down on the dope cribs. You notice they aren’t shutting down the downtown joy-houses. Money lending

and gambling are clean vices. Nearly every man in this city is in need of cash, wants to get laid, and dreams about winning a big score at the faro table or horse track. Blacks, Chinese, and Mexicans gravitate toward drugs. White society folks don’t as a rule. If you want to appear respectable, you stay out of the drug business.” “So that means you aren’t going to take Eddie Woo’s deal?” Sean sat silently. He took a drag off his cigar and exhaled. “It means I am still weighing our options.” “But you just said—” “I said if you want to appear respectable, Michael. Listen and learn. The oligarchy has given us nothing. John D.’s lawyers treated us like a two-bit whore. What you must learn is how to maintain the appearance of respectability while doing what is best for the family.” “I understand.” Sean placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “I hope you do. It will be much harder for you than it was for me. Society has crept into our city. When that happens, it only means trouble for people like us.” There was a knock at the door. William McGrath entered. “Otis Grayson is dead.” “When?” asked Sean, not bothering to hide his surprise. “This morning. Rowdy Yates just rode in with the news from town,” McGrath replied. “Grayson dead,” said Sean quietly. Michael’s eyes flashed between the two men. “That’s good.” Sean frowned. “It is not good, Michael. Harry Chapman is twice the bastard the old man was.” He grabbed his hat. “Come on. We must pay our respects.”

Michael gave his grandfather a questioning look. “But you’ve always said Grayson was a thorn in the ass of humanity.” “This is what I was talking about, Michael. Maintaining the appearance of respectability, you do what is necessary for the family. Now, get your hat.” Sean placed his Stetson on his head and walked out of the library.

24

Death and a Deal

Otis Grayson’s death went unnoticed by most of the city’s population. The Tribune, of course, carried a banner headline—Founder Dead—along with a front-page article that stretched for three thousand words. The Examiner carried the news of Grayson’s death in its obituary column. The man had shaped the city of Los Angeles to his whims and financial gains for more than forty-three years. Grayson was a power-hungry man who wielded the power of the press like a deadly scythe. Los Angeles was no longer a pueblo town where most disputes were settled with a gun. The city might have sat in the shadow of San Francisco, but the Paris of the Pacific was still rebuilding from the devastating quake. Los Angeles now had over one hundred thousand residents. Tailors, teachers, tellers, conductors, merchants, and mechanics didn’t know of Otis Grayson. None gave a hoot that he’d died while choking on a chicken bone in the dining room of the newly opened Beverly Hills Hotel. They would never dine there. A few of the smaller newspapers ran articles with graphic descriptions of Grayson thrashing about and turning blue before expiring on the floor. Other than the Tribune, no newspaper carried coverage of Grayson’s funeral. The hyperbole employed by the Tribune reporter would have given a visitor to the city the impression that Grayson had not only run a newspaper but also single-handedly ended the Civil War, discovered gold, and invented the wheel. In the end, Otis Grayson was buried, and the city quickly moved on. Sean and Michael attended the funeral. It was a somber affair with the city and state’s oligarchy in attendance to mourn the man who’d hated unions, Chinese, Mexicans, Negroes, Italians and Irish. Sean and Michael did not attend the luncheon that followed. The McGuire family were outsiders. They were no longer part of the city’s society. Sean had too much blood on his hands, reaching back to the Chinese Massacre, when he’d gunned down two white men in the street. The fact that they had been about to lynch Sean’s close friend, Lee Sing

was of little importance to Grayson and the city’s Anglo elites. After they left the funeral, Sean and Michael went to meet with Eddie Woo. It was Doyle’s day off, so William McGrath drove them to the Golden Dragon. He pulled up and parked in front of the restaurant. “You want me to wait here?” McGrath asked. “Come with us,” Sean replied. The three men got out of the car and entered Walter Sing’s restaurant. Tony Chen was in the lobby and escorted them to Walter’s office on the second floor. Walter had left the office untouched since taking over for his father. Walter Sing bowed when he greeted the men, and he offered them tea. Sean and Michael accepted a cup out of courtesy. McGrath declined. They exchanged pleasantries. Walter wished Sean a belated happy birthday. Even though it was a new century, Chinese were not welcome at affairs whites attended. Sean would never have placed Walter in a situation in which he was made to feel like a servant or worse. Sean thanked his friend. A few moments later, Tony Chen escorted Eddie Woo into the room. Tony bowed and exited the room. Eddie bowed to the four men and took a seat. “I thank you for coming and hearing my proposal, Mr. McGuire,” said Eddie. Sean bowed his head. “I believe you know my grandson, Michael, and my associate William McGrath,” he said, gesturing to the two men. “I came out of respect to my friend, Walter Sing. His father was one of my most trusted friends.” “I am well aware of your friendship with the Sing family. That is why I am here.” Sean gestured for Eddie to continue. “As you must be well aware, the police are cracking down on the opium cribs. Cocaine is something that can be easily sold at your gambling establishments.” “It is only a matter of time before it will be illegal,” said Sean. “They’ve already

forced Pemberton to take it out of his Coca-Cola drink.” Eddie looked at Sean. “How long do you think the city fathers will allow your casino to operate?” Sean smiled. “Quite.” He looked at Michael. “What do you think?” Michael was caught off guard. He had not expected his grandfather to ask his opinion. “There is plenty of money to be made with the white powder. With that money, we can buy power, more judges, and politicians.” Sean turned to Eddie and asked, “What is your proposal?” “I require $50,000. I need a powerful man in the white world.” Sean scratched his jaw. “What is in it for me?” “You would get 30 percent. In the first year, you would double your money. And then it should go up.” “What do you think, Walter?” Sean asked. Walter Sing looked at his friend. “Opium is a thing of the past. Cocaine is now popular. I also believe the politicians will soon outlaw all drugs, even alcohol. White society will demand it.” Sean smiled. “If I know one thing about white society, and people in general, once you make something illegal, they want it even more.” He looked at McGrath. “William, what are your thoughts?” McGrath kept a blank expression. “There is more money in narcotics than in anything else. If we don’t get in on this, somebody else will—the Mexicans, the Jews. If they do, then they will have the power to come after us. We have gambling and money lending, but narcotics are the future.” “And if drugs and alcohol become illegal?” asked Walter. “We do what is necessary to protect our interests,” Sean coolly replied. Walter held up his hands in silent mock surrender.

Sean looked at Eddie. “Mr. Woo, I believe you have a deal.” Eddie grinned from ear to ear. He stood and extended his hand to Sean. The two men shook. “Welcome to the Woo Tang tong, Mr. McGuire.”

25

Danny Doyle

Danny Doyle had never seen a ranch until he came to the Oso Negro. He grew up reading dime novels about Wild Bill Hickok and Billy the Kid. English Jack had regaled him with tales about John Wesley Harding and a Spanish conquistador named Juan Diego De la Vega. According to English Jack, the conquistador went native and discovered a gold mine in the mountains somewhere east of Los Angeles. The Spanish slaughtered him and the tribe he was living with. Supposedly, a young warrior escaped and was the sole possessor of the mine’s location. English Jack believed that the warrior committed the location to a map before being captured and sent to a reservation. He sold the map to a ing miner for food. The miner came to San Francisco and lost the map in a card game. English Jack thought the map was still in the city somewhere. Danny Doyle didn’t put much stock in English Jack’s Indian map, but he sure enjoyed hearing the man tell the tale. English Jack’s eyes would light up when he speculated on where the map might be and what they would do when they got their hands on it and found the gold. Doyle always liked listening to English Jack’s yarns. Doyle grew up on the streets of San Francisco. He was orphaned when still a child. His father was a drunkard who beat Doyle’s mother and abandoned the family when Doyle was five. Two years later, his mother died of consumption. Doyle was placed in the San Francisco Orphan Asylum, which was run by the Sisters of Charity. The nuns operating the establishment were anything but charitable. The children got meat once a week, on Sundays. Generally, it was nothing more than boiled beef in a thin broth with a few limp carrots and onions. The rest of the week, the children were served a mush that wasn’t fit for a dog. The nuns punished the children severely. Doyle and the other boys were beaten regularly and made to kneel on gravel for penance. The nuns showed no favorites. They abused males and females alike. There were some six hundred

children housed in the asylum while Doyle was a resident. Doyle had an intuitive mind and quickly learned how best to avoid Sister Sally Francis, the heistress, when she was on the prowl. That didn’t save him from the regular beatings by the older boys. Doyle knew the only way to stop the abuse was to take down the leader, Gilford Worchowski. Doyle was a foot shorter and twenty pounds lighter than Worchowski. He had no intention of going toe to toe with his persecutor. Every Saturday, the inmates of the asylum were allowed to shower. After months of being Worchowski’s whipping boy, Doyle walked into the shower armed with two bars of soap stuffed in an old sock. While the lanky Polack lathered up, Doyle swung the sock and hit Worchowski square in the face, breaking his nose. Worchowski fell to the floor. A trail of blood flowed across the tile floor and down the drain in the center of the room. Doyle didn’t let up. He beat his tormentor in the ribs and the face and kicked him in the balls over and over. Worchowski lay in the fetal position, whimpering and crying. Doyle finally back off. He removed a bar of soap and washed himself up, keeping the second in the sock should it be required. The other boys stared in disbelief and left Doyle to his shower. No one picked on Danny Doyle after that. He had few friends, but that was fine. He figured it was better to be feared than to be some bully’s punk. At fourteen, Doyle was graduated from the asylum. The nuns gave him the boot and a dollar and told him to be sure to go to Mass. Doyle possessed no discernable skills beyond the ability to read and write. He did have a way with a deck of cards. He caught English Jack’s attention when he outsmarted a group of working stiffs with a three-card-monte game in front of Muldoon’s Saloon. English Jack took a liking to the bold boy. He brought Doyle back to his crib and began his education in the school of thievery. English Jack was dead now, and Danny Doyle was no longer in the life. He was the chauffeur for Sean McGuire. The irony of escaping the earthquake and a cave-in was not lost on Doyle. He wasn’t a religious man, but Doyle was sure he was on the path to something far greater than anything he could’ve ever imagined when he was lifting wallets from the swells slumming in the Barbary.

Doyle drove the Packard up the Oso Negro’s long drive and parked. He was shocked to see so little activity going on. There were no cowboys bulldogging cattle, riding broncos, or racing their horses. Doyle got out of the car. The adobe was quiet, so he decided to walk over to the corrals to see the horses. The only horses he had ever seen before were those pulling carriages of the wealthy or the carts of rag merchants. He had never seen a cow or steer before up close. “Hello,” said a woman’s voice. Doyle turned. Jenny stood by the barn. She was holding two large metal containers. She set one down and waved. “Mr. Doyle, what can I do for you?” Doyle hurried over to the barn. He removed his hat. “Good morning, Mrs. Howard.” “My father isn’t here, if you are looking for him.” Doyle shifted his feet nervously and grinned sheepishly. “I am aware of that, ma’am. It’s my day off, and I wanted to see your ranch.” Jenny smiled. “Well, here it is.” Doyle gave Jenny a questioning look. “It is so quiet. There are no cowboys tackling the cattle or riding wild horses.” Jenny chuckled. “Oh my, no, that was just some of the boys having a good time at my father’s party.” Doyle laughed. “And I thought that was how a ranch was every day.” There was a moment of awkward silence. Doyle noticed the canisters. “Would you like some help with those?” he asked. “Why, yes. I was going to put them in the icebox in the house,” Jenny replied. Doyle slipped his hat on and picked up the canisters. Jenny directed him into the adobe, down the hall, and into the large kitchen. She opened a large door. Icy steam escaped. The inside was lined with metal. Four large blocks of ice sat on a rack near the top, and four more rested on the floor.

“Just place them in there,” said Jenny. Doyle placed the canisters on the floor and closed the door. He rubbed his shoulders, warming himself. “Never saw one of those before.” “It’s an ice cooler. It keeps things fresh for days.” “Takes a lot of ice.” Jenny chuckled. “Yes, we have a delivery every day.” There was another moment of silence, which Emily broke by running into the kitchen. “Mommy, my frog jumped into the creek!” the child cried. “Oh, sweetie, he probably just wants to go for a swim. We’ll go look for him later. Please say hello to, Mr. Doyle.” “Hello, Mr. Doyle,” said the little girl with the angelic face and curly dark hair. Doyle took Emily’s hand, bent down, and kissed it. “Hello, my princess.” Emily giggled. “I’m not a princess.” He gave the little girl a surprised look. “You aren’t? Then somebody made a mistake. I was told that Princess Emily lived here with her mother.” Emily laughed and looked at Jenny. “He’s funny.” Doyle moved his hands in front of his face, and suddenly, it was contorted. He moved them again, and his face contorted in the opposite direction. Doyle slapped himself, and his face suddenly returned to its normal state. Emily laughed and clapped her hands. “Mr. Doyle is funny, Mommy.” “Yes, he is. Should we ask Mr. Doyle to stay for lunch?” “Oh yes!” Emily said. Doyle held his hat and looked at the floor. “I don’t mean to impose, Mrs.

Howard. I merely wanted to see the ranch.” “It’s no imposition. We were going to have a picnic today by the creek. It would be nice if you would us.” Emily jumped up and down and clapped her hands. “Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint the princess,” said Doyle. Jenny gathered some fruit, cheese, and bread and put them in a wicker basket along with a tablecloth and plates. “Go tell Aunt Olivia that we are going down to the creek,” she told Emily. Emily scurried off. “Let me carry that,” said Doyle, picking up the basket. Olivia ed Jenny, Emily, and Doyle for lunch. They sat and ate the meal on the old landing that had once been the front of the mill. Afterward, Emily walked up and down the creek, searching for her frog. She was distraught when she couldn’t find him. Jenny did her best to console the child, but Emily was heartbroken at the loss of the frog. Doyle spotted a frog sitting on a rock on the far side of the creek. He got up, took off his coat, and waded into the water. He crept up quietly on the amphibian. Just as he was about to grab the frog, it leaped to another rock. Doyle lunged and fell face-first into the water. Jenny and Olivia jumped up. Doyle stood up in the creek. He was soaking wet. He marched up the bank and over to Emily. “I believe this is your frog, my princess.” Emily squealed with joy upon seeing the frog. She took it in her hands and held it. “You shouldn’t run away like that, Thaddeus,” Jenny said to the frog. “The birds could get you.” “Let’s go put Thaddeus back in his home,” said Olivia.

Olivia took the child’s hand, and they walked back to the adobe. “Thank you for doing that,” said Jenny. “It was nothing,” said Doyle. “You’re soaking wet.” “It will be dry by the time I drive back to town,” said Doyle. “I could get you something dry to wear.” Doyle picked up his coat and slung it over his shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Thank you. You’ve been most kind, Mrs. Howard. It was a lovely picnic. I should be going.” Jenny walked him back to the Packard. “Thank you again, Mr. Doyle. You made my daughter’s day.” “I’m glad. It’s been a long time since I made anyone’s day.” There was a moment of strained silence. “They are making a movie here next Monday,” said Jenny, finally breaking the silence. “I believe they are calling it The Cattleman. The production company is using some of our livestock. Would you like to come watch them film?” “Certainly,” Doyle said without hesitation. “Wonderful. We will see you next Monday then.” Doyle shook Jenny’s hand, got in the car, and started it. He flashed a broad smile and waved as he drove away. Jenny stood and watched until the Packard disappeared in the distance.

26

A Moment of Doubt

“I may have made a mistake,” Sean said. He was standing in Chu San’s apartment. Sean had taken a cab to the apartment after leaving Walter Sing’s office. He told Chu San of his meeting with the Woo Tang tong. She poured him a scotch and silently listened to his story. Chu San had given up seeing other men. Her world now revolved entirely around Sean McGuire. “Your deal with Eddie Woo will make you very rich,” said Chu San. Sean sipped his scotch and nodded. “That is why I agreed to it. Bad investments cost me much of my ranch. My style of living may also have something to do with it. But the damned combine stole my oil. Gambling and liquor were the only ways for me to make money … now narcotics. As long as the government doesn’t make them illegal things should be fine.” Chu San lit a cigar. She brought it over to Sean and handed it to him. Her delicate fingers glided down his neck. “You said if the powder was illegal, the value will triple. Isn’t that what you want?” “I don’t want a war with the federal government. They have a habit of winning.” “Life is war,” said Chu San. Sean took another sip of scotch and chuckled. “You are right. I have been blessed. First Kathleen, and now with you.” “You shouldn’t worry. The Woo Tang tong has many men. They will protect you.”

Sean waved Chu San off. “I don’t need protecting. It is my grandson, Michael.” “You told me Michael is not a weak man.” “That is what concerns me.” “Why?” “He is too much like me.” Chu San hugged Sean close. “You worry about what you have no control over.” Sean closed his eyes. He could see the rugged green land of Erin and hear his grandfather Dado’s words: “You come from a line of hard men, lad. It is a lonely road a hard man takes. Never disappoint your Dado by being weak.” Before Sean had set foot on California soil, he’d had to come to grips with the deaths of not just Dado but his entire family, executed by the English. It was a baptism by fire into the life of a hard man. Sean never flinched from doing what had to be done to protect his family and friends. It became a lonely life after Kathleen died. Sean felt he could be free with Chu San and bear his soul to the beautiful woman. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to cry. He denied himself both. He summoned up his reserve and fought his emotions back. Dado had been right. The life of a hard man was a lonely road. Sean smiled at Chu San and held out his empty glass. “Would you fix me another, dear?”

27

The Deacon

Josephine Delacroix fixed her bright yellow hat before she entered the First AME Church on Thirty-Ninth Street. She’d missed her morning church services. Josephine had to get up early that morning and take the trolley to the Westerly’s home on Franklin Avenue, where she worked as a maid. The family had thrown a party the previous evening, and they’d needed Josephine that Sunday to remove the dirty glasses and filthy dishes. By the time she’d finished her duties and caught a trolley back to her home on Gladys Avenue, Josephine barely had enough time to change her dress, adjust her hair, and grab her hat. Josephine was not about to miss evening services. She walked the four blocks to the church. Reverend Martin Williams was up at the podium. He was a husky man with close-cropped hair and wire-rimmed glasses, which he peered over when facing his parishioners. “Just as God told the prophet Isaiah that he would free the Israelites, he will free us!” boomed the preacher’s voice. A decisive “Amen!” came from the congregation. “And just like God sent his Moses and the prophets, God has sent us a new disciple.” Reverend Williams paused dramatically. There was another resounding “Amen!” from the pews. “I would like all of you to welcome a member of our church and a man so filled with the faith that he entered the seminary under my guidance and teaching.” Williams turned and beckoned to the slender man seated behind him. “Please welcome a mighty warrior in God’s army, Mr. Marcellus Dunning.” An elderly woman began playing a spiritual on the piano. The choir sang and

clapped in joyous harmony. The congregation ed in singing and clapping, and some danced in the aisles. Marcellus walked up to the podium. The singing stopped. Someone called out, “Tell it, brother!” Marcellus smiled. “Some of you already know me. Some of you know that I was once a sinful man. A wayward man. Reverend Williams showed me the way. Some of you know that I once lived with a fallen woman, a harlot, a Jezebel, a woman so evil she tossed me in the gutter after I lost my job working for a white devil. I had nothing. I was nothing. Then the reverend took me in his arms and put me on the righteous path.” There was a loud “Amen!” from the crowd. “That is why I stand before you tonight a penitent sinner who has renounced Satan.” “Amen!” “Who has renounced the devil’s ways.” “Amen, brother!” “That is why I stand before you tonight and renounce my slave name. Dunning was the name given to my grandfather by the white devils who owned him.” “Amen!” “The night I received Jehovah into my heart, God spoke to me and told me to renounce that slave name. God said, ‘Son, you will be my witness.’” “Amen!” “You will be my voice to my people.” “Amen!” “You will be a man.”

“Amen!” “You will be a man of the cloth and spread my holy Word.” “Hallelujah!” “You will be a man who stands penitent in the righteousness of God’s guiding light.” “Amen!” “I cast off the name of Marcellus Dunning. From here on, I walk in the righteousness of God’s light and take the name Deacon Isaiah.” “Say it, brother. Hallelujah!” “I take the name of God’s holy prophet.” “Amen!” “And like this man, I will preach the Word of God and take up the fight for my black brothers and sisters against the white devils and Satan’s minions.” Deacon Isaiah held his arms out toward the congregation. Shouts of “Amen!” and “Hallelujah!” hailed like rain from the congregation in the pews. On cue, the choir and piano began another spiritual, one faster and more upbeat than the last. Women cried. Men sang out. Reverend Williams smiled as he looked out at the ecstatic group. He didn’t see that his new prophet, Deacon Isaiah, was looking directly at Josephine Delacroix as she was filled with the Spirit and clapped her hands and danced in the aisle.

28

The Director

“Action!” shouted the director. He was a short man with curly hair. He wore a white dress shirt, khaki jodhpurs, and riding boots and carried a large megaphone. The actor walked out of a log cabin, carrying a rifle, and greeted a group of cowboys standing by a water trough. He said something, and the men cheered. The group jumped onto their horses and rode away. “Cut!” said the director. The entire sequence hadn’t lasted more than fifteen seconds. “Reset. Let’s try another take,” said the director. Danny Doyle stood with Jenny and Emily, watching the proceedings. “None of those men look anything like a real cowboy,” whispered Jenny. They watched as the actors repeated the scene again and again. “I don’t understand why they must repeat the same thing over and over,” Doyle whispered back. “This is as much fun as watching paint dry.” The actors took their places again. The director conferred with a woman and another man. The woman held a large leather-bound script and smoked a cigarette. The man was dressed in a suit and wore spectacles. The director looked over in the direction where Doyle was standing. “You!” said the director. Doyle didn’t respond.

“You!” said the director again. “I think he wants you,” said Jenny. Danny Doyle pointed to himself and mouthed, “Me?” “Yes, you. Come here.” The director waved Doyle over. Doyle hurried over and tipped his hat. “Yes, sir?” The director gave him the once-over. “Have you ever done any acting?” Doyle grinned sheepishly. “No, sir.” The director and the other man whispered something to each other. The director looked at Doyle. “Turn to your right.” Doyle did as he was instructed. “Now your left.” Doyle turned to his left profile. “At least this one knows his right from his left,” said the man in the suit. “Can you ride a horse?” Doyle had never been on a horse. He glanced at Jenny and then looked at the two men and the woman with the cigarette. “Yes.” The man in the suit shrugged. “Go see Gloria in wardrobe.” The director pointed toward a tent. “She’ll get you outfitted.” Doyle smiled at Jenny. She waved him toward the wardrobe tent. Doyle marched off in the direction of the tent. “What is your name?” the man in the suit asked. Doyle stopped and turned back to the trio. “Danny … Daniel Doyle.”

The director and the man in the suit whispered in conference. The man in the suit looked at Doyle. “Your name is now Jack Taylor.” “Excuse me?” said Doyle. “Danny Doyle isn’t an actor’s name. Jack Taylor is,” the man in the suit replied matter-of-factly. Doyle nodded. “What’s my part?” “You’re the best friend to the leading man,” said the man in the suit. The director waved Doyle off. “Tell Gloria you’re playing Tom Carter.” Doyle nodded and hurried off to the wardrobe tent. Ten minutes later, Danny Doyle appeared in front of the director. He was outfitted in brown pants, a bright red shirt, a black vest, a yellow scarf, and a tengallon hat that looked more like a twenty-gallon hat. Jenny hid her smile. For the rest of the day, the director shot scenes with Doyle and the leading man, who he learned was Douglas Farnum. Farnum was standoffish. When a scene was done, he quickly retreated to his chair, where an assistant had a cigarette and cold drink ready. The lady with the leather-bound script was far friendlier. She introduced herself to Doyle as Alice Dunn. She informed him that she had written the scenario, so if he had any questions regarding his character, he should ask her. Before Doyle could say anything, Alice was called by the director, and she walked away. Doyle didn’t ask questions. He listened and did exactly what the director told him to do. Surprisingly, he had no problem with the horse he was given to ride. When the sun started to set, the director called for a wrap. “Be at the studio—corner of Highland and Hollywood Boulevard—tomorrow. Eight o’clock sharp.” “Sir, I’m not sure I can do that,” Doyle replied.

The director and the man wearing the suit frowned. “You want to be in this film?” asked the man in the suit. “Well, yes,” Doyle replied. “Good. Then be there,” said the man in the suit. “But I have a job,” said Doyle. “A job?” said the suit, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “Yes, sir. I’m the driver for her father.” Doyle gave a nod toward Jenny. “He owns the ranch you’re standing on.” The man in the suit waved Jenny over. Jenny held Emily’s hand as they walked over to Doyle and the others. “This man says he works for your father,” said the man in the suit. “Yes.” “We are paying your father good money for the use of his ranch and livestock. This was all arranged by his secretary, Miss Dancer. We have a contract,” said the suit. “Miss Dancer is my father’s business associate. Furthermore, Mr. Doyle is neither the ranch nor livestock,” Jenny replied without missing a beat. “Be that as it may, we need him.” “Then you will have to negotiate that with my father and Mr. Doyle.” The man in the suit stuffed a card into Doyle’s vest pocket. “We’ll take care of McGuire. Just be at the studio on time tomorrow.” “I will talk to Father,” said Jenny. “Thank you. I hope it is not an imposition, Mrs. Howard,” said the director.

“Please call me Jenny. It would be no imposition. Mr. Doyle will be at your studio tomorrow.” “Wonderful,” said the director. The man in the suit walked off. “Kind of grumpy?” said Jenny. “He’s the producer,” said the director. He tipped his hat and hurried after the man in the suit. Doyle turned to Jenny. “Thank you. I did enjoy running around in front of the camera.” He removed the card the suit had stuffed into his pocket and read it. “‘Lasky’s Famous Players, Jesse Lasky and Cecil B. DeMille.’ Those guys sure are bossy. Who do they think they are?”

29

The Yacht

“Pull!” said Harry Chapman. A clay pigeon sailed into the crystal-clear sky and across the blue waters of the Pacific. Chapman fired. The pigeon exploded. “Pull!” said Thomas Bard. The clay pigeon flew. Bard fired and missed. They repeated the actions. This time, both men made their shots. Chapman and Bard broke open their shotguns and handed them to the steward operating the catapult. He was a Negro wearing the formal attire of an English butler. The steward took the guns and discreetly left the two titans to their business. Bard and Chapman stood on the starboard side of William Wrigley’s yacht. The ship was docked in the Catalina Harbor. Harry Chapman patted his chest and breathed in the crisp air. “Beautiful day. You can see Long Beach.” “What about Sean McGuire?” asked Bard. “What about him?” Chapman replied. “The man is small potatoes. He’s old. Let him be, Thomas.” “The general told me the same thing. That bastard’s wells should’ve been mine instead of John D.’s.” “What do you care?” asked Chapman. “It’s the principle. He had Roy Gifford shot.”

Chapman looked at the man standing next to him. “Possibly. You don’t know that for fact. Gifford was a fool for returning to the area.” Bard frowned. “The general didn’t like McGuire.” Chapman didn’t bother to hide his annoyance at Bard’s complaining. “True, my father-in-law didn’t care for Sean McGuire, but he respected him,” he replied glibly. Bard grunted. Chapman arched an eyebrow. “He also knew when to let sleeping dogs lie. The Oso Negro and his restaurant, the Continental are McGuire’s only legitimate sources of income anymore. McGuire puts his money out on the street like the Jews. He and a Chink own a Chinatown gambling hall. That’s it. Sean McGuire is a tired old man who isn’t worth the effort.” “He has a grandson.” Chapman nodded. “Michael. He’s a fine tight end for USC.” “I want McGuire to pay.” Bard’s tone was emphatic. Chapman gave his companion a sorry look. “Let’s the others for lunch. A few bottles of champagne will cure that sour mood.” Bard grumbled as the two men turned and walked down the stairway to the main deck. He pulled his jacket around him. “Darn cold. Whose idea was it to meet on a yacht in January?” Chapman chuckled and gave his companion a pat on the shoulder. “This is Southern California, where it’s summer year-round, Thomas.” Bard and Chapman crossed the main deck and entered a large room where the other of the CDA had gathered and were enjoying cocktails. “So, Thomas, did you hit any Republicans?” Henry Huntington kidded the oil tycoon. “If it were only that easy,” Bard replied.

A steward held a silver tray. Two crystal tumblers containing twenty-year-old scotch sat on the tray. He walked over to the two men who had just entered the room. “Looks like your aqueduct turned out quite well,” said Huntington. Chapman chuckled. “Better not let Mulholland hear you say that. He thinks he built it himself.” “The man is unconscionable,” said Huntington. “If it wasn’t for your newspaper convincing the unwashed to vote for the bond issue, Bill Mulholland wouldn’t have gotten a dime to build an outhouse.” The group laughed at Huntington’s observation. “I don’t mind giving the chief credit. If Mulholland hadn’t figured out a way to get the water from Owens Valley, Los Angeles wouldn’t be where it is today, with over one hundred twenty thousand residents and still climbing. Now all we have to do is develop the valley,” said Chapman as he took the glass from the steward. “Hear! Hear!” said the others. “Do you think we’re going to get into this war in Europe?” Chapman asked. “It would certainly be good for business,” said Isaias Hellman. “Britain and need money and armaments. We have both.” Huntington nodded. “Isaias is right. The war in Europe would be good for us. We have steel mills.” Bard puffed on his cigar and grinned. “Let’s not forget oil.” The group chuckled. All present agreed that the war in Europe would be good for American business. “That idiot in the White House certainly doesn’t want us in the war. Wilson is running his reelection on ‘He kept us out of the war.’ Such nonsense,” said Chapman.

Hellman looked at the publisher and winked. “Wilson can be handled. He owes the banks quite a sum. They will convince the President to see the error of his isolationist policies.” William Wrigley entered the room and announced that lunch was ready. He slid back an ornate door with Tiffany glasswork and led the group through to the dining room. A large oval table was covered in fine Irish linen. Each setting had sterling-silver plates and utensils, along with the finest Baccarat crystal. The titans of industry took their seats around the table. They drank their champagne and dined on lobster caught off the California coast as they made ready to carve up the state.

30

The Legend

The center snapped the ball. The quarterback took it and stepped back in the pocket. Number seventeen, the tight end, was already twelve yards downfield. A defensive player came around the line, charging for the quarterback. The tight end continued to race down the sideline. The quarterback stood ready. The defensive player brushed off a block and continued toward the quarterback. He was barely a yard away, when the quarterback launched a . The ball sailed high above the linemen battling on the field. The tight end leaped up and caught the ball. A defensive player dove for the tight end. Number seventeen knocked off the tackle. The lineman ate turf. He looked up and saw the tight end racing down the sideline for a touchdown. The crowd went wild and cheered. “Michael McGuire, number seventeen, brings it in for another touchdown, making that three in a row. The Trojans are in the lead twenty-six to three with Penn State trailing,” said the announcer over the stadium speakers. In the sports box, Joe Harris, the announcer, looked over at the news reporter pounding away on the keys of his typewriter. Harris was middle-aged, with graying hair, and wore a tailored suit. The news reporter was thirty and wore a straw boater. His coat hung over the back of his chair. His sleeves were rolled up, and a cigarette dangled precariously from his lip, the ash threatening to fall. Harris cupped his hand over the microphone and said, “I don’t know why you’re always ragging McGuire in your column, Reagan. The kid just ran in for another touchdown.” Tom Reagan stopped typing and looked up. “I write what my editor tells me to write. If he says don’t give McGuire a break, I don’t.” Harris held up a finger and turned to the mic. “The kick is good, and USC now leads with twenty-eight.” He cupped the microphone again and looked at

Reagan. “I know the Tribune doesn’t like his grandpa. That’s no reason to dump on the kid. The boy’s got talent.” Reagan sat back in his chair. “What is it about the paper and that family anyway, Joe?” Harris smiled. “You’re not from around here, are you?” “San Francisco originally. After the quake, I moved to San Diego and wrote for the Standard; then I got hired by the Tribune. Been working for the paper a little over a year now.” “Sean McGuire is a legend in these parts. He and Otis Grayson didn’t see eye-toeye on much. Grayson’s son-in-law, Harry Chapman is in charge now, but things haven’t changed.” “What kind of legend?” “Sean McGuire is the real deal. He brought the first herd of cattle from Texas to Los Angeles before the Civil War—shot at least six men that I know of. Saw one of them get shot myself. The man was fearless in his day.” “You never told me you saw a gunfight, Joe.” “It was a long time ago. I was a kid.” Harris held up his finger and turned back to the mic. “The kickoff is good, and number thirty-six for Penn State gets it out to the fifteen-yard line. Looks like it’s going to be a long road for Penn’s quarterback with only six minutes to go in the fourth quarter.” He cupped the microphone. “Buy me a drink, and I’ll tell you a story.” “I’ll buy you a bottle.” Immediately following the football game, Tom Reagan and Joe Harris adjourned to the Continental for drinks and dinner. Harris suggested the place. “So, what’s the scoop on McGuire’s granddaddy?” asked Reagan as he cut into a thick steak that was singed, not burned. “How’s your steak?” asked Harris.

Reagan speared a piece with his fork and took a bite. “Great.” “And your scotch?” “Excellent,” Reagan replied with a smile, holding up his glass. “You’re eating McGuire’s beef. You’re drinking scotch imported by McGuire. And you are enjoying this meal in his restaurant.” “McGuire owns the Continental?” Joe Harris shook his head. “Ah, you poor scribe. How little thou knows.” Reagan gave his companion a bemused look and said, “So tell your tale, oh wise California Caliban.” Harris took a sip of scotch and set the glass down. “Sean McGuire is probably the last link to the Wild West we have here in Los Angeles. San Francisco might’ve been the Paris of the Pacific, but Los Angeles was a dusty pueblo town where most disputes were settled with a Colt. Sean killed two white men who were about to string up a Chinaman during the riots of ’71.” Reagan chewed his steak and washed it down with a drink of scotch. “You said you saw Sean McGuire shoot a man.” Joe Harris frowned. “Are you going to let me tell my story, or are you going to interrupt me before I even get going?” Reagan wiped his hands with the linen napkin and held them up in mock surrender. “The floor is yours, Professor.” “My uncle was Carl Ferguson. He was one of the first cowboys to work for Sean McGuire. I grew up hearing all about the exploits of the man who started the Oso Negro from the time I was knee high. It’s not much now, but in its day, the Oso Negro was something, especially come roundup time,” Harris said. Reagan took a sip of scotch and scratched his jaw. Harris nodded. “I know you want to hear about the gunfight, not the musings of an old man. My uncle Carl told me Sean McGuire had only two rules: he would

not curse another man or lay hands on him, and he expected others to treat him likewise. When I was ten, me and my friend Danny Burkhart snuck into the Metropole Saloon on Los Angeles Street through a window in the storeroom. Sean McGuire was playing cards with some of the gents at one of the tables. “There used to be this old Mexican woman by the name of Rosa—everybody called her Crazy Rosa. Her husband once broke a jug of whiskey over her head. The lady was never the same after that. She talked to phantoms. Anyway, Rosa sold flowers she picked in the fields. “She came into the saloon that night and walked over to a cowboy by the name of Frank Harvey. Harvey told Rosa to get lost. When she didn’t, Harvey pushed Rosa to the floor and kicked her basket of flowers, scattering them all over the place. Sean McGuire looked at Harvey and asked him to pick up the lady’s flowers. Harvey refused. He told McGuire, ‘You pick ’em up, you dumb bastard.’” Harris paused and took a drink. Reagan waited for his friend to continue. Harris buttered a piece of bread and took a bite. He dabbed his mouth with the napkin and continued his story. “The place got really quiet. Some men moved out of the way. Sean McGuire asked Harvey to apologize. The cowboy laughed. McGuire didn’t. He just sat there and stared at the man. Harvey got angry and asked what Sean was looking at. I’ll never forget McGuire’s response: ‘A dead man,’ he said in almost a whisper. Harvey went for his gun. He was dead in an instant. Sean McGuire shot Frank Harvey clean through the heart without leaving his chair or breaking wind. He suggested that someone get the sheriff, picked up his chips, and wished the other players a good evening. It was like Moses parting the waters when Sean McGuire walked out of the Metropole Saloon that evening.” “What happened then?” asked Reagan. “Nothing,” Harris replied matter-of-factly. “This is Los Angeles. A gun speaks louder than a lawyer here. The court determined it was self-defense. Sure, Sean McGuire made enemies over the years. A man like him is bound to. Some, like your boss, Chapman, want to pick over the bones of an old man.”

“I had no idea,” Reagan replied. “No, you didn’t,” said Harris as he cut a piece of steak.

31

The Attack

The Tribune attacked Sean McGuire with a certain regularity. They wrote an editorial decrying his partnership with Celestials. That was followed with another exposing his supposedly nefarious associations with Mexicans and Indians. The paper dredged up the history of the battle with Don Pico that took place in 1855. The newspaper conspicuously omitted any mention of Sean’s role in the Bear Flag Revolt or his diplomatic missions to England for President Lincoln during the Civil War. The piece was short on fact and long on innuendo. The next salvo at the McGuire family came when Michael received a form letter informing him that he would not be reitted for the coming year at USC due to conduct unbecoming of a gentleman and underclassman. The dean refused to speak to either Sean or Michael and referred all calls to his assistant, who merely repeated the information stated in the letter. Even a call to the school’s football coach was met with a tepid apology and an ission that there was nothing to be done about the matter. Sean knew that Chapman and the oligarchy were behind the attacks. He also knew they wouldn’t stop. He had fought Otis Grayson. Grayson’s son-in-law now ran the paper. Chapman was proving to be a more formidable foe. Sean had McGrath pull the cadre selling cocaine at the Continental. They were sent to sling their dope on Central Avenue. Gambling and alcohol were one thing. Narcotics were a whole different game. Sean wasn’t taking chances. The third attack came when Lieutenant James Davis raided the Continental. He was a brash lieutenant on the force who preached strict law and order. Davis had the mayor’s ear. Charlie Sebastian was the first chief of police ever to be elected mayor. He won his seat on a hard-fought campaign based on ridding Los Angeles of vice. Davis convinced Sebastian that the best way to deal with vice was to fight it by any means necessary. Davis preached anti-miscegenation. Sebastian listened. Davis preached reform. The mayor listened. As far as Davis

was concerned, any white man who partnered with a Chinese was a contributor to vice and the degradation of the white man. Sean McGuire was just that sort of man. The mayor nodded and gave his blessing to Davis. Davis and a squad of two dozen officers descended upon the restaurant on a Friday night. The place was packed. Davis and his cops emptied the establishment in record time. Many hid their faces as they were roughly escorted from the premises. The police arrested every Chinese, Mexican, and Negro working there and carted them off to jail. The restaurant was left undisturbed. That was not the case with the casino and bar. The cops took sledgehammers to the bar and furniture. Glass shattered. Liquor flowed. The roulette, faro, and blackjack tables were reduced to kindling. When Davis and his squad exited some twenty minutes later, the restaurant reeked of beer and booze, and the place looked like Atlanta after Sherman’s March. Neither Sean McGuire nor Walter Sing was present during the raid. The message was clear: Los Angeles had anti-miscegenation laws, and Lieutenant Davis planned to enforce them. There would be no mixing of the races in business or pleasure in the City of Angels on Davis’s watch.

***

The Sunday after the raid, Sean and Michael met with Walter Sing at the Golden Dragon. Immediately after their customary tea, the men got straight to business. “What do you suggest we do?” Walter asked. “Nothing,” replied Sean. Michael sat up in his chair but remained silent. His place was to listen and only speak if his grandfather asked for a response. “I cannot afford the police to do that in Chinatown. I will lose face. They must apologize,” said Walter.

Sean nodded. “I understand. Tell your people that the police were doing this because of my long association with your family. They attacked the gweilo’s restaurant, not the Golden Dragon.” Walter smiled. “That would certainly persuade many.” “This was inevitable. The government declared war on cocaine with the Harrison Tax Act. We were lucky the coppers haven’t focused their attention on that enterprise,” said Sean. Walter folded his hands. “Most of that trade is being kept to Chinatown and to the coloreds. The police don’t care what goes on in those neighborhoods. You are correct. The police wanted to make an example of a white-owned downtown establishment frequented by white clientele.” Sean sat silently for a moment. He looked at Walter Sing and winked. “That’s it. I’ll move the casino out of the city. The sheriff is in charge of the county. He and his boys can be bought easily. We’d have our own private police force.” “Still, an apology would give great face.” “Let me handle this,” said Sean. “Chapman and his cronies have me in their crosshairs. As my partner, you just happen to be an unlucky bystander, Walter.” Walter stood and bowed. “As you wish, Mr. McGuire. I trust you will get those responsible to make the appropriate statement.” Their business concluded, Sean and Michael headed back to the office after leaving the Golden Dragon. Michael stopped at a red light. Across the street was a movie theater. The marquee d in large letters, “Mack Sennett Comedies, plus King of Mesa Verde, Starring Tom Talbert.” Sean nodded toward the theater and asked, “Isn’t that one of those movies our former driver is in?” “I don’t believe so,” Michael replied. “Doyle’s screen name is Jack Taylor. I saw one his pictures, Masked Marauders of Sagebrush Canyon. It wasn’t bad.” Sean chuckled and shook his head. “These movie people wouldn’t know a real cowboy if he walked up and kicked ’em in the ass.”

Michael grinned. The light changed. Michael put the car in gear and drove on without saying a word. Losing Danny Doyle to a near-sighted five-foot-nothing director was a sore spot for Sean, but he had wished the chauffer well. Michael pulled up to the curb and parked the car. They entered the building and took the elevator up to the office. Effie looked up when they walked in. “Rough couple of days, eh, boss?” Sean hung his coat and hat on the rack. “Nothing we can’t handle, my dear. Please get those letters off to the Canadians.” “Sent them out this morning,” Effie replied. Sean grinned sheepishly and walked into his office. Effie was always a step ahead of him in taking care of business. Walter McGrath was seated, waiting for the two men. Michael closed the door after he entered, and he took a seat. “What have we got, William?” Sean asked as he sat down behind his desk. “Charlie Sebastian was the chief of police before he became mayor. He’ll be dirty. I also hear he is having an affair with some broad. We can exploit that. Davis is different. He rarely drinks and doesn’t gamble or whore. He goes to church regularly and is a rising star in the department.” Sean looked at McGrath. “Every man is vulnerable. Find his sweet spot.” “What about the Continental staff?” “Give them three months’ pay.” Michael made a face. “You wish to say something, Michael?” Michael was caught off guard. “I do not mean any disrespect, but three months’ salary seems a bit excessive.” “It is the price of loyalty,” Sean replied quietly. “We are loyal to those who work for us. We are loyal to our family. If the Irish have been plagued by anything other than the bloody Brits for centuries, it is the disloyalty of their own.” He

looked at McGrath. “Get something on Davis.” McGrath stood. He gave Sean a nod of acceptance, placed his hat on his head, and exited the office. “Now, what are we going to do about you and the university?” Sean asked, fixing his gaze upon Michael. “Nothing.” “You can go to Berkeley.” “I don’t want to go to Berkeley. I want to help you with the business. Besides, it’s only a matter of time before we’re going to be in the war.” Sean fixed Michael with a cold look. “That’s Europe’s war and has nothing to do with us. You think I give a tinker’s fart if defeats the Brits?” “But if America enters the war—” Sean slammed his fist down on the desk. “I don’t care. We will never defend the British. Understood?” Michael nodded silently. “Good. The family business has taken a turn, Michael. We are no longer respectable. It isn’t what I planned. Things just turned out that way. The government has declared cocaine illegal. They will eventually do the same with alcohol.” Michael gave his grandfather a quizzical look. “Alcohol illegal?” “The do-gooders will have their day.” “But everybody drinks. It’s not the same as opium or cocaine.” Sean smiled and thrust a finger at Michael. “Precisely. We must be ready when the authorities do make it illegal. Americans won’t stop drinking, and they will pay handsomely for the right to drink bonded booze.” “What do you plan to do?”

“Purchase some warehouses.”

32

The Shoot

“Yee-haw!” cried Danny Doyle, now better known as Jack Taylor. He pulled his pistol and fired, and a wrangler off camera released the cattle. Jack Taylor and four other actors posing as cowboys whooped and hollered as they rode their horses and drove a herd across the rolling hills of Edendale, which was the stand-in for Texas. Tom Harper, the director, jumped up and down, egging the actors on. Joseph Royal and his young daughter, Sarah, sat on the hillside, watching the proceedings. “What do you think?” Joseph asked. Sarah shrugged. “I think this is the future. People want to see stories.” Joseph’s eyes twinkled. “Are those men really cowboys?” Sarah asked. “It doesn’t matter,” her father replied. “That is the beauty. You can make it up, and people will believe it, especially if you have a good story.” Sarah looked over at her father and asked, “What is a good story?” Joseph scratched his head and chuckled. “That is the secret, my dear.” He tapped the side of his head with a forefinger. “A good story is like magic. It takes you to a place you have never been before. The nickelodeons show you things you’ve never seen before. If you are lucky enough to combine the two …” Joseph’s voice trailed off. Sarah pointed to the cowboys riding with the cattle. “Look.” One of the steers had broken from the herd and charged toward the camera and

its operator. The man jumped clear. The steer clipped the legs of the tripod, and the camera went down. “Cut!” shouted Tom Harper, the director. Harper was in his late thirties and carried a few extra pounds. He grabbed his hat and hit his leg with it, exasperated. The cowboys pulled up and stopped. The wranglers scrambled to round up the herd. Harper walked over to the cameraman, who was dusting himself off. Seeing the operator was all right, the director picked up the camera. “Damn.” The camera was intact, but the lens was cracked. Bert Prewitt, the cameraman, looked at the damaged camera. Prewitt was in his twenties and lanky, and he wore gray tros and a black sweater with a newsboy cap slung backward. “That’s going to set us back at least a week.” “We can’t wait that long,” said Harper. “May I take a look?” said a voice. Harper and Prewitt turned. Joseph Royal stood in front of them. He gestured toward the camera. Harper handed the damaged machine to Joseph, who quickly inspected it. “It appears the only thing damaged is the lens. I can make a new one,” said Joseph. Harper and Prewitt looked at each other. “How soon?” asked Harper. “Let me take the camera. I will have a new lens for you by tomorrow,” Joseph replied. Harper looked at Prewitt, who shrugged. “What is your name?” asked Harper.

Joseph extended his hand. “Joseph Royal.” The two men shook hands. Joseph handed Harper a business card. “Royal Photographic Studio,” said Harper, reading the card. “You’re sure you can fix it?” Joseph nodded. He handed another card to Harper. “Write your address down.” The director scribbled his address on the card and handed it back. Joseph held out his hand to Sarah. “Come. We have work to do.” The father held the damaged camera in his left hand and took Sarah’s hand with his right. They walked off through the field of mustard plants covering the hillside to their car, a Model T Ford; got in; and drove away. “That’s a wrap!” shouted Harper to the actors.

***

Danny Doyle sat in a tent, removing his makeup. Harper had called a wrap, which meant he had the afternoon free. The broken lens was a tough break, but Doyle knew Harper would pull it off. He and Tom Harper had made a nearly a dozen oaters over the two years they’d worked together. Jack Taylor was a man of derring-do and a true American hero. Doyle was amused at the new persona he had taken on. English Jack would have pissed his pants laughing. Doyle had the skills to pull off stunts primarily due to the fact that he’d learned those skills while navigating the roofs of San Francisco’s wealthy and slipping in for snatch-and-grabs. Now he was making $300 a week and living large. He even had hung the Van Gogh in his apartment. Doyle wished Howard would turn out something more than two-reelers. He wanted to do a feature-length story. Shorts, comedies, and serials were still the primary products the studios were churning out, but features were on the

horizon. D. W. Griffith had turned the industry on its ear with Birth of a Nation the previous year. Doyle believed Jack Taylor and the characters he played were simple and boring. Jack Taylor was either a lawman or a cowboy who came to the aid of a farmer, wagon train, or town. His help was generally rejected in the first reel. The villain made it appear that Jack had committed the evil deed, which ranged from robbing a bank to stealing cattle. Taylor’s character was always a righteous man who suffered the slings and arrows of life silently. By the second reel, Taylor always prevailed. His character would capture the villain, win the girl, and ride off into the sunset as the screen faded to black. At first, Doyle thought it was a lark to play a character so unlike himself, but after doing basically the same role dozens of times, he felt trapped. However, he liked the money and the good times his celebrity brought him at the bars. It seemed every man wanted to buy Jack Taylor a drink. Doyle sat looking into the mirror as he finished removing his makeup. A man entered the tent. “Hello, Mr. Taylor?” He held out a business card. Doyle looked up and took the card. “Tom Reagan. You’re a reporter. Used to read your column in the Gazette. What can I do for you?” Reagan gestured to an empty chair. “Do you mind?” “Help yourself.” Doyle combed his hair. “What is the film you’re working on?” the reporter asked. “King of Calico Canyon.” Doyle gave Reagan a questioning look. “I understand you once worked for Sean McGuire,” said Reagan. Doyle chuckled. “And I thought you came here to interview me. I only worked for Mr. McGuire a short time. What does his business have to do with me?” “Absolutely nothing. I was hoping you might be able to provide some background information on the man.” Doyle frowned. “Like what?”

“I don’t know—whatever you might care to share. How fast is he on the draw? Does he really wear diamond-studded spurs?” “How fast on the draw? I never saw the man pull a gun once. What is this all about?” The reporter smiled. “What type of film are you the lead in?” Doyle scratched his head. “A western.” “Exactly. Flickers are being made, and one of the real cowboys who made Los Angeles lives just a few miles away.” “Yeah, so? The movies aren’t real.” “I want to tell my readers the real story of settling the West.” Doyle looked directly at the reporter. “People don’t want real. That’s why they go to the movies. They don’t want facts. They want made-up stories. As far as Sean McGuire is concerned, it is my humble opinion the man would prefer to remain anonymous.” “Sean McGuire is certainly not anonymous. He was the subject of a recent editorial in the Tribune.” “Yeah, your newspaper was pretty harsh. If you want to talk to Mr. McGuire, I ain’t stopping you. I just don’t think it’s a wise decision.” Reagan stood and tipped his hat. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Taylor.” The reporter turned and exited the tent. “The name is Doyle. Danny Doyle,” the actor called after the reporter. Reagan stopped of a moment. He wondered why the name sounded familiar. He continued on, got in his Model T, and drove off. As he headed away from the location, he ed a cream-colored Chrysler being driven by a woman. Reagan didn’t take much notice of the woman. His mind was on how to get Sean McGuire to talk to him. Jenny parked the Chrysler, got out, and entered the tent.

Doyle smiled when he saw her. “The director called wrap. I have the rest of the day off.” Jenny put her arms around Doyle and kissed him. “Ward is away up in Stockton. Olivia is watching Emily. I have the whole evening if you want.” Doyle couldn’t believe his luck. Just a few years ago, he had been robbing houses, and now he was a cowboy actor and bedding the daughter of the man who was a local legend. Doyle knew if Sean McGuire ever found out about the affair, he would kill him. Jenny was beautiful. He put those thoughts out of his head as he took her in his arms and kissed her tender lips.

***

Joseph Royal removed the lens from the camera. It was an easy job. He had a number of spare lenses in his studio. Joseph found one that matched and proceeded to attach the new lens to the camera. He had never seen a movie camera up close. He studied the interior gears and the crank that fed the film through the lens’s gate in order for it to be exposed. Sarah watched her father. “Sarah, get your paper, and draw this camera for me,” said Joseph. Sarah grabbed a notebook and pencil. The young girl sat down at the table and sketched the camera and its inner workings. Within a few minutes, she had drawn a rendering so realistic it looked like a photograph. Joseph looked at his daughter’s work. “It is good, no?” Sarah’s face beamed as the warmth of her father’s smile embraced her. Joseph gave the girl a pat on the head. He rolled up the drawing, put on his coat, picked up the repaired camera, and put on his hat. Ruth sat in the small living room, sewing.

“I am going to see Mr. Harper, the director, about a partnership,” said Joseph. “You want to make moving pictures?” said Ruth without looking up. Joseph was momentarily lost for words. “Ever since these people came here to make the pictures that move, you have wanted to do that.” Ruth looked at Joseph and smiled. “I know my husband. Go. Go make your deal with Mr. Harper, and make your pictures that move.” Joseph bent down and kissed his wife gently on the head. “You are the wisest person I have ever known.” He tipped his hat and walked out the door.

***

Joseph got out of the taxi, paid the driver, and walked up to the address written on the card. It was a California bungalow located on Franklin Avenue. Joseph knocked on the door. Tom Harper answered. He had a woman draped on each arm, a blonde and a brunette. Neither looked older than seventeen. A Victrola played a jazz number in the background. “Yes?” said Harper. Joseph held out the camera. “I have your camera. It is fixed.” The director stared dumbfounded at the man holding the repaired camera. “I would like to speak to you about a business deal if you are free,” said Joseph. Harper took the camera and inspected it. “Yeah, sure, come on in.” Joseph removed his hat and entered the bungalow. The architecture was quasiSpanish with modern decor. Harper looked at the two women. “Girls, if you will excuse us. Business calls.” “You’re a real heel, Tommy,” said the brunette.

“Yeah, you promised to take us to a club,” said the blonde. Harper grinned sheepishly and handed each girl a twenty-dollar bill. “Taxi money. I’ll see you Saturday at Marion Tarkington’s party.” “Not if we see you first,” said the brunette. The two women walked out the door and closed it hard behind them. Harper set the camera down. The record was over, and the needle continued to spin in the end groove. Harper picked up the tonearm and turned the machine off. He gestured to a chair. “Please have a seat, Mr. …” Joseph sat down. “Joseph Royal.” Harper wagged a finger. “That’s right—Royal Photography. Would you like a drink, Mr. Royal?” “No, thank you.” “Hope you don’t mind if I do.” Without waiting for a response, Harper poured a shot of scotch into a glass and took a seat on the sofa. “Now, what is this deal you have? I’m all ears.” “I propose we become partners, Mr. Harper.” Harper chuckled and took a sip of his scotch. “I thank you for your offer, but at the moment, I really don’t require a partner. I have Bert Prewitt. He’s a pretty capable guy.” Joseph nodded. “I do not question Mr. Prewitt’s capabilities.” “Then why should I partner up with you?” “You have a small studio on Hyperion. Harper Pictures could be bigger with capital investment. The distribution of your films is haphazard. You have made the same story three different times with your star Jack Taylor.” “Actually, it was four times.” Joseph made a gesture with his hand. “There you have it. You don’t have any

writers. In short, you work on a shoestring, and any catastrophe could spell disaster to you, even something as simple as a broken camera lens.” Harper rubbed the back of his neck. “I won’t argue. We do have a slim margin when it comes to profits. What if I would say no?” Joseph looked Harper squarely in the eye. “I will make my own movies and will be your competition.” Harper laughed and waved the man off. “How’re you going to get a camera? Only Griffith, DeMille, and a couple others can get their hands on gear. That’s because they have connections in New York. Edison and his combine have hired Pinkertons to make sure no cameras get to California.” “I will build my own,” Joseph replied. “What?” Joseph took Sarah’s drawing from his coat pocket and unrolled it for Harper. The director studied the drawing for a moment and then looked at Joseph. “I have to hand it to you. I think you could.” “I most certainly can, Mr. Harper.” Harper sat back in the sofa. He took a sip of scotch, flashed a big smile, and held out his hand. “You have a new partner, Mr. Royal.” The photographer and the director shook hands.

33

Retribution

Walter Sing was seated in his office and having his morning tea when he read the Examiner’s headline: Mayor Sebastian Resigns after Illicit Affair Exposed. He set the newspaper down, picked up the telephone, and clicked the receiver handle. “Have my car ready.” Walter hung up the telephone, put on his coat and hat, and exited the office. A beautiful blue Chevrolet was waiting in front of the Golden Dragon when Walter emerged. “I’ll drive, Charles,” Walter said to the driver. The man bowed. Walter got in the car, closed the door and headed down the street. Sean McGuire sat in a booth near the rear of a small diner in Santa Monica. William McGrath sat opposite him. Both men had perfect views of the front and rear entrances. They drank their coffee and waited silently. The door opened. Walter Sing entered. Sean tapped McGrath’s hand. McGrath got up and sat down next to Sean. “Good morning,” said Walter as he took a seat across from the two men. “I take it you have read the papers,” said Sean. “Yes. The mayor has resigned. He did not apologize.” Sean kept a straight face, though he was a bit surprised at his friend’s lack of enthusiasm. “No, he did not. He is gone, that’s what is important. We are still working on a response for Lieutenant Davis. He apparently has few vices we can

exploit.” A waitress came to the table. All conversation ceased. “Tea, please,” said Walter. The waitress jotted down the order on a ticket and walked off. “Davis may connect the dots between the mayor’s fall and the raid on the Continental,” said Walter. “Fuck ’em. The Continental is now operating on county soil.” “A bar, a roulette wheel and faro table in a Venice warehouse.” Sean shrugged. “People want to drink and gamble. I didn’t have time to shop around.” “I would caution vigilance.” “Is that why you pulled your dope sales from the Golden Dragon?” Walter offered a discreet smile in reply. Sean frowned. “We need to show the powers that be that we aren’t a pair of piteogs to be fucked around.” “I merely want an apology.” Sean chuckled. “Your father would understand. The gweilo will never apologize.” “What are you then?” asked Walter. Sean looked the younger man directly in the eye. “I’m the man who staked your father and I’m your partner.” Walter nodded. “I meant no disrespect.” “I appreciate your honesty, Walter. Lieutenant Davis will be taken care of; it is merely a matter of time. On another note, I have made inquiries with some

people in Mexico and Canada to supply us with liquor when the time comes. The Mexicans can also supply us with cocaine.” “I will stick to gambling. It is safer,” said Walter. “I respect your decision, my friend. I hope you will respect mine.” “Of course,” said Walter. The two men shook hands. The waitress brought the tea. The three men sat in the diner and watched the ocean as they drank. “How is Michael?” Walter asked. Sean frowned. “The damn boy went off and ed Wilson’s army. He’s in , fighting in that bloody war.” Walter nodded. “My daughter, Liu Tsong, is infatuated with the moving pictures. She refuses to mind her mother. Sometimes children do not become what we parents hope they would become.” Sean smiled. “That’s the truth.” He sighed. “I am old. Michael will take over the business when he returns. I hope you will treat him as we have been partners.” “Of course.” Sean sipped his coffee and watched a flock of seagulls sail across the clear blue sky. “If you run into any trouble, don’t hesitate to give me up as the one who sprung the goods on the mayor.” “I plan to stay in Chinatown with my mahjong rooms. I’ve instructed my people to only act as middle-men with any drug sales from now on. They will not peddle in the clubs or on the street. The police have no reason to bother me. I only make money off other Chinese.” “All the same, don’t put yourself in jeopardy on my .” Sean dropped a ten-dollar gold piece onto the table. He and McGrath walked out

of the diner. Walter remained. He sipped his tea and watched the seagulls divebomb a lady with a large hat festooned with dried flowers.

***

The following Saturday, Walter Sing left the Golden Dragon just after midnight. He drove his Chevrolet down Flower Street. A police car pulled away from the curb and followed the Chevrolet. After a couple blocks, the police car sped up. The officer riding shotgun motioned for the Chevrolet to pull off into a vacant lot. Walter eased the Chevrolet over to the empty lot and stopped. The police car pulled up and blocked the Chevy. Two officers got out. One was Lieutenant Davis. Walter remained in his car. Davis came up to the driver’s side. The other officer, a patrolman who wore a leather jacket and looked to be younger than Davis, took a position on the enger side. “Good evening, Officer,” said Walter. Lieutenant Davis grabbed Walter, lifted him out of the car, and threw him down onto the ground. The cop put a solid boot into Walter’s ribs. Walter coughed. He struggled to get up. Davis kicked the downed man again. He sent a hard haymaker to Walter’s face, breaking his nose and knocking out two teeth. The lieutenant rubbed his hand. “Now, I can go on like this some more, or you can answer my questions,” said Davis. Walter put up his left hand. “I’ll take that as a yes,” said Davis. “We know you met with Sean McGuire at Artie’s Diner in Santa Monica. What I want to know is what you discussed.” He grabbed Walter by the collar and pulled him up.

Walter coughed up a wad of blood. His face looked as if he’d run into a brick wall. “We talked about our children.” Davis looked over at the other cop. “Can you believe this, Bill? This fucking chink thinks I’m going to believe that a head of a tong sat around with Sean McGuire and talked about raising kids.” The lieutenant sent his fist into Walter’s face. “I’m just getting started, Chop Suey.” He reared back to send another haymaker into Walter’s gut. Walter held up his hand. “We talked about the mayor. It was Sean who leaked the news about the mayor having an affair to the papers.” Davis looked at the other cop. “I told you it was McGuire.” He turned and glared at Walter. “What’s McGuire planning?” “I don’t know,” Walter replied. Davis sent a fist into Walter’s gut. He collapsed to the ground. Davis kicked the man hard in the ribs. Walter coughed out another wad of blood. Davis grabbed the beaten man and yanked him up again. “What is McGuire’s next move?” “I do not know. I only supply him with workers and have no knowledge of his organization.” “You know something, you damn chink.” Davis backhanded Walter. “Jesus, Jim, you’re going to kill the man,” said the other cop. Davis looked over at his partner and frowned. “Don’t tell me what to do, Bill.” He pulled his gun and jammed it in Walter’s mouth. “Talk.” The other cop rushed over, grabbed the lieutenant, and pulled him off the beaten man. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you can’t murder the man in cold blood, Jim.” Davis glared at his partner. “I don’t like a chink that won’t talk.” “That man told you all he knows. You’ve beaten him half to death. If he knew anything, he would’ve told ya, for Christ’s sakes.” Bill brushed off Davis’s uniform and gave the man a smile. “What say you we go nigger hunting on Central?”

The suggestion of mistreating blacks appealed to Lieutenant Davis. He patted his partner on the shoulder. “Good idea. A nigger is always more entertaining than a barrel of fuckin’ chinks.” The two cops got back in the patrol car and drove off. Walter Sing crawled back to his car and drove home.

***

Sean came to see Walter the following day at his home. Walter looked like a bus hit him. His face was swollen and purple. His right arm was in a cast. Sean sat down next to the bed. Walter gazed at his friend through his one good eye. “I should have listened to you.” Sean took Walter’s hand. “Davis will pay. I promise.”

34

Deacon Isaiah

Marcellus stood in the wings and peered through the curtains. The theater was full. He smiled to himself. Coming under the wing of Minister Williams had been the luckiest break he’d had in years. After Sean McGuire had dismissed him as his driver, Marcellus was lost. He’d had no job and no car. In Southern California, that was like having one’s legs cut off. There were the trolleys, but Marcellus preferred to avoid them. Even in Los Angeles, there was an unwritten rule that blacks rode in the back and gave up their seats when necessary. Marcellus was a proud man. His grandfather had African blood. Aristotle was dead. The quake and fire changed so much. That life was gone. Marcellus floated from job to job. He was working at a gas station when he met Reverend Williams, and that had changed his life. The Reverend’s car had overheated. He told Marcellus about the church while the younger man installed a new radiator hose on the Reverend’s car. It wasn’t that Marcellus had changed. He hadn’t. He was still looking for a fast way to make a quick buck. Marcellus had the chameleonlike quality to be what others wanted him to be. He discovered once leaving San Francisco he could easily adapt to new circumstances. Attending church didn’t mean Marcellus had given up his desire to raise hell with women, drink whiskey, and play hot jazz. He merely channeled his energy in a different direction. Marcellus transformed himself into Deacon Isaiah, a preacher of some repute. Plenty of women came to church, and Deacon Isaiah was more than happy to minister to them in their hour of need. He played the piano but kept his playing to church hymns. He established the Church of Our Savior in a small building that had once been a dry-goods store. In less than a year, the congregation outgrew the church. Deacon Isaiah moved his congregation and ministry to Central Avenue. It continued to grow. The folks in the black community liked the deacon.

David Wark Griffith released The Clansman just as Deacon Isaiah came into his own. Marcellus knew that attacking the film and its director would garner attention. The movie was indeed racist, playing on the white man’s fear of black men ravishing their women, with white actors in blackface portraying Negroes. Deacon Isaiah hooked his star to Griffith’s and preached against the film. Griffith changed the title of his film to Birth of a Nation. It didn’t matter. Deacon Isaiah continued his attacks on the director. Hundreds of blacks picketed Clune’s Auditorium when the film premiered. The Chicago Defender even sent a reporter to cover the event. The collection basket became heavier and heavier. Marcellus liked the flickers. He especially enjoyed Jack Taylor’s westerns. Deacon Isaiah, on the other hand, spoke out against the new industry that was polluting Los Angeles. More press followed. Marcellus saw no point in giving up a good thing. As Deacon Isaiah’s reputation grew, so did his desire for the finer things. Marcellus had a comfortable home and a bright red Chevrolet. That evening was the culmination of all his efforts. Deacon Isaiah had rented Dunlap Auditorium. He would stage an elaborate service that included a choir of twenty-eight voices singing hymns. He would play the piano and preach a sermon of hellfire and damnation upon Hollywood. With followers in the hundreds Marcellus planned to use that power to shakedown the studios. Avalon Newsome, a young woman with a voluptuous figure, came up and tapped Deacon Isaiah on the shoulder. The preacher turned. Avalon held out a folder. “I have your sermon. I thought you might want to go over it.” Deacon Isaiah smiled. “How thoughtful, my child. Yes, I would like to give it a run-through. Your assistance would be most appreciated.” The preacher took the young woman by the hand and led her down the stairs to his dressing room. Deacon Isaiah opened the door and, with a gallant sweep of his hand, said, “Please, my dear, make yourself comfortable.” Avalon entered. Deacon Isaiah closed the door behind him. He took the folder and placed it on the small table in front of the mirror. The preacher looked at Avalon and asked, “Do you believe in our Lord Jesus, my dear?” “Oh yes.”

“Do you believe that Jesus will forgive your sins if you accept him as your Savior?” “Yes,” Avalon answered in earnest. Deacon Isaiah put his arms around the young woman. He clutched her close and kissed her hard on the lips. Avalon didn’t push away at first. Deacon Isaiah had discovered that was the case with most of the women he saved. The young woman suddenly began to resist and pushed away. Deacon Isaiah did not fight. “Oh, my Lord, Deacon Isaiah.” The preacher flashed a friendly smile. “My child, we have done nothing wrong. I am the vessel of our Savior, Jesus. I shall take your sins upon me. You will be washed clean in our Lord’s forgiveness.” Deacon Isaiah watched the woman’s eyes. At the appropriate moment, he clutched her close and kissed her again. “Oh, Deacon, I want Jesus to wash away my sins!” Avalon exclaimed, breathless. Deacon Isaiah worked his hand up and clutched Avalon’s breast. “He shall, my dear. Jesus will wash them all away.” “Oh Lord,” Avalon moaned. “God is great, my dear.” Deacon Isaiah turned the young woman around so she was facing the mirror. He lifted her skirts, tore her undergarments, and entered her in a single thrust. For the next three minutes, Avalon called upon God, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost. Deacon Isaiah attempted to quiet her for fear her cries might be heard. Avalon had a body shaped like a cello. She gripped the deacon’s manhood so that he thought he actually saw God as he spent his seed. Finished, Deacon Isaiah quickly pulled out and zipped up his fly. “Come, my dear. It is getting late, and I do need to get ready.”

Avalon tried to straighten herself up. As Deacon Isaiah ushered her toward the door, she turned and asked, “Am I saved, Deacon Isaiah?” The minister flashed a smile and replied, “Yes, you are,” and he quickly closed the door on the young woman. Ten minutes later, Deacon Isaiah strode upon the stage and stood in front of a packed auditorium. He preached hellfire and damnation upon those who sinned and especially those who made movies. They were the disciples of the devil. Those who went to see them were aiding the devil. He heaped praise upon those who forsook Satan and accepted Jesus as their Savior. The choir sang. The preacher played piano. The crowd rose. They danced and sang in joy. Joseph Royal stood at the rear of the auditorium and observed the services. He watched as hundreds raised their voices in a righteous “Amen.” Joseph made sure to remain unobtrusive as the audience clapped, sang, and danced in the aisles. Before the services were over, he left the auditorium as the congregation continued to sing the praises of Jesus and the righteousness of Deacon Isaiah.

35

Over There

The bombs burst, exploded, and shattered the earth with a thunderous roar. The German artillery kept up the barrage for two hours. It was always the same. The Germans started their artillery fire at exactly 0900. The British would respond as soon as the Germans ceased fire. At 1300, all artillery fire stopped. The British were as punctual as a Swiss watch. They would cease their barrage, take tea, and then send their troops over the top to charge the German line. It was a line that had held for three long and deadly years. Occasionally, the Germans would charge the Allies. It was the war to end all wars. It was the Great War. It was a war between cousins. It was a war of unprecedented carnage and devastation, led by men of little imagination and immense hubris. Michael McGuire sat huddled in the dugout, smoking a cigarette. Dust and dirt fell on top of the soldiers’ helmets. The wooden s creaked as the shells exploded. Michael had been in Europe for nearly a year. It was now April, and the rain never seemed to stop, even when the bombing did. Michael had expected to fight a gallant war, as his grandfather did against the Californios decades ago. Instead, Michael found disease, death, destruction, filth, and monotony. There was no valor or glory in watching men die of fever, dysentery, and influenza, as many in his unit had. The British officers were arrogant and ignorant. They didn’t seem to care how many men they sacrificed in order to gain three yards of ground. The American officers were only better in that they didn’t force their men quite as frequently to go over the top and charge in the face of enemy machine gun fire. Michael was surprised to find so many Irish serving in the British army. He knew his grandfather considered them traitors to Erin and would have shot every one of them if he’d had a chance. Michael fought side by side with those men. He didn’t consider them traitors. Michael learned to keep to himself and not make many friendships. When he

knew little of the man next to him, it didn’t affect his morale quite as badly when that man got shot. Michael witnessed many men die horribly. They were shot, blown to bits by mortar fire and incinerated by blowtorch. He had seen gassed men gasping for air and coughing blood, their skin blistered from the toxic fumes. One of the worst incidents Michael witnessed involved a soldier that his company came upon while on a forced march. The soldier was caught in a muddy bog, glued waste deep in thick muck. The squad’s efforts to extract the soldier without being caught in the bog were fruitless. After a number of attempts, the sergeant ordered the squad to move on. Three days later, Michael’s squad ed the bog on their return to camp. The soldier was still stuck, now nearly up to his neck. Only his head and shoulders were visible. The soldier raved like a man, beseeching the soldiers to shoot him. The squad marched on, and eventually, they could no longer hear the soldier’s cries. Life in the trenches was one of monotony, hunger, and filth. Men too sick to make it to the latrines pissed and shit themselves where they lay. Rats were everywhere. They gnawed on the fingers and feet of those too sick to fight them off. The dead were fair game. It was not uncommon to find the face of a soldier who had died during the night half eaten away by vermin the following morning. Lice were everywhere as well. Michael and many other soldiers kept their heads shaved in order to ward off the lice, but they still turned up. A soldier found a wound on his leg infested with lice. He was finally sent to the hospital when the leg oozed with a gangrenous puss and smelled worse than the overflowing latrines. Food was intermittent. When it was available, it was frequently nothing more than soup or beans. Michael had grown up on a diet of coffee and beans. The rations served were strictly for sustenance. Sleep was a luxury. Often faced with long marches, the men grabbed a few minutes of sleep where and when they could. There were no glorious charges like the one Sean had led against the Californios. There was going over the top, which meant that a man had slightly better than a 20 percent chance of making it back alive and unharmed. Some men went mad. Some ate their guns. Others would ascend the ladder and enter no-man’s-land, knowing full well the German machine guns would cut them down like timber. Letters from home were treasured. Michael kept his family at a distance. He

wrote to his mother twice while fighting the war: once when he first arrived in and once at Christmas. Michael discarded the letters his mother sent. He knew the only way he would survive that hell was to leave the outside world behind. It was a world of horror. Sean didn’t write. Michael had chosen to go to war against his grandfather’s wishes. Now he had to live with that decision. Michael was fortunate. He did not contract the influenza, and the only wound he received was a graze from a bullet. Michael kept to himself and killed Germans. Sometimes, out of sheer boredom, Michael would slip out of camp and go kill the Boches on his own. The shelling stopped. There would be no charge that day. The rain had made noman’s-land a mud swamp. The area between the two lines was a little less than a hundred yards. The real estate between had been blown to smithereens. Craters the size of houses pockmarked the ground. Barbed wire was strewn across the area. Dead horses, dogs, and men littered the field. The stench of rotting bodies filled the air. The craters filled with water as the rain fell. Many soldiers perished simply by falling into one and drowning. The British and French continued to waste men as if they grew on trees. The Americans weren’t as cavalier. Pershing left the decision to charge up to company commanders. Thankfully, Captain Theodore Hanley, the officer in charge of Michael’s company, was the cautious type. He ordered his men to remain in the trenches until the rain let up. The only sound was of the rain splashing in the muddy trenches. Often, the men were forced to listen to the cries of their wounded comrades coming from noman’s-land but not that day. Michael knew that whoever might have been alive out there most likely had drowned. He walked over to the door of the hut, took a drag off his cigarette, exhaled, and entered the dugout. Corporal Chris Shaw cashed out of the card game he had been playing with three other soldiers. He got up and walked over to Michael. Shaw was the same age as Michael and had a thin, wiry physique. “We sure caught a break with this rain,” said Shaw. Michael took a drag off his smoke. “How’s that?”

“We’re hunkered down. No going over the top today.” “No dead Germans either,” Michael replied. Shaw gave Michael a questioning look. “What you got against the Germans, Sarge? Where I come from, we got plenty of Germans living there—decent folks.” Michael flicked the butt on the dirt floor and ground it out with his boot. “I’ve got nothing against Germans. It is very simple. We’re in a war with . If we kill more Germans than they kill of our men, we win. If we win, we go home.” The corporal scratched his jaw. “When you put it that way, I suppose it makes sense. I just never understood why we’re over here killing Germans. My best friend back home is German.” “ the Lusitania,” Michael replied, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. He reached into his pocket, took out a pack of smokes, and offered one to the corporal, who declined. He took one for himself, took out a silver lighter, and lit the cigarette. “Where you from, Corporal?” “Wisconsin, sir.” “Your family own a farm?” Shaw grinned. “Yes, sir, we own a dairy. We make the best cheese in the state. Won first place three years in a row at the state fair before the war.” “Congratulations, Corporal. Why’d you up?” Shaw looked at Michael and said emphatically, “I was drafted.” Michael chuckled and patted the corporal on the shoulder. “Just keep your head down, and never volunteer. You’ll do all right and make it home to that farm of yours.” “What about you, sir, if you don’t mind my asking? Were you drafted?” Michael took a drag off his cigarette and stared out the doorway. “No, Corporal.

I ed when President Wilson blew his bugle. I wanted to see what the war was like. I have become quite skilled in killing men.” Shaw looked at Michael for a moment and then quietly retreated back to the table where the soldiers were playing cards. The rain continued throughout the day and slowed to a drizzle by evening. A strange calmness had taken over the unit. Most of the men had drifted off to sleep where they sat or crouched. Michael stripped down to his skivvies and slathered mud on his body. Once he was covered from head to foot, Michael buckled a belt that carried a sizeable bowie knife in a leather sheath. He retrieved a bow and a quiver of arrows he had made and hidden in the trench. Michael slipped the bow over his shoulder, and silently crept up the ladder and over the top. Michael had learned tracking from his grandfather and John Bear. He’d learned how to make himself invisible and silently come up on his quarry. This was no different from going after a grizzly as far as Michael was concerned. He silently made his way across no-man’s-land. Michael crept up and found himself just feet away from a German machine gun nest. The two soldiers sat at ease in the foxhole, content that the Allies wouldn’t mount a charge that night. Michael removed the bow and slithered forward on his belly. He could hear the two men talking in hushed tones and laughing. One had his back to him. Michael crept closer. He put the bow around the neck of the soldier whose back was turned and pulled. At the same time, he rolled into the foxhole and slit the other soldier’s throat before he could let out a cry. Michael turned and threw his knife, sticking the first soldier in the heart. The German gave out a muffled cry of pain and collapsed in the foxhole. Michael kissed the ground. “Klaus, alles in Ordnung?” called a voice from outside the foxhole. “Ja.” “Was sind Sie und Herman zu tun? Es klang wie jemand verletzt wurde.” “Ja, wir ruhig sein.” Michael knew a little German and hoped his response would stop any further investigation. He could tell the voice came from the left of his position, but he had no idea the distance. Michael waited. When no further questions came, he disabled the machine gun by removing the ordinance belt,

jamming mud into the mechanism, and then replacing the belt. He tossed a rock to his left across no-man’s-land. There was a sudden burst of light as the soldiers operating the nest opened fire in the direction of the noise and unknowingly gave up his position. Michael slipped out of the foxhole and crawled toward the nest. It didn’t take long to locate. One soldier stood peering through a pair of binoculars. The other sat ready with the machine gun. Michael notched two arrows in the bow. He slowly got up and crouched behind a bush. He let the first arrow fly and instantly followed with the second. The first arrow pierced the throat of the soldier who was standing. The soldier manning the machine gun turned. The second arrow caught him squarely in the chest. Michael let a third arrow fly. It found its target in the soldier’s chest as well. The man slumped forward without a whimper. Michael would have liked to retrieve the arrows but didn’t. It was too risky. He slung the bow over his shoulder and quickly retreated back across no-man’sland. As he approached the American side, a soldier standing guard pointed his rifle in Michael’s direction. “Identify yourself,” said the guard. “Geronimo.” “Who pitches for Boston?” asked the guard. “Ruth,” Michael replied as he casually walked up to the guard. The soldier was shocked to see Sergeant McGuire muddy and wearing only his BVDs, with a bow and a quiver of arrows in his hand. He mutely saluted as Michael marched past him to the trench and dugout.

36

The Argument

It was a beautiful spring day as William McGrath and Sean rode down Highway 1 in the Garford. The sky was a deep blue, and the clouds danced like giant white hippopotamus high above the California coast. Just a few miles north of Santa Monica, Sean indicated for McGrath to pull over. Sean got out and looked at the open lot that abutted the highway. He nodded approvingly. “This is where the new Continental is going to be built.” McGrath had worked for Sean for more than a decade. He was accustomed to his employer’s seemingly rash moves. Experience had taught him that Sean was anything but a rash man. “What about the place in Venice?” “Walter Sing is right. The place is nothing more than a warehouse that we slapped some paint on. I want the Continental to be a class operation. It was before Davis and his bloody coppers trashed it.” “That’s going to take some cash. Most of yours is tied up on the street right now. If we start pulling it in, word will get around real fast. That could be dangerous,” said McGrath. “I don’t plan to jeopardize our street operations. That is the one source of income we can count on. I’m going to use the Oso Negro as collateral. This has to be completely aboveboard.” McGrath looked at Sean. “What’s Jenny going to say?” Sean chuckled. “Jenny will go along. The ranch isn’t important to her. She has all but moved back into my place. Spends her entire day downtown, doing God knows what. At least she had the brains to give up that damn actor. Don’t worry. Jenny will not be a problem.”

“Ward and Olivia could fight you. They both have shares.” Sean nodded. “That would be foolish. The Oso Negro is mine. I plan to see the Continental be a proper place again.” Sean looked at the lot, iring it. He stretched out his arm and pointed toward the cliffs. “The restaurant will be on the first floor—nothing but the best. The second floor will house the casino. There’s even room for an apartment above the restaurant. That will be Michael’s home.” McGrath looked out at the ocean and remained silent. Except for the letter Olivia had received the previous Christmas, no one had heard a word about Michael. A lone swimmer was in the water. He swam parallel to the shore toward the Santa Monica Pier. McGrath turned back. Sean was standing silently with a smile on his face. “You may think me mad, William, but I have always taken care of the family and dealt harshly with those who sought to destroy it,” Sean said as he climbed into the car. McGrath got in on the driver’s side. “Where to now, Mr. McGuire?” “The Oso Negro. I’ve got an interview with that pesky reporter. He claims he’ll turn me into a legend. That could be quite good for business.” McGrath put the car in gear, and the Garford sped down the highway.

***

Ward Howard fumed. “What do you mean we’re nearly out of containers and feed? Didn’t Jenny put in an order and send somebody to pick up the damn containers, Butch?” He was standing in the dairy barn with one of the hands. Howard had just returned the previous evening from selling and buying stock up north. This was his first morning to inspect the ranch. Butch Standell, a lean cowboy, shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Howard, but Jenny

ain’t been spending much time at the ranch anymore. With you up in Sacramento this month, things just sorta got behind, I guess.” Ward frowned. He knew Jenny had been losing interest in the ranch for some time. She now stayed at Sean’s house in Beverly Hills. Ward hadn’t said anything. He knew their marriage wasn’t in the best shape, but they had Emily. The young girl remained at the ranch under Olivia’s care. “Well, you and Scott ride over to the warehouse and pick us up two dozen containers,” said Ward. Butch tipped his hat and hurried away. Ward exited the barn and marched into the adobe. One day back, and he was quickly becoming aware that there were a number of holes to plug in the leaky dike. A scan of the ranch’s books confirmed Ward’s suspicions: no bills had been paid, and no orders had been made. The dairy had run on its own for the month he was gone. Ward closed the books and marched into the kitchen. Oliva was showing Emily how to mix batter in a bowl. “Daddy, Auntie is helping me make pancakes!” the child exclaimed with joy. “That’s wonderful, Emily. Would you mind seeing if you can find Jasper? Tell him he needs to check the east fence.” “Sure, Daddy,” Emily replied, and she scurried out of the kitchen. Ward looked at Olivia. “How long has Jenny been gone?” Olivia was silent for a long moment. “This is business, Olivia. I need to know how long Jenny has been gone. It appears there’s been no one running the ranch since I left.” “She left the afternoon you took the train north.” He looked at Olivia in disbelief. “And she hasn’t been home since?” Olivia shifted her gaze to the floor and shook her head.

“Son of a bitch!” Ward instantly caught himself. “I’m sorry, Olivia.” Olivia was silent. “Well, you can be sure I’m gonna get to the bottom of this,” he barked. “If you show me how to handle the books, I will do that for you,” said Olivia. “It ain’t your job. And it ain’t your job to be looking after Emily.” “I don’t mind. Emily and I get along just fine.” “That’s not the point. It’s Jenny’s job to see after the girl. I’ve got to go to Fallbrook on business. I’ll be back this evening. If Jenny calls, tell her to get home and stay put.” Ward didn’t wait for a response. He marched out of the kitchen and exited the adobe. As he walked to the Chevy, he spotted Butch. “Butch, let Jasper know the east fence is okay.” “Will do.” Ward got in the Chevy and drove down the long drive. Some of the old locals said the ghosts of Don Pico’s men who had perished there still haunted the Oso Negro. Ward didn’t believe in folktales, but he knew the Oso Negro had taken a bad turn, and Jenny was in part responsible. Ward was an old cowboy who didn’t know how to do anything else. He had worked the Oso Negro for nearly thirty years. He had watched Sean sell off sections to cover business deals. It hadn’t been his place to say anything at the time. Now he was married to Jenny, who held a 35 percent share in the Oso Negro. The ranch was barely a shadow of its former size. As Ward turned onto the road that ran from the drive, he pointed the car in the direction of town. The meeting with the rancher in Fallbrook would have to wait. Jenny needed to answer for her absence, and Sean needed to be made aware of the critical state the ranch had reached.

***

Like two ships ing in the night, Ward Howard and Sean McGuire missed each other as they headed in opposite directions. William McGrath drove up the long drive and parked the Garford near the corrals. Butch Standell got off his horse and informed Sean about his conversation with Ward. When Sean and McGrath entered the adobe, Olivia filled in the gaps of Ward’s ire. Sean went to the library and studied the books. McGrath stood silently in the doorway. “Damn!” Sean exclaimed, slamming the book shut. “Jenny has shirked her duties. She may not live at the ranch, but the girl damn well needs to manage it.” He looked at McGrath. “Why don’t you go have a drink while I talk to this reporter? Pick me up in two hours.” McGrath tipped his hat and exited the adobe. Olivia came into the library and announced that a Thomas Reagan was waiting in the front room. Sean pulled out his watch and checked it. “The man is punctual; I’ll give him that. Please show him to the courtyard. I’ll be right out.” Olivia smiled. “Certainly.” She turned and walked back down the hall. Olivia was smart enough to know she didn’t understand the management of the ranch. She had an eighth-grade education. She was ignorant of politics. Her world was the Oso Negro’s adobe. She ran the kitchen and saw to the care of the house. Olivia was content with that world. It was safe. Olivia made her way to the front room, where the reporter waited. She asked Reagan to follow her and led him out to the courtyard. She gestured to a chair under the large magnolia tree. “Please sit. Mr. McGuire will be out shortly. Would you care for tea or coffee?” Tom Reagan took a seat. “Thank you, but I’m fine.” Olivia bowed her head and returned inside the adobe.

A moment later, a pair of French doors opened, and Sean McGuire walked out to the courtyard. He shook hands with the reporter. “It is truly an honor to meet you, sir,” said Reagan. “You may care to change that observation later,” Sean glibly replied. Reagan chuckled. “I can assure you nothing you say will shock me.” The two men sat down across from each other under the large magnolia. “My daughter said you were interested in talking to me. Why?” “You are the last man standing of the old Los Angeles. You fought in the Bear Flag Revolt. You rode with Kit Carson and knew General Grant. You are a part of history.” Sean arched an eyebrow. “You make me sound like an old war monument standing in some park.” “Quite the contrary, Mr. McGuire. You are a living and breathing legend. I want to get your story the way you care to tell it.” “What if I don’t care to tell it?” Reagan looked Sean directly in the eye. “That would be a shame, sir. This will not be some dime novel. It would be your story in your own words.” Sean laughed. “Jaysus, you’ve the gift of wind. It’s a good thing it es out the top rather than the rear. Jenny said you were a talker, but she never said you slung it like a farmer fertilizing his crops.” “You should be very proud of your daughter.” “Why is that?” “Because of her work with the NWP and the women’s clinic.” Sean now knew where Jenny was spending her time. He kept a straight face. “Yes, quite.”

The reporter looked at Sean. “Shall we begin?” “Certainly,” Sean replied. There was a long and painful silence. Reagan cleared his throat. “What would you like to tell me?” “What would you like to know?” “I want to know about the—” “You want to know how many men I shot,” Sean said, cutting the reporter off. “Well, Mr. McGuire, while that may be a colorful part of your story, I can assure you that I am interested in discovering the real you. Why did you shoot those men? How did it make you feel after you killed them?” Sean held up his hand, cutting Reagan off. “I shot ’em because they would’ve shot me or a friend of mine.” “Then those men, they deserved it in your eyes?” Sean met Reagan’s gaze with a steely glare. “We all deserve it, Mr. Reagan.” Reagan was taken aback for a moment but quickly regained his focus. “Yes, I suppose so. People say you’re a man of grit and honor.” A slight smile slipped across Sean’s lips. “They do? I always thought most folks considered me a son of a bitch. Certainly, your editor and his cronies do.” “You don’t care for them, do you?” “Hell, that isn’t news, Mr. Reagan. Otis Grayson was a bastard. Harry Chapman is a bigger bastard.” “Why?” “I didn’t steal to get what’s mine. I can’t help that this land once belonged to the Indians before I came here. Hell, when I arrived, the Mexicans were killing Indians. Chapman, Huntington, Rockefeller—they are thieves. They’re no

different from Jesse James or John Wesley Harding, only the law protects them. The law protects them because they own the politicians that write the law. Fifty years ago, anybody could’ve shot each of those bastards, and nobody would’ve blinked an eye. They might’ve even given the man who did it a medal.” “Do you miss that type of frontier justice?” “We have telephones, cars, and moving pictures, and they call it progress. When a man can steal what belongs to another man as long as he has a el of lawyers and politicians in his pocket, that isn’t progress. That’s the law of the jungle. If that’s the arena you care to play in, then you shouldn’t be surprised if another man takes exception.” “Are you advocating assassination?” “No. President Lincoln was assassinated. I’m talking about exterminating vermin.” “You didn’t answer the question.” “I’ve had two rules that I’ve lived by, Mr. Reagan: never curse another man, and never lay hands upon him. I expect to be treated the same.” “Then the men you shot—it was justified?” “You don’t see me sitting in a jail cell.” “What about your position in the community?” Sean laughed. “What position? I it that at one point, we were included in Los Angeles society. They had to include us. We had money, and there weren’t enough people living in this city who had that kind of money. The city grew and now we don’t have that kind of money.” “What happened to your wealth?” “Bad investments.” Sean heard a car drive up and recognized the sound as Jenny’s Buick. He got up. “If you will please excuse me.” Reagan stood. “Certainly. Could we continue at a later date?”

Sean waved the reporter off. “Write what you want. Make me a legend. If I don’t like it, I’ll shoot you. How’s that sound?” Reagan forced a nervous smile. “I’ll be sure to show you a rough draft, sir.” Sean nodded as he walked away and left the reporter in the courtyard. Jenny was in the library when Sean walked in. She was hunched over the desk with the books open. “Well, at least you have the sense to deal with the business of running this ranch,” said Sean. Jenny looked up. “It’s good to see you too, Father.” “Might I inquire why so much of your time is taken up with the suffragettes when you have a business to run?” “It’s important work,” Jenny said, not missing a beat. Sean scratched his jaw. “So’s running a ranch. If you’re not up to it, speak up. You don’t just go and leave the place to run itself like some half-wit.” “So, I’m a half-wit now?” Sean realized he had spoken rashly and held up his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Jenny stood. She placed her hands on her hips and glared at her father. “How did you mean it? I don’t see you taking care of ranch business.” Sean nodded in agreement. “You’re right.” He walked over and put his arms around his daughter. “I am sorry, darling. I love you more than anything. You know that.” Jenny looked up at Sean. “Then don’t mock the work I’m doing.” Sean backed away with his arms up. “I won’t say another word. Frankly, I’m glad you finally got rid of that actor.” Jenny gave her father a surprised look.

Sean chuckled. “I may be old, but I’ve still got a few teeth left, darlin’. There isn’t much that goes on in this household your Da isn’t aware of.” Jenny brushed a lock of hair back. “Danny Doyle was a lark. That’s been over for months. The work I do is important.” Sean patted Jenny on the shoulder. “I’m sure it is. I’ve got nothing against giving women the vote.” Jenny put her hands on her hips again and met her father’s gaze. “I’m sure all the ladies at NWP will be happy to know that.” Sean looked at his daughter with iration. “You’re the spitting image of your mother, Jenny. She would’ve given me what-for if I didn’t what you’re doing—that’s for sure.” “Good. Then we will not have any further discussion about this?” Sean reached into his coat and took out his checkbook. “I’ll even write you a check.” Jenny put her hand up. “You don’t have to. You don’t have the money.” Sean gave his daughter a questioning look. “I know you are planning on building a new club. I know you’ve taken a loan out against the ranch, which tells me you are short of capital.” Sean laughed and slapped his knee. “There isn’t much going on with your business that I’m not aware of,” said Jenny with a caustic tone. “Apparently not. I will leave you to your books then. Shall I expect you for dinner?” “No, I’ll stay at the ranch tonight and get this in order.” “Fine.” Sean leaned over and kissed Jenny on the top of her head. “Never forget I love you and will always look out for your best interests.”

Jenny held her father’s hand. “I know.” William McGrath was waiting for Sean when he exited the adobe. The two men drove back to Los Angeles and didn’t say a word. McGrath dropped Sean at his house in Beverly Hills and drove to his residence, a bungalow on Rodney Avenue.

***

Hours later, Ward Howard arrived back at the Oso Negro. He was angry and drunk. He nearly crashed the Chevy into the corral when he barreled up the drive and hung a left. Howard had driven to Los Angeles for the purpose of confronting his wife and informing Sean of the state of matters. He hadn’t accomplished either task. He’d been unable to locate Jenny. He had no idea what she did in town or who her friends were, so he’d driven around. Frustrated, he’d driven to Sean’s house. No one was home, so he’d gotten in the Chevy and driven back to the Oso Negro. He’d stopped off at Jake’s Saloon on Colorado Boulevard and had a beer. That had led to another, which had led to shots of rye. By the time Ward Howard arrived home, he was feeling no pain and was as angry as a badger that had been poked in the eye. Howard stumbled out of the car and tromped into the adobe. Jenny came out of the library when she heard the noise. “So, you finally returned,” he slurred. “I’ve been back since this afternoon. Father was here and—” Howard waved Jenny off. “I don’t give a damn about your father. Where were you?” He thrust an accusatory finger at her. Jenny frowned. “You’re drunk.” “You’re damn right I’m drunk. You still haven’t answered my question. Where the hell have you been for the last month?”

“I live in town.” “What the hell for? Isn’t the ranch good enough for you?” Jenny stepped forward and attempted to take Howard’s hand. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed. You’re going to wake up Olivia and Emily.” Howard yanked his arm from Jenny’s grasp. “The hell you say.” He grabbed Jenny by the arm and pulled her close. “Are you going to answer me, or do I need to beat it out of you?” Jenny pushed her husband and broke free of his grasp. “I was working. I have a job.” “Working! Your job is here. What kind of job? What man would hire you?” Jenny glared at him. It was as if the last years of their marriage had swollen to a burning blister that was now erupting with pus. “No man hired me. I work for the National Woman’s Party and volunteer at the women’s clinic.” Howard looked at Jenny as if she had just told him she’d slept with the entire USC varsity squad. “The women’s clinic? There’s nothing but whores there.” “I beg your pardon. The clinic services poor women who can’t afford a doctor,” Jenny snapped. Howard’s eyes were filled with rage. “Whores—it’s a known fact. You would rather help some harlot than take care of your daughter and the ranch.” Jenny fixed her husband with an icy look. “I’m not going to argue with you, Ward. You’re drunk and a damn fool.” “A fool, am I? You’re running around with whores and suffragettes instead of taking care of business, and you call me a fool.” “You are a damn fool, Ward. It is because of Emily that I am doing this. I want a better life for my daughter than some shit-kicking cowboy will give her.”

Howard reared back and slapped Jenny hard across the face, knocking her to the floor. Jenny glared hate. She rubbed her cheek, which had reddened, and stood up. “That was the last time you will ever do that. As far as your precious ranch goes, Father has taken out a loan against it. Your days are numbered, and you’re too dumb to realize it.” “Mommy, are you okay?” Jenny turned and saw Emily standing in the hallway. She ran over to her daughter and hugged her. “I’m fine, darling.” Emily rubbed her eyes. “You and Daddy were shouting. It woke me up.” Jenny patted Emily on the head. “We were just discussing business, sweetheart.” She glared daggers at Howard. “Daddy is leaving.” “Where’s he going?” asked Emily. Jenny scooped up her daughter. “He has to go away on business. Come on. Let’s get you back in bed.” The mother and daughter disappeared down the hall. When Jenny returned, Howard was still standing in the front room. “I guess subtlety isn’t your forte, Mr. Howard. I want you out of this house.” He gave a sneering chuckle. “You can’t fire me. Your father hired me. I work for him.” Jenny held a hard expression. “You may be the foreman, but you will never sleep in my bed again.” Howard grabbed Jenny and shook her. “You are my wife and will do as I say.” Jenny broke free. She grabbed a knife that was sitting on the end table. “If you touch me again, I’ll kill you.” Howard went to grab Jenny. In a single swift move, Jenny sliced his hand, spun,

and came up under him with the blade touching his throat. “I’ll slit your throat, you son of a bitch,” said Jenny between clenched teeth. Ward Howard put his arms out in surrender and backed away. Jenny stood there holding the knife as Howard backed out the front door. The house was silent. Jenny shook with anger. She threw the knife, and the blade quivered as it embedded deep into the wooden door. A moment later, Jenny composed herself. She wiped her eyes and walked down the hall to the library. She left the knife sticking in the door.

37

That’s Show Business

Just beyond a wooded thicket, two men, one with a dark mustache and the other with a full beard, tied a young woman to the train tracks. Suddenly, Jack Taylor galloped out of the woods astride a beautiful white stallion. His six guns blazed. Jack shot the two kidnappers. He jumped from his horse, untied the young woman, and carried her off the rail tracks. A locomotive belching a thick cloud of smoke roared down the tracks moments later. Jack set the young woman down. She put her arms around her rescuer and went to kiss him. The cowboy turned his head and looked at the stallion. The majestic looking horse made a face and whinnied. “Cut and print!” shouted Bert Prewitt, who sat in the director’s chair. He looked at the cameraman, Connie Coleman, who was twenty-two, good looking with a friendly smile and a great eye for framing. Coleman gave him a thumbs-up affirmation. Jack Taylor patted the stallion on the nose. “This guy is great. Best actor in town —next to me.” A few of the crew chuckled politely. Prewitt and Coleman conferred for a moment. Finally, the director turned and looked at the crew. “All right, extras and stunt people only. We’re going to shoot inserts. All principles, it’s a wrap for today.” He turned to Jack Taylor. “Get some sleep, and no carousing. We’re shooting close-ups tomorrow, and I don’t want you hungover.” Jack waved the director off. “Don’t you worry.” He gestured to his eye. “These baby browns will be looking bright and shiny for your camera.” Prewitt glanced at Coleman, who held a sly smile on his face. The director shook

his head in resignation. “Okay, Jack. By the way, stop by the studio. Mr. Royal wants to see you.” Jack gave a salute. “Got it.” The trainer took the reins and led the stallion away as the rest of the crew broke down their gear and moved to the next location. A Pierce-Arrow pulled up. The driver got out and held the door open for Jack. Mae Kirkwood, the wardrobe mistress, came over to the car. She was young and blonde and had a figure that was accentuated by her ensemble of men’s pants, a white dress shirt, and a black vest and fedora. A cigarette dangled from her bright red lips. “The hat,” said Mae, holding out her hand. Jack frowned. He loved to drive through town in costume. He removed the large Stetson and handed it to Mae. “If you get a drop of ketchup on that outfit, I’ll brain you, buster. See you mañana, slugger.” Mae turned and walked off to tent that held the actors’ costumes. Jack tilted his head and ired Mae’s rear as she walked off. He looked at the driver. “Do you think Mae is a little …” Jack wiggled his hand. The driver winked. “Heard she likes ladies.” Jack spread a big grin. “So do I. Mae is a corker for sure.” He patted the driver on the shoulder, jumped behind the wheel, and sped away in the Pierce-Arrow. Jack took Hyperion over to the studio lot. Harper studio was now named Royal Studio. Tom Harper had been happy to let Joseph Royal buy him out. He had been getting bored. Harper took his money and invested it in a racehorse. The horse had gotten caught in the pack and fallen on its third race. The horse broke its leg and had to be put down. Harper had sold his studio and lost his horse. He’d had nothing. A week later, Harper was found sitting inside his Chrysler with the motor running and the garage closed. The coroner had called it an accidental death. Joseph Royal had doubled the size of the lot and replaced the rickety open stages and their canvas backdrops with actual soundstages. He’d had an art deco facade

built for the front entrance. In a few short years, Royal Studio had become a player competing with Paramount and MGM. Jack was surprised to see the number of Negroes marching in front of the studio gate. Three dozen or more marched in a circle. Some held placards that read, “Studios Employ Jim Crow,” and “Hire Colored.” Jack wished he had his Stetson to pull down to hide his face as he drove up to the gate. The guard gave him a big smile and waved him through. Joseph Royal’s office was large and stately, with a large mahogany desk. Danny Doyle’s Van Gogh painting hung on an adjacent wall. Royal had won it from Danny, a.k.a. Jack Taylor, in a poker game the previous month. A large crystal vase of white gardenias sat on the coffee table. Two comfortable leather chairs sat on either side of the table. Joseph was sitting behind his desk when his secretary showed Jack Taylor in. The studio head stood and gestured to a chair. “Jack, please have a seat.” Jack sat down in one of the leather chairs. “Quite a crowd outside.” Joseph forced a smile. “Yes.” He resumed his seat behind the large desk. “I want to thank you for coming in this afternoon.” Jack waved the studio head off. Joseph picked up a script from his desk and handed it to Jack. “I’d like you to read this. I think there’s a part for you.” Jack opened the script. “Con … Conistoga.” “Conestoga,” Joseph said. Jack shot the studio head a questioning look. “The Conestoga was the type of wagon the settlers used coming west in their wagon trains,” Joseph replied. “Why don’t we just call it Wagon Train then?” Jack asked innocently. “Conestoga is a bit more evocative, Jack. Please read the script.”

Jack patted the script. “This is a feature.” Joseph nodded. “We figure it will be an eighteen-reeler.” Jack beamed. “We will also raise your salary to $500 dollars a week for the duration of the shoot.” Jack spread a bigger smile. He stood and shook Joseph’s hand. “I’ll read it first thing tonight, Mr. Royal.” “Good. Thank you.” Jack knew the meeting was over. He slipped the script under his arm and exited the studio head’s office. A moment later, the secretary, a plain-looking woman in her thirties, entered the office. She was dressed conservatively and carried a notepad and a pen. “Miss Corwin, please let Mr. Prewitt know he shouldn’t have any problems with Jack Taylor tomorrow. I’m sure he will stay home tonight.” “Are you going to cast him in the lead?” Joseph grinned. “Heavens no. Jack Taylor is thirty. We’re casting a new face: Frank Buck. The kid is from Oklahoma and is the real deal. Buck is only twentytwo. Jack is way too old for the part. He can play the scout at his regular salary of $300 a week.” “What if Mr. Taylor turns down the part?” “We’ll suspend him. No other studio will touch him. Taylor will do the role because it’s the only option he’s got.” Joseph chuckled. “Mr. McGrath is waiting.” “Please send him in.” Miss Corwin gave a nod and exited the office. A moment later, she guided William McGrath into the office, and then she quietly departed, closing the door

after her. “Mr. McGrath, please have a seat.” William McGrath remained standing and handed the studio head a file. “I believe this is the information you wanted.” Joseph opened the file and glanced at its contents. A smile slipped across his face. He looked up at McGrath. “This is accurate?” McGrath responded with silence and a cold look. “I’m sorry to question your veracity. I have to be certain of the facts. I’m sure you understand,” said Joseph. “All information contained in the report is accurate and verifiable.” Joseph closed the file and set it on his desk. “Please tell Mr. McGuire I am grateful for his assistance in this matter.” “Mr. McGuire was happy to show his appreciation. You alerted him to Jenny’s involvement with your actor Danny Doyle.” Joseph gave McGrath a questioning look. “I believe Doyle appears in your films under the name of Jack Taylor,” said McGrath. “Oh. Yes. I hope that worked out for well for Mr. McGuire.” “Yes.” McGrath replied and tipped his hat and silently exited the office. Joseph opened his desk drawer, slipped the file marked, Marcellus Dunning into the drawer, and closed it.

***

A large display of the book The Last Bear by Thomas Reagan stood in the showcase window of Banebrock’s Bookstore on Sunset. Reagan’s eyes danced as he peered through the glass at the display. He strolled inside the store with a smile on his face. Allan Whitaker, the store manager, saw the author and immediately came over. “Mr. Reagan, how nice of you to drop by.” “Good day, Mr. Whitaker. Just thought I’d drop by to see how the book is doing.” Tom Reagan nodded toward the display window. “And, of course, enjoy your wonderful display.” “Of course, we are giving it a prominent position in the store—it’s about one of first families to set roots in our city. I understand it is selling very well back east.” Reagan rocked back on his heels and smiled proudly. “Selling like hotcakes. I’ve been offered a job with Harper’s Magazine.” “That’s wonderful. If you will excuse me, I have to attend to business.” “Certainly.” Whitaker hurried away to the back of the store and his office. Beatrice Gosling, a plain-looking woman, sat at a desk, going over the company’s books. She looked up when the manager hustled into the office, closed the door, and then opened it a crack and peered out. “Is everything all right, Mr. Whitaker?” “It’s that damn writer, Thomas Reagan. This is the third time this month he’s come by.” “Why don’t you tell him his book is a dud?” “Not to the rest of the country. They can’t keep it on the shelves in Chicago and New York.” “Well, in Los Angeles, nobody seems to care about Sean McGuire.”

The manager closed the door and scratched his head. “I don’t understand it. How can a book sell so well everywhere else but not in Los Angeles?”

***

Henry Huntington and Harry Chapman shared a bottle of champagne at the Los Angeles Athletic Club as they played a game of billiards. Chapman was down by ten points. “I must commend you, Harry,” said Huntington as he eyed his shot. “I saw the review of The Last Bear in the Tribune. Beautiful. Your writer couldn’t say a good word about the book.” Chapman puffed on his cigar. “Hacks with Underwoods. They write what they’re told to write if they want a paycheck.” Huntington took a shot and missed. Chapman smiled and studied the table. “I understand the damn book is selling well back east,” said Huntington. Chapman shrugged. “There is only so much this poor publisher can do.” He shot and sank his ball and then chalked his stick. “Reagan has taken a job back east with a magazine. He’ll be forgotten.” The newspaper publisher lined up another shot. “Well, the sooner the better.” Chapman shot and sank a second ball. Huntington winced.

38

The Big Push

The Germans launched the Ludendorff Offensive in the spring. They attacked multiple positions all along the western front, driving back British and French forces. Pershing had yet to bring all of his American troops onto the battlefield. The Americans who were on the line stood their ground. While the Yanks were fewer in numbers, they refused to give up real estate to the Hun. The Germans continued to advance. The British and French stationed their main forces in Amiens and the approaches to the channel ports. The Germans gained territory that was essentially useless. The land was pockmarked with craters from shells. Black skeletons of structures dotted the landscape. The roads were a rutted and a muddy morass. It soon became difficult to supply the quickly advancing army. The storm troopers were unable to carry enough food to sustain them and enough ammunition to continue the fight. The supply lines became bogged down miles behind the army. The German advance slowly ground to a halt. The Allies countered with the Hundred Days Offensive. It began with the Battle of Amiens. Seven divisions attacked in the first phase. The American ThirtyThird Division launched their attack north of the Somme. A gap fifteen miles long was punched in the German line by the end of the first day. German losses for that single day of combat exceeded thirty thousand men. The Allied infantry units quickly outran their artillery . The Germans dug in. They held Chipilly Spur and commanded a wide line of fire south of the Somme. As the Australians under British command advanced, the German machine guns mowed them down like sheaves of wheat. The German Spring Offensive failed, even with the high number of casualties the Allies suffered. Unable to supply many of their forces and incapable of readily communicating with the troops, the Hindenburg Line began to falter. The Allies continued their advance. The Germans, faced with looming defeat, fought

back like rabid animals. In many instances, battle came down to hand-to-hand combat. The Germans lacked ammunition, and the Allies had outrun their own supply line. Men fought with pistols, knives, bayonets, and rocks when necessary. Charred German tanks stood like metal tombstones upon the battlefield, bloated and decaying bodies littered the fields. Both were silent testimonies to the war’s destruction. The American tanks were still in the rear and attempting to catch up with their infantry counterparts. Michael McGuire led his squad across a shattered landscape. He was now a lieutenant. Michael hadn’t sought out an officer’s rank. The sheer loss of life accelerated advancement in the ranks for those who weren’t killed or maimed. He took the rank with deadly seriousness and never sent a soldier over the top unless he led the charge himself. Michael always led his squad on patrol missions. He eschewed the officers’ mess and ate with his men. When alcohol was available, Michael also drank with his men. The soldiers ired Michael. They would walk through the gates of hell if he asked. They knew Lieutenant McGuire had their best interests at heart. Some were alarmed by Michael’s ability to kill the enemy with such precision and lack of emotion, but they still ired him. Every trench they took, Michael chopped the heads from any German officers found and placed them on poles that stood high above the trench. This was a message to the enemy that McGuire’s Yanks were coming. They were testimony of Michael’s wrath for the fleeing German army. It had begun to rain. The gray summer skies gave confirmation of the grim locale. Michael was convinced that it rained three-hundred-sixty days of the year in Europe. Coming from Los Angeles, he was unaccustomed to the volume of precipitation the area received. The inhospitable weather never slowed Michael, or his men. The squad camped the previous evening in an abandoned barn. The farmhouse had been bombed and was uninhabitable. The men gathered their gear that morning as the rain fell on them through the many holes in the roof. Michael and the squad set off on their march. Private Ed Bukowski, a fresh-faced kid from Chicago, took point. Sergeant James Grazzi handled the flank. Grazzi was a tough, stocky soldier who had been with Michael since the beginning of the Allied assault. Grazzi was one of the few men Michael had befriended. The two soldiers recognized their ability for killing Germans and watched each other’s back. They were a tight team.

Michael led the men across the blistered and battered countryside. No birds were in the air; none chirped. The land was devoid of any sound except the muted crunch of leaves under the soldiers’ boots. Michael motioned for the squad to head over a rise. Sergeant Grazzi shifted his position and began walking in the direction indicated. The squad continued toward the rise. Suddenly, a shot rang out. Private Bukowski crumpled to the ground. Half his face was blown away by a slug that struck him squarely. The squad hit the deck as German gunfire broke the silence. There were no trenches. The Americans had little cover. Bullets whizzed just overhead. There was the cry of another man hit. Michael crouched low behind a charred tree stump. He spotted Jimmy Grazzi and motioned for him to give cover. The sergeant jumped up and returned fire toward the rise. Michael sprang to his feet and raced toward a wooded thicket that offered cover. Bullets chased his heels as he grasped his rifle and leaped into the thicket. Using the woods as a cover, Michael began to flank the Germans on the rise. Gunfire continued. Michael crouched low and hurried through the thicket. Suddenly, two Germans came his way. Michael shot the first soldier. The second German was caught off guard. His rifle misfired. Michael flew upon the soldier with his grandfather’s hunting knife. Even though the German was a good three inches taller and forty pounds heavier, he was no match for Michael’s ferocity. He came in low and, in a single swift move, slashed the German soldier’s throat, pivoted, and plunged the blade into his belly. The soldier’s eyes bulged in pain and shock. He gasped and then fell forward, dead. Michael pulled his knife out of the dead soldier and returned it to its sheath. He grabbed his rifle and started toward the rise again. A noise came from his right. Michael spun and aimed his rifle. Sergeant Grazzi gave the lieutenant a grin. Michael motioned to the direction ahead. Jimmy Grazzi nodded. The two men proceeded through the thicket. Grazzi tapped Michael. They stopped. From their vantage point, they could see a machine gun nest manned by two Germans. The sergeant motioned toward a position some twenty yards ahead. Michael shook his head. He motioned for Grazzi to load his rifle and give it to him. Michael took both rifles and crouched low, advancing to a stump only twelve feet away. He positioned the first rifle in a notch in the stump and looked through the sight, adjusting it. He then did the same with the second rifle. He sat waiting.

As soon as the German soldier manning the machine gun leaned into sight, Michael fired. The shot hit the soldier squarely in the chest. The man flopped over the gun. His partner was forced to stand up to move him so he could access the machine gun. Michael grabbed the second rifle, got a bead on the soldier, and fired. The bullet winged the man in the shoulder. The German went down. The soldier struggled to get up and arm the machine gun. Michael pulled his Colt and charged. Sergeant Grazzi grabbed both rifles and followed after the lieutenant. The German hurried to unjam the machine gun and straighten the belt. Michael dashed forward, unmindful of the danger. The soldier slammed the machine gun’s gate closed. He placed his hands on the grips and took aim. Three shots rang out. Two of them hit the German soldier in the chest, and the third and final was a perfect head shot. The soldier fell backward in the nest and evacuated. Michael reloaded his revolver. “Holy mother of Christ!” Jimmy Grazzi exclaimed as he ran up. “That’s some shooting, Lieutenant.” He covered his nose. “Damn, the Heine shit himself.” Michael stopped for a moment. He slowly slipped the Colt back into its holster. He tilted his head. “Gas!” he shouted. They could see a yellow cloud slowly drifting in their direction from over the rise. Neither Michael nor the sergeant had a mask. They turned and ran from the approaching deadly yellow fumes. If they could make it back to the farmhouse, they could hide in the cellar. There was also a cask of water there they could soak rags with to cover their faces. “Back to the farmhouse, Jimmy!” Michael shouted and took off like a rabbit chased by the hounds of hell. Grazzi tried to keep up but was no match for Michael. The stocky soldier became winded and tripped. Michael turned. The yellow cloud was barely forty feet away. The lieutenant raced back and grabbed Grazzi.

“Run, Jimmy, or I’m going to cut off your fucking balls and feed ’em to my dog.” Grazzi looked at the lieutenant. The two men ran. They hit the barn door and fell to the floor just as the yellow cloud enveloped the area. Michael and Jimmy coughed as they crawled across the floor and struggled to open the cellar door. Jimmy Grazzi was coughing and chocking. Michael got the door open, pulled the sergeant in after him, and slammed it shut. It was pitch black. The two Americans tumbled down the steps, falling onto the damp ground of the cellar. Michael got to his knees and vomited. He checked the sergeant, who was unresponsive. Another spasm hit him and racked his body. Michael coughed and vomited again—and then all went black.

39

Lunch

The great influenza pandemic came in the early spring and then seemed to completely vanish after a few months. It returned that summer with a vengeance. Thousands died in America. The fatalities were much higher in Europe. Hospitals were overwhelmed. Cities canceled ball games and public events. Some went to the extreme of closing movie theaters in order to keep the possibility of infection down. Churches were allowed to remain open. City fathers quaked at the thought of enforcing quarantine laws upon the clergy. California wasn’t hit nearly as bad as the Midwest and the eastern states. People were cautious, but they didn’t stop attending movies and ball games in Los Angeles. Emily got sick in the spring, but she was as healthy as a horse during the summer months when the epidemic was at its worst. The virus tore through the country like Sherman’s March to the Sea, leaving death and devastation in its wake. The Oso Negro escaped without a single case among the cowboys. That was one of the few positive occurrences to transpire on the ranch that year. Jenny left Sean’s house and the ranch. She took Emily and they moved into a house on Adams Avenue. Jenny rarely returned to the Oso Negro after that, and only when her presence was required. When she did travel there, Jenny made sure Ward Howard was not around. Howard continued to work as the ranch foreman. He had also gotten Olivia to him in fighting Sean’s decision to mortgage the ranch. It hadn’t taken much effort on Ward’s part. Olivia had been born frightened. She readily acceded to Howard’s entreaties when he pressed the issue and asked Olivia where would she live if the bank foreclosed on the Oso Negro. Olivia had not heard from Michael in nearly two years. No one in the family wanted to it it, but the thought of Michael dying had crossed more than just his mother’s mind. It weighed heavily on the rest of the family as well. With Jenny

and Emily now gone, Olivia felt abandoned. Howard played on her fears and offered her hope. He promised never to sell the ranch, though it wasn’t his to sell in the first place. Olivia was ignorant of such facts. She only knew Ward was in charge and held a thirty-five percent interest in the ranch.

***

The National Woman’s Party office was on the ground floor of a four-story building on Broadway. Sean entered. A woman at the front desk looked up. She was not the matronly type Sean had expected. The woman was younger than Jenny and wore a white waistcoat blouse with a black skirt. She had a white orchid pinned in her hair. “May I help you?” asked the woman. “I’m looking for Jenny Howard.” The woman gave Sean a questioning look. “Jennifer McGuire,” Sean said, correcting himself. “Oh, Miss McGuire’s office is just down the hall on your right.” “Thank you.” Sean tipped his hat and walked down the hall. He smiled when he saw “Jennifer McGuire, Legal Affairs” stenciled on the door’s glass front. Sean knocked and opened the door. Jenny was on the telephone when her father entered. She held up a finger and finished her call. Hanging up the telephone, she looked at Sean. “You never told me you were the NWP’s attorney,” said Sean. “You never asked,” Jenny curtly replied. “We need to talk. Lunch at the Nadeau.” “Give me twenty minutes to wrap things up.”

“Fine.” Sean turned and exited Jenny’s office. He smiled to himself as he left the building and made his way to Spring Street. Kathleen would have been proud of her daughter. Sean felt proud of his daughter as he walked down the block. Jenny was punctual, as usual. She walked into the hotel’s dining room and sat down at the table where her father was already seated and enjoying a gin fizz. A moment later, a waiter walked up, placed a glass of scotch on the table, and disappeared. “I took the liberty of ordering a drink for you,” said Sean. “Thank you.” “I don’t know why you insisted on getting your own place in town,” Sean grumbled. Jenny gave her father a stern look. “Father, let’s not start that again. It was high time Emily and I had our own place. The ranch was fine for a time, but that is not who I am. Besides, Ward is there.” Sean nodded and shifted in his chair uncomfortably. “I don’t know what the state of your marriage is. That is your business. You know I’ve never meddled in your domestic affairs.” “And I thank you for that.” “Your husband is fighting me on mortgaging the Oso Negro. I need you to ask him to stop.” Jenny chuckled at Sean’s suggestion. “Ward won’t listen to me.” “He’d better. Ward has gotten the bank to hold up the second loan payment. I’ve got a half-built club and a payroll to meet. The man isn’t helping matters with his intransigence.” “Believe me, Father, when I say Ward couldn’t give a damn about my opinion. He has already made that abundantly clear.”

“It’s that bad?” Jenny sipped her scotch and remained silent. “I’m sorry. How is Emily taking it?” “As far as Emily is concerned, we are living in town because that is where her mother works.” “I see. Are you planning to divorce the man?” “Not at the moment. That’s the last thing Emily or the movement needs. The Tribune would love to discredit the NWP with a story of a divorcee being one of its lawyers.” Sean tugged on his ear. “Yes, I can understand. Well, all the more reason for Ward not to fight me on this. “Why don’t you fire him?” Sean was surprised at his daughter’s remark. “To be honest, I don’t care to look for another capable man to run the ranch. That aside, Ward will lose. I want that club for Michael.” Jenny gave her father an earnest look. “Have you had any word?” Sean shook his head. “No.” Jenny gave her father a look of helplessness. “I could make inquiries with the War Office.” “I could do that,” Sean barked, and then he caught himself. “I’m sorry.” “What if Michael doesn’t return?” Sean frowned. “Don’t say that. Michael will return. The club will be built, and we should be able to pay off the note on the Oso Negro in four months if all goes as planned.” Jenny looked at her father. “I don’t want to know your business. I can’t know your business. I hope you understand.”

Sean smiled. He reached across the table and patted Jenny’s hand. “I do. Don’t worry. I will not get you dirty with my affairs. Do you enjoy what you’re doing?” “Yes.” “Why didn’t you tell me then?” Sean realized he had already asked the question. “Is this the reason you and Ward …” He let his voice trail off. “Ward would never understand what I’m doing or why. He may be a decent foreman, but he doesn’t have a clue when it comes to understanding women.” Sean chuckled. “Well, it’s a good thing that isn’t a crime; most men would be guilty.” He noticed Jenny wasn’t laughing and looked directly at her. “Has Ward ever raised a hand to you?” Jenny hesitated. She took a sip of scotch and looked at her father. “No.” Sean caught the hesitation. He knew Jenny wasn’t telling him the truth. He patted his daughter’s hand again gently.

***

A few blocks away, Harry Chapman and Collis Worthington, a vice-president of Union Oil, were having lunch at the Biltmore. “Looks like the Hun has been stopped in the Marne,” said Chapman as he cut a piece of veal. “Word is this whole business should be over before the end of the year.” Worthington speared a potato. “Pity. This war economy has been good for business.” Chapman smiled. “The war has certainly been very good to you oil men.” Worthington feigned indignation. “And what is wrong with that? The way you’re

talking, you’d think you were one of those Jew Bolsheviks.” Chapman laughed. “Me? A Bolshevik? Never.” “Well, if the war is ending, we’ll need a new boogeyman. I propose the Chinese.” Chapman waved off the oil man. “The Chinese are old news.” “I hear McGuire is planning to open a new club,” said Worthington. Chapman took a drink of wine and wiped his lips with the linin napkin. “The man is eighty-eight. He’ll never see it completed.” “What about his grandson?” “Michael McGuire is a decorated lieutenant. Apparently, he killed quite a few Germans and saved one of his men during a gas attack.” Worthington set his utensils down and looked across the table at Chapman. “That means we’re going to have to give the bastard a parade.” Chapman nodded. “I’m afraid so.” “Bloody hell.”

40

The Dinner

Joseph Royal had gathered the studio heads and producers in a private banquet room at the Westmoore Hotel. The fact that it was considered the finest family residence hotel in the Southland wasn’t lost on Joseph. That was exactly why he’d picked the hotel for a sit-down with the other moguls. The industry had barely gotten on its feet, and stories were running rampant of drug use, heavy drinking, and loose morals among those in the business. The American public loved it. They loved their larger-than-life heroes. They also loved when those heroes fell from their pedestals. That had been proven with Jim Thorpe just a few years previous. Stripped of his Olympic medals, Thorpe was treated harshly by the very same press that had made him into a towering athletic hero a few years earlier. Joseph knew the public was fickle. That was why he’d picked the Westmoore for an industry conference. It gave the moguls and their studios a family-friendly face. Two dozen men sat at the long table. They represented the owners, many of whom were beholden to New York banks for loans to build their studios. The dinner included beef Wellington, steamed carrots, and apple pie. Sean McGuire had provided the whiskey and a case of Cuban cigars. The men had eaten. They had drunk, and they were now smoking their cigars. “What do you propose, Joseph?” asked Jesse Lasky, puffing on a cigar. Joseph stood, and the room quieted. “I would like to thank you all for coming tonight. We have in our possession the greatest power any society has ever known. We have the power to create the message. With the manipulation of images, we have the ability to influence thought and style. On the other hand, we have our detractors, such as Deacon Isaiah and his followers.” Some of the men grumbled and waved Joseph off, but he was not easily deterred.

Joseph held up his hands. “I know, I know. Many of you feel that a colored minster is a benign threat. What can a schvartze do to my studio? Maybe not much, but the fact that this minister has now gotten the attention of the press back east is not a good thing.” “So, what do you propose we do?” asked Mack Sennett. “I propose we provide a united front and form a Motion Picture Producers Association. We form a list of standards and let the public know what we stand for.” “And who shall head this Producers Association?” asked Thomas Ince. “We appoint someone who is not a studio owner.” “Are you suggesting we name an outside independent candidate to this post?” asked Adolph Zukor, not bothering to hide his impatience. “A figurehead. We don’t give this person any real power,” Joseph replied. “What about the list you propose?” Mack Sennett asked. “It would be a list of things we will not allow in our films, such as glorifying violence or the portrayal of drugs and prostitution,” Joseph said. The men shook their heads and puffed hard on their cigars, filling the room with smoke, like belching furnaces. “An independent candidate can always cause trouble, no matter how little power he may have,” said Zukor. “I’m not about to relinquish my studio to the whims of some outsider. Besides, a union smacks of Bolshevism. I’m an American, not a Communist.” “Hear! Hear!” said voices throughout the room. “We are all outsiders,” Joseph said quietly, and he took his seat. A vote was taken, and Joseph Royal’s proposal to form a producers’ union failed. The other studio heads patted Joseph on the back, thanked him for dinner, and departed shortly after the vote.

William McGrath entered the banquet room after the others had departed. Joseph looked at the man, gave him an ironic smile, and shook his head. “I’m afraid my colleagues lack a certain vision.” McGrath looked directly at Joseph with a steely gaze. “Mr. McGuire sees a bright future for your studio, I can assure you. When one of your actors needs a little pick-me-up to get him through the day, we will supply your studio doctor with the necessary drugs. When one of your actresses gets herself in a motherly way, we can help you out with that as well. We know people. When you hire the trades-men we send you, you will never have to be concerned about a strike or walkout.” Joseph nodded. “I accept. Let the others deal with their petulant actors and labor issues.” “Good. Now, let’s go see Deacon Isaiah about ceasing his demonstrations against your studio,” said McGrath. Joseph nodded. “The others will listen to me if I get this zun fun a hur and his people to stop demonstrating in front of my studio.” “What about Lasky’s studio, Famous Players? They are marching there too.” “Make them gone, all gone. If I can stop the coloreds, the other studio heads will listen.” McGrath and the Joseph Royal walked out of the hotel. “We’ll take my car,” said McGrath. McGrath drove Joseph to a house on Thirty-Second Street. It was a modest California bungalow with a manicured lawn. The two men got out and walked up to the house. McGrath knocked on the front door. Deacon Isaiah answered. Deacon Isaiah was surprised to see the studio head standing on his front porch. “Please come in,” said the preacher. Joseph removed his hat and entered. McGrath kept his hat on and followed the shot man inside. The room was well furnished with a yellow velvet divan and a Tiffany lamp. Heavy green velvet curtains hung in the windows. The adjacent

dining room had a large oak dining table with six high-back chairs. Deacon Isaiah gestured to the chairs around the table. “Please have a seat.” Joseph sat down across from Deacon Isaiah. McGrath stood like a silent stone statue with his back to the credenza. “This man would like to have a word with you, Marcellus.” McGrath nodded toward Joseph. Deacon Isaiah arched an eyebrow at the use of his real name, but didn’t react beyond that. “What do you want, Minister?” Joseph asked, getting right to the point. He felt uncomfortable about being in the black preacher’s house. He kept his arms close and avoided touching the table as best as he could, only lightly placing his elbows on it, as if something could have rubbed off and contaminated his clothes and person. “You refuse to hire coloreds.” Joseph glanced at McGrath, who merely shrugged. Joseph cleared his throat and looked at the man across the table from him. “None of the major studios hire coloreds. I would like to propose that we meet on some middle ground. If you stop the picketing of my studio and the others, I will hire a dozen of your people.” “A dozen? Doing what—sweeping up and cleaning the toilets?” asked Deacon Isaiah. Joseph was silent for a moment. “No, as tradesmen.” “So, a dozen positions as carpenters and painters, and I can be a Judas to my people?” “What is it you want?” Joseph asked. “I want you to hire an equal number of coloreds in the trades and at least one Negro director, writer, and wardrobe person as well.”

Joseph shook his head. “It may be possible to hire a colored seamstress as a wardrobe assistant. There is no way I can hire a Negro writer and director.” “Can or won’t?” asked Deacon Isaiah. McGrath had enough. He stepped forward and gave the preacher a hard look. “Cut the horseshit, Marcellus.” The minister’s face filled with anger. “Marcellus Dunning is dead. He was reborn as Deacon Isaiah.” McGrath chuckled. “Fine. Let me put it another way. Either you take this man’s offer, or I’m going to send you to the Promised Land, Isaiah.” He pulled his Remington and aimed it at the preacher’s head. Deacon Isaiah glanced at Joseph Royal, who remained silent. The minister stared at the studio owner and nodded his head. “You will hire a colored wardrobe assistant.” McGrath holstered his gun and patted Deacon Isaiah’s cheek in a good-natured gesture. “The man said he would.” McGrath glanced over at Joseph. “You finished?” Joseph stood up. “Yes, I believe so.” The studio head looked at Deacon Isaiah. “We have a deal?” McGrath frowned. “The deacon already agreed.” He gestured toward the door. Joseph quickly walked out of the bungalow. McGrath looked at Deacon Isaiah. “Keep your end, you’ve nothing to worry about. If you don’t, there’ll be hell to pay.” McGrath exited the house. Joseph was already sitting in the enger seat. McGrath got in the car. “You got your meeting. Hire the coloreds, and move on.” “Aren’t you afraid he might go to the authorities after you pulled a gun on him and threatened to kill him?” asked Joseph.

McGrath looked at the moviemaker and replied coolly, “No. I found him once. He knows I can find him again.” Joseph forced a smile. “If you would, please take me to my car.” “Certainly,” McGrath replied.

***

Sean and Chu San dined at her apartment. Walter Sing had sent a delivery of kung pao chicken, dim sum, and sweet-and-sour pork. Even after many years, Sean could not get the hang of using chopsticks. Chu San always had a sterlingsilver place setting whenever Sean dined with her. Chu San drank a fine Chablis, and Sean drank a twelve-year-old scotch. They ate in silence. Sean had arrived at the apartment that afternoon. He was his usual taciturn self. Chu San fixed Sean a drink and let him sit in the large wicker chair by the window. He enjoyed watching the people scurry on the sidewalk below. She knew Sean would tell her everything when he was ready. Even though they were decades apart in age, the former courtesan and the rancher had become like a comfortably married couple. Chu San could read Sean better than anyone, including Jenny. When Sean first entered the apartment, Chu San knew he was troubled, and she rejoiced in the fact that Sean trusted her over all others. “I am sorry. I’ve been poor company tonight,” Sean said, finally breaking his monk-like silence. Chu San sipped her wine. “You were thinking.” Sean smiled and slowly broke into a laugh and shook his head. “You always know what to say. Yes, I was thinking.” “That is good.” “Yes, it is.” Sean took a drink of scotch, sat back in his chair, and looked at the young woman sitting across from him. “Why have you stayed with me all these

years?” Chu San gave Sean a questioning look. “You are not happy with me?” “Oh no, I couldn’t be happier. I mean, why didn’t you marry a nice young fella?” Chu San shifted her gaze downward and remained silent. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend,” said Sean. Chu San’s eyes met Sean’s. “I am most happy.” Sean smiled. “So am I, my dear.” He took another drink of scotch. “I have a dilemma. My foreman is fighting me. He believes I am making a bad business decision.” “Are you?” “I don’t believe so. Who knows?” “He is married to your daughter?” “Yes. I also believe he may have laid hands on Jenny.” Chu San raised her eyebrow. “You are uncertain?” “Jenny said he didn’t, but I know she isn’t telling me the truth.” “Has Jenny ever lied to you before?” “No.” “Then why do you believe she is lying to you now?” “Because she knows that if Ward ever did put a hand on her, I would kill him.” Chu San took a bite of dim sum and dabbed her lips with a red linen napkin. “You would kill the father of your granddaughter?” Sean was caught off guard. Jenny was the world to him, and Emily was her daughter. When Chu San put it in that context, Sean wasn’t sure how to answer.

“A man shouldn’t lay hands on his wife,” he grumbled. “He shouldn’t. You are smart, Sean McGuire. You must find a way to defeat this man that will not cause your daughter and granddaughter to hate you.” “That is easier said than done.” Chu San looked directly at Sean. “You cannot lose your family. Your family is the most important thing you have.” Sean reached across the table and took Chu San’s hand in his. They sat in comfortable silence for a long while.

41

The Homecoming

There was a big parade down Broadway for the returning doughboys. Veterans from the Spanish American War and even some from the Civil War marched alongside the soldiers who had recently returned from Europe. The band played The Stars and Stripes and The Star-Spangled Banner. Children jumped with joy and clapped their hands. The people cheered and threw streamers and confetti. Michael McGuire did not march in the parade. Michael returned home to a house divided. His mother was happy to see him, but reserved in her emotions. Olivia was cautious due to her siding with Ward Howard and voting against the bank lending more money to Sean against the Oso Negro. She had held Michael’s shares in the ranch while he was fighting in . Now that he’d returned, Olivia was uncertain if Michael would stand with her and defy his grandfather. Her suspicions were confirmed immediately: Michael voted with Sean and Jenny. That constituted a majority. Sean went to the bank the day after the parade and signed the loan papers. Construction on the Continental resumed. Michael didn’t talk about the war. No one brought the subject up either. Olivia attempted to shortly after Michael returned home, but her queries were met with silence. She eventually stopped, when it was apparent Michael refused to discuss the matter. Sean knew better than to ask. He’d fought Californios, Indians, cattle rustlers, and the Earl of Strathearn’s chamberlain. Sean had a fair idea of what Michael had experienced, and he gave his grandson plenty of space. William McGrath and Michael resumed making the collections together. The loan-sharking was just another piece of McGuire Enterprises. The company owned a lumberyard in Long Beach that was a front. The hardware store was legit. It sat on six acres of land that held lumber, concrete, and other building materials. Sean used the location to hold the cocaine brought in from Mexico.

The drugs were carried north on pleasure boats that docked at the harbor. The cocaine was then taken to the hardware store by truck, where it was repackaged for distribution. Michael and McGrath set up a bookie office at the Continental. The Venice warehouse had plenty of room. They took bets on East Coast horse races, baseball, boxing, and nearly every college football game. Michael was the first to install a wire in the office, so the results were live. Effie cooked the books, and for that, she held two points in all revenues generated by McGrath Enterprises. The company had acquired a crew of twelve loyal men, who were aptly named the Twelve Apostles. William McGrath handled the crew. The men knew of William McGrath only. None knew it was Sean’s operation. The Twelve Apostles were the only ones who handled the money and the drugs. Distributing the drugs, putting a crew together, and paying their crew was up to the Apostles. McGrath made it clear to the twelve that if one of their men slipped up and sang like a canary, they would all be held responsible. Nobody talked. The few who foolishly bragged and spread their money like an open faucet, quietly disappeared and were never heard from again. Sean had a private meeting with Michael the week following his homecoming. He opened the company’s books and held nothing back as to the holdings and deals McGuire Enterprises was involved in. Michael was impressed with his grandfather’s operation. In addition to the ranch and some real estate holdings, the business controlled the rackets along the beaches and west of Hollywood. The Wu Tang tong operated in Chinatown and Little Tokyo. Sean also steered clear of downtown. The new mayor was a reformer, and Lieutenant Davis was his fair-haired boy and had recently acquired the nickname of “Two Gun Davis” in the press. Jim Davis kicked in the doors on joy-houses, blind pigs, and backroom gambling ts. He was a one-man crime stopper who shot first and worried about legalities later. “Why don’t you expand into downtown and east?” Michael asked. Sean, Michael, William McGrath and Michael were having lunch in one of the upstairs rooms at Philippe’s on Alameda. Sean loved the restaurant’s French dip sandwiches. They had the room to themselves. Sean looked at his grandson as he took a bite of a pickle and wiped his mouth with a white paper napkin. “I once had a ranch that covered thousands of acres. I

lost much of it to high living and bad business deals. When John D. stole our oil, I turned to another source of income. That income has allowed me to maintain a way of life I’ve come to enjoy. Expansion is a young man’s game.” “I understand,” Michael replied. Sean chuckled. “Thank the government, Michael. Has the Harrison Act hurt our revenues, William?” McGrath took a sip of root-beer and set his bottle down. “Not a bit. Since the war, profits are even better. Lots of those soldiers are coming home burned and battered and are ready customers.” Michael nodded in agreement. “The war happened. Soldiers were wounded. They are not getting help from the government. We sell a product, just like Sears Roebuck. If people want our product …” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. Sean cocked an eyebrow at McGrath and then looked at Michael. “What do you propose?” “We take on more men,” said Michael. Sean and McGrath met eyes but remained silent. “Once the Eighteenth Amendment takes effect, people are still going to drink. They will drink even more once it’s illegal,” Michael said. “Right now, we’ve got the Twelve Apostles, but that’s all when it comes to any real manpower.” Sean’s eyes met Michael’s. “We haven’t had any real need for such a thing. The mayor and Jim Davis believe they whupped me. I have no problem allowing them that notion. Business has continued precisely because they do believe they’ve beaten me and because we didn’t attempt to take over someone else’s territory.” Michael kept a blank expression. “The Jews run downtown and the east side. Max Greenberg is heading things there now.” Sean grinned. “You’ve done your homework.” Michael looked at his grandfather. “Greenberg’s father is a Jew from Poland. His

mother is Italian. They met in New York, where Sam Greenberg knocked up Gloria Tancora. They left the Big Apple for California a step ahead of the Tancora brothers, who were looking to circumcise Sam for getting their sister pregnant. Greenberg senior owns a butcher shop on Brooklyn Avenue. Max was born in the apartment above the shop twenty-eight years ago. He owns or controls a half dozen joy-houses and as many saloons, from which he derives the bulk of his money. Most are located on the east side and in the colored section of town. Greenberg also dabbles in selling marijuana and does a bit of loansharking. He extorts protection money from the Jew business owners in Boyle Heights. He hasn’t made a move on the west side, even after Davis tore up the Continental. That tells me two things: one, he doesn’t have the men to pull it off, and two, he doesn’t have the balls to pull it off.” “Folks didn’t care to rock the boat while the war was going on,” McGrath said. Michael looked at William McGrath. “That’s exactly when he should have made a play.” “William did not give you all of that information,” said Sean. “I have my own sources,” Michael replied. “Who?” Sean asked directly. “Someone I can trust with my life,” Michael replied matter-of-factly. “His name is Jimmy Grazzi. He was in my squad.” “Is he the one they found in that barn with you?” “Yes.” Sean nodded in approval. “Too bad he’s not Irish.” He tossed up his hands in mock surrender. “We all can’t be blessed, I suppose.” “I sent him a ticket. He’ll be here tomorrow.” “You’re sure of this man?” Sean asked. “As certain as you are of Mr. McGrath.”

William McGrath fought to hide the smile that threaten to slip across his face. Sean arched an eyebrow. “That’s strong praise.” “Jimmy covered my back and killed more than his share of Germans. His uncle works for Paul Kelly’s Five Points Gang. He knows the score.” “What does his father do?” “He’s dead. Died when Jimmy was six.” Sean poked at his potato salad for a moment and then looked at Michael. “Be prepared. Nobody ever took territory without having to fight for it.” “I understand.” Sean glanced at McGrath. “You think we will have trouble with Joe Royal if Michael moves on Greenberg?” McGrath shrugged. “Hard to say. Jews are like a cancer the way they stick together. Royal owes us for handling Marcellus.” Sean looked at Michael. “Don’t do anything that could jeopardize the Continental.” “Understood. What about Ward?” Michael asked. Sean glanced at McGrath and then back at his grandson. “What about him?” “He went against the family.” Sean nodded. “I have sent a letter to Lord Campbell’s nephew. When the time is right, you will know what to do.” Lord Campbell had provided Sean with English breeding stock for his ranch. He had also been a witness to the duel Sean had with Jacob Dryden, the man responsible for Sean having to flee Ireland. Campbell had used his influence to make sure no record of the duel was kept by the British. Michael gave his grandfather a questioning look. “Why me?”

“Because you are now in charge of McGuire Enterprises,” Sean replied with a tone that brooked no argument.

42

Down Mexico Way

Jimmy Grazzi got off the train. He was dressed in a sharp suit and carried a single suitcase. Michael was there to greet him, along with William McGrath. The two friends shook hands and hugged. Michael introduced Jimmy to McGrath, and they shook hands. “Is that all the baggage you have?” asked Michael. Jimmy picked up the suitcase. “I travel light.” They walked to McGrath’s Chrysler. It was a deep dark green with a brown leather interior and a cream colored convertible roof. The trio got in and headed east to the Bellevue Terrace Hotel at the corner of Figueroa and Sixth. The hotel was a large Victorian that sported a four-story tower. Room and board was thirty dollars a month, and the facility boasted a poolroom and held card games and dances every Friday and Saturday night. “Nice,” Jimmy said. McGrath waited in the car. Michael and Jimmy got out and entered the hotel’s lobby. The manager stood behind the desk and smiled as the two men approached. “Good day.” Michael tipped his hat. “Good day. I reserved lodging for a Mr. Anthony Chambers.” Jimmy glanced at Michael but remained silent. The manager scanned the ledger. “Yes, here we are.” He turned and removed a

key from one of the boxes. “You are in B-3. It is a corner room on the second floor and has quite a nice view.” Michael took the key. The manager rang a bell, and a bellhop instantly appeared. He took Jimmy’s bag and told the men to follow him. They walked across the exquisitely decorated lobby, got into an elevator, and rode up to the second floor. The bellhop took the key from Michael and opened the door. The room was large and beautifully appointed. The bellhop placed the suitcase on the bed. Michael handed him a silver dollar. The bellhop thanked Michael and exited the room. Jimmy tossed his hat onto the bed. He walked over and peered through the sheer ivory lace curtains and out the window. “The guy was right—great view of both streets.” He nodded to the wooden terrace right outside his window. “Easy to make a quick getaway.” He turned back to Michael. “Very nice.” Michael smiled. “Glad you like it. Don’t get too comfortable; we’re going down to Mexico.” Jimmy picked up his hat. “Who’s Anthony Chambers?” Michael chuckled. “You are for the moment. I don’t want anybody in town to know you’re connected to McGuire Enterprises yet. You’re from New York, where you owned a box-making business. You came west for your health.” “Got it. Where’s your grandfather? I was looking forward to meeting him.” “He caught a cold and is resting at home. Mr. McGrath and I are going down to Mexico to attend to business. I thought it would be good if you came along. I can fill you in on the drive down.” Jimmy placed his hat on his head at a jaunty angle and tossed his arm forward. “Lead on, McDuff.” The two men exited the room and took the elevator down. Jimmy leaned close to Michael and said, “Why do you call him, Mr. McGrath?” Michael glanced at his friend. “Mr. McGrath has been my grandfather’s man for as long as I can . He took me to school as a child. It just never felt right to call him anything else.”

“Should I call him that?” Michael fought back a laugh that threatened to burst out. “I think William would beat you senseless if you did.” “Good.” The elevator doors opened, and the two men exited.

***

It was a beautiful Sunday day as William McGrath drove south. Michael sat in back of the Chrysler and gave Jimmy the breakdown on the operation of McGuire Enterprises, the building of the Continental, and his plans to expand into downtown and eastern territories. By the time they reached their destination, Jimmy had a solid understanding of the company and Michael’s plans for the future. The Tijuana border was little more than a single guard station. William McGrath puffed on a cigar as they crossed over into Mexico. They skirted the downtown area and continued down to Ensenada. The road was littered with potholes, and the Chrysler bumped and bounced as they headed south. McGrath puffed on his cigar and cursed the Mexicans for their lousy roads. They pulled up to an area near an open beach. A thirty-six-foot sailboat sat about a mile offshore. McGrath pulled off the road and parked the car. The three men got out and walked across the sand toward the water. A motorboat came toward the shore and beached. The three men got into the boat. The brown-skinned man operating the craft smiled, exposing a mouth of missing teeth. He got out, pushed the boat back into the water, then jumped in and started the motor. The Mexican turned the boat and cruised across the water toward the schooner. The motorboat pulled up next to the schooner. Michael, Jimmy, and McGrath climbed the gangplank and came on board. Sergio Rodriguez, an unassuminglooking man in his forties, walked over. He wore white pleated slacks, a white silk shirt, and a navy-blue jacket. A wide-brimmed straw Panama sat on his

head. “William, it is good to see you.” The two men shook hands. “Mr. McGuire extends his apologies for not being able to make this meeting. His health prevents it. This is his grandson, Michael, and Mr. James Grazzi, an associate of McGuire Enterprises. Michael will be handling the business from this point on.” Sergio shook both men’s hands. He gestured to the seats near the boat’s stern. “Please take a seat.” He looked at Michael. “You fought in the war. Your grandfather is very proud of you.” Michael kept a blank expression. “Jimmy and I served together. He will be my lieutenant. Mr. McGrath will remain as my counselor and right-hand man.” “That is good. Tell me your plans.” The men took a seat around a beautiful hand-carved teakwood table. A man dressed in a waiter’s outfit appeared, placed a crystal bucket of iced beers and a cup of sliced limes on the table, and departed. Sergio handed a bottle and a slice of lime to each man. “Salud.” For the next thirty minutes, Michael explained to Sergio how he planned to import liquor as well as drugs. He did not say anything about taking on Max Greenberg. The older man listened. McGrath and Jimmy remained silent and drank the beer. When Michael finished, Rodriguez nodded. “We can easily accommodate you, Michael.” Michael’s eyes met Sergio’s. “I would appreciate our arrangement be exclusive.” A sly smile slowly crept across the tanned Mexican’s face. “You plan to expand your operations.” “I plan to keep my operations in Los Angeles,” Michael replied coolly.

Sergio was silent for a moment and puffed on his cigar. He stood up. “Walk with me.” Michael stood. Sergio gestured toward the bow. The two men walked away from the others. Jimmy was about to get up, but McGrath gave him a look, and Jimmy remained his seat. The two men stood on the ship’s bow, which overlooked the blue waters of the Pacific. Sergio put his arm around Michael’s shoulders. “Your grandfather was the first gringo to approach me and treat me with respect.” He waved his hand over his shoulder. “There were other gringos before him, but they always wanted something for nothing, and they never treated me or my men with respect. I believe you are the same type of man as your grandfather is. You have my word that our deal will be exclusive.” “Thank you.” The two men shook hands. Sergio made a sweeping gesture over the shoreline. “My great-great-grandfather once marched from Sinaloa, Mexico, to San Diego. He was a lieutenant in the army.” “He was a Californio?” Sergio shook his head. “He was a Spanish conquistador. He made the march with Captain Juan Diego de la Vega.” De la Vega’s name resonated with Michael. He had heard the story many times of his grandfather’s scout, Falcon, who used the captain’s trail when they brought a herd of cattle from Texas. “You recognize the name?” asked Sergio. “Yes, De la Vega’s grandson was a scout for Sean when they brought a herd of cattle to California and started the Oso Negro.” A huge smile rolled across Sergio’s face, exposing a set of perfect white teeth. “It was written in the stars that we should be partners.” He hugged Michael and gave him a friendly slap on the cheek. “You are familia.” “What happened to your great-great-grandfather?” Michael asked.

Sergio frowned and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “He was murdered by a maricon. Captain de la Vega angered Spain because he would not allow the priests to enslave the Indians. The viceroy sent his adjutant, a man by the name of Alfonso de Soto, to take command of the presidio. The lieutenant objected. De Soto had him murdered.” “And Captain de la Vega was banished from the fort,” said Michael, picking up the narrative. “He killed some soldiers when they attacked a group of Luiseños. He became a wanted man and went to live with the Luiseño. His great-greatgrandson John Bear is a close friend of my family.” Sergio laughed. “It was truly meant to be, you and I. You know, they say the captain discovered a gold mine somewhere in the hills east of Los Angeles. The Spanish soldiers found him and some other Indians working there and killed them. A group of Luiseño warriors killed the soldiers before they got back to the fort. They left two men alive. They cut the ears and tongue from one soldier and left him one eye. They blinded the other soldier and left him his tongue. Then they tied them together. The soldier with one eye was able to guide them back to the fort but unable to tell them what had happened or hear their questions. The other soldier could tell them what had happened but had no idea where the mine was located. The soldiers sent out patrols, but the men never returned. Most likely, they were killed by the Luiseño or another tribe.” “Justice,” Michael said. Sergio laughed. “Justice.” The two men watched a group of dolphins break the water’s surface as they swam past the schooner, heading north.

43

The Photograph

William McGrath sat in his car and watched the entrance to Royal Studio. He was parked down the street and had an excellent view. Joseph Royal’s PierceArrow drove out of the gate. McGrath pulled away from the curb and tailed the car. The Pierce-Arrow had its top up. McGrath could see only the driver and Joseph, who was sitting in the backseat. Then he caught a flash of white lace from a woman’s hat from the back. McGrath took off in pursuit. He made sure to keep a good distance behind as he followed the Pierce-Arrow down Hyperion to Sunset. The car continued down the street and turned right onto Glendale Boulevard. McGrath knew exactly where Joseph Royal was going. McGrath gunned the engine and made a quick right onto Alvarado. He pulled up in an alley and got out of his car. He silently jumped the fence and made his way to the back door of a bungalow on Bonnie Brae. He took out a key, silently opened the rear door, and slipped inside. McGrath quickly made his way down the hall and into the master bedroom. He pushed a secret button, and a floor to ceiling mirror opened to reveal a small room equipped with a camera. The room had once been a closet. It was Michael’s idea to equip the closet with a camera and a two-way mirror. Shakedown pics were always useful. McGrath entered the hidden room and closed the mirror door behind him. He took a seat on the single wooden chair and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. Joseph Royal and a young girl entered the room. McGrath couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he saw everything that went on. He made sure to get plenty of close-ups. Joseph smiled as he got dressed. He had just finished banging a thirteen-year-old hopeful actress. It was a perfunctory screw. The girl lay there while he screwed her. He didn’t take long. The studio head came quickly—seventy-three seconds, by McGrath’s

watch. The girl’s name was Alice Krensky. Her mother, Shelia, had besieged the producer for weeks to take a look at her daughter. Joseph gave in when Shelia showed him a photograph of the young girl. He immediately fell into deep infatuation and had to have the girl. Most of the women who starred in Royal’s films slept with him. Their sexual acquiescence was linked to obtaining contracts and the roles they were subsequently offered. The younger the better—Joseph wasn’t interested in women over twenty. Joseph kept his indiscretions from his wife, but Ruth knew. She never said anything to her husband. She accepted Joseph’s philandering as the price she paid for the big house, fine jewelry, and chauffeur-driven Duesenberg. As far as Ruth was concerned, it was a small price—especially with Joseph’s proclivities. He always had a thing for young girls. He often made Ruth dress up as a young schoolgirl when they had sex. He would spank her sometimes as a means to achieve an erection. Ruth did not care for that type of role-playing, but she had endured her husband’s demands. Now there were other women willing to fulfill Joseph’s desires. That was fine with her. Joseph looked at the young girl lying on the bed. She’d been a poor lay, but he didn’t care. He had gotten to Alice Krensky first. Joseph had deflowered her before Sam Goldwyn or any of the other studio heads had a chance to. That was satisfaction enough. “Come on. Get dressed.” Joseph slipped on his tros and zipped up. The young girl sat up on the bed with her pert breasts exposed. “This is a nice place. Is it your house?” Joseph chuckled at the girl’s naivete. “Heavens no. It belongs to a friend.” Joseph needed a place to conduct his rendezvous, and Michael McGuire was accommodating. When the producer had expressed his desire for a quiet residence where he could audition new talent, Michael handed Joseph the key to an Echo Park bungalow. Because Sean McGuire had taken care of Deacon Isaiah and his grandson was now providing much of the labor crew at the studio, Joseph never dreamed he was being photographed. Alice got up. She was totally naked and obviously not a true blonde. She pulled

on her underwear. “I’d like to have a place like this.” “Maybe you will someday. Come along. I have to get back to the studio.” Alice hurriedly dressed. Her mother had instructed her to do whatever Joseph asked and not ask too many questions. Joseph finished tying his tie. He turned and straightened Alice’s hair and the bow in it. “You look lovely, my dear.” “Are you going to put me in one of your pictures?” she asked as they headed for the door. “We’ll see. You just never know what the future holds.” The studio head and the young girl exited the bungalow, closing and locking the door after them. William McGrath waited a full five minutes before opening the door. He took the film from the camera and placed it in a leather briefcase. “Got you,” McGrath said to himself as he stepped out of the small room. McGrath exited the bungalow out the back and retraced his steps. He got into his Chrysler, tossed the briefcase onto the seat next to him, and drove away. Fifteen minutes later, he delivered the briefcase and its contents to Michael. “Good job, Mr. McGrath. I don’t believe Joe Royal will cause us much trouble after this,” said Michael. “We’ve got that child rapist’s nuts in the ringer for sure, Michael,” McGrath replied. The two men laughed.

44

The Train Ride

Deacon Isaiah sat at his desk, working on his sermon for the coming Sunday. There was a knock on the office door. Reverend Martin Williams opened the door and entered. Deacon Isaiah stood up. “Martin, please come in.” “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” said Williams, removing his hat and exposing a thick crop of gray hair. “No, just working on Sunday’s sermon. The break is appreciated.” Deacon Isaiah gestured to a chair. Williams took a seat, and Isaiah resumed his seat behind the old wooden desk. “Now, what is it I can help you with, Martin?” Deacon Isaiah asked with a smile. Williams coughed and cleared his throat. “I’m not one to talk out of school—you know that—but some of the folks are wondering why you’ve called a halt to picketing the studios.” Deacon Isaiah nodded. “I understand their concern. I’ve talked to Mr. Royal. He has promised to hire a number of coloreds for good jobs—carpenters, set builders, and even a wardrobe director.” “How many coloreds will he hire as actors?” Williams asked. Deacon Isaiah remained silent. “How many colored directors and writers will the studios hire?” Deacon Isaiah picked up a pencil and tapped it on his desk. “Our deal is just with

Mr. Royal. No studios will hire colored directors or writers,” he finally replied. Williams gave Deacon Isaiah a questioning look. “But I thought that was our goal.” Deacon Isaiah sat up in his chair. “It still is, but we must take small steps. Once we get our people into the trade unions, the studios won’t be able to refuse hiring a colored director.” Williams shook his head. “Without a black director and writer, they can hire all the carpenters they want and still turn out films like Birth of a Nation.” “That was four years ago. If you recall, Martin, none of our people worked at any studio back then except as an occasional extra. Mr. Royal has promised to hire colored folks.” Williams waved Deacon Isaiah off. “What about the other studios? Why are you not picketing them?” Deacon Isaiah shifted his eyes, appearing to look out the window. “Mr. Royal said that if the other studio heads see that we are willing to cooperate, they will most likely hire coloreds as well.” “And by ‘cooperating,’ he means stopping the picket lines?” Deacon Isaiah looked at Williams and nodded. “Son, you’ve called the game before we’ve even gotten to play.” Deacon Isaiah gave the older minister an earnest look. “Now, I don’t see it that way, Martin. We won.” “Won?” Williams asked, incredulous. “Yes, Mr. Royal is going to hire coloreds at his studio. That is certainly what I would call a win for our people.” “When is this hiring supposed to take place?” Deacon Isaiah folded his hands. “Mr. Royal didn’t specify exactly when.”

“How many did he say he would hire?” Deacon Isaiah remained silent. Williams stood up. “How many men did Royal say he would hire?” Deacon Isaiah looked up at the preacher. “Twelve,” he replied in a voice that was barely a whisper. “Did you say twelve?” Deacon Isaiah meekly nodded. “He also promised to put on a woman as a wardrobe assistant. That could eventually lead to wardrobe mistress. That position generally allows the mistress to hire her own staff.” “You sold our people out for a dozen jobs, and you don’t even have a firm offer?” Deacon Isaiah stood but averted his eyes from William’s glare. “It’s a start. If we get a dozen people in today and then next year, we get a dozen more, before you know it, we’ll have plenty of folks working at the studios. It’s all about negotiating.” “Negotiating? Well, Deacon, I’m darn glad you aren’t negotiating with God for me. I’m going to talk to the elders.” Deacon Isaiah came around the desk and reached for Williams’s arm. “Now, Martin, let’s not be hasty. I did enter into a gentleman’s agreement with Mr. Royal.” Williams removed Deacon Isaiah’s hand. “Gentleman’s agreement? That is your problem, Deacon Isaiah.” Reverend Williams turned and marched out of the office, closing the door behind him with a thud of finality. Deacon Isaiah sat down and stared at his desk for a long while. He finally picked up the phone and clicked the earpiece holder up and down. “Operator, please get me Royal Studio.”

A moment later, a woman’s voice came on the line. “Royal Studio.” “Joseph Royal, please.” “May I say who is calling?” “Deacon Isaiah,” the minister replied with a voice of resignation.

***

Reverend Martin Williams awoke. He knew something was amiss. His wife, Mavis, was asleep. Williams picked up his eyeglasses off the nightstand and put them on. He got out of bed and shuffled down the hall. There was a bright glow coming from the living room. The glow got more intense as Williams reached the front room, which was lit up like morning. The light was coming from outside. The minister opened his front door. A cross twelve feet high was standing in his front yard aflame. Three vehicles had their headlights shining directly at the front of the house. Williams had to shield his eyes to see. Six men were ing a bottle of whiskey. When they saw the minister standing on the front porch, they began shouting and making catcalls. A brick flew through the large picture window, shattering the glass. “Get the hell out, nigger!” shouted one of the men. “Goddamn nigger troublemaker!” shouted another. “Martin, what is all that racket?” asked Mavis as she made her way into the living room. “Oh, my Lord!” she exclaimed at the sight of the shattered window. The reverend turned and looked at his wife. “Mavis, get back.” One of the men had gotten a rifle from a car, and he fired it. More glass shattered. “Better run, nigger!” he shouted.

Another man lit the top of a gasoline bomb and hurled it through the broken window. The bottle shattered on the living room floor and set the curtains ablaze. The minister raced inside the house. “Mavis, are you okay?” The elderly woman nodded. “Yes.” The living room was now ablaze. Williams realized they had to get out, or they would die. He grabbed his wife’s hand. “Come on.” The couple hurried down the hall, through the kitchen, and out the back door. By the time they got to the backyard, half the house was engulfed in flames. Williams hugged his wife close and kissed her. “Thank God nothing happened to you.” The couple watched their house burn. “Martin, why did they do this?” “They hate us.” “Who does?” “White folks.” The men in front saw that the house was a roaring blaze. They hadn’t witnessed the preacher and his wife escape out the back. That didn’t matter. They had accomplished the job they were sent to do. The men got in their cars and drove away. A moment later, a green Chrysler parked down the street turned its lights on and drove off.

***

William McGrath knocked on the large front door of Joseph Royal’s large home. Nothing. He knocked louder. A light came on, and a moment later, the studio head stood in the doorway in silk pajamas and a robe. McGrath pushed his way

past, entering the house. “What do you want?” Joseph asked. McGrath eyed the garish décor with a skeptical eye. Ruth came out of the second-story bedroom and looked down at her husband. “Joseph, what is going on?” The studio head turned and looked up at his wife. “Nothing, dear. It’s just one of the men from the studio.” “At this hour?” Ruth asked. “Ruth, please. Let me handle this,” Joseph replied sharply. He ushered McGrath into the adjacent dining room and out of earshot. “Please explain yourself,” he said, speaking barely above a whisper. “You won’t be having any more problems with the coloreds,” McGrath replied in a normal tone of voice. “That was quick,” Joseph replied, surprised. “You seemed concerned when you called.” McGrath stood silently. Finally realizing what the man wanted, Joseph excused himself. He disappeared down the hallway. A light went on in a far room. A few moments later, Joseph returned where he had left McGrath. “The amount was a thousand, I believe,” said Joseph. “The amount was three.” Joseph smiled. He reached into his robe and handed the money to McGrath. “Can’t blame a man for trying to get a deal.” McGrath took the money and put it inside his jacket. He gazed at the studio head with steely eyes. “There are no deals in my world.” “Tell me, Mr. McGrath—how much does your employer know about this

business?” “Merely that you called and required assistance in stopping the picketers.” “And the money I just paid you?” “Mr. McGuire is aware that you pay me. I don’t work for free like some Bolshevik.” McGrath brushed past Joseph and exited the house, leaving the front door open.

***

William McGrath pounded on the front door of Deacon Isaiah’s home. A light came on, and Deacon Isaiah came to the door. As soon as he heard the locks turn, McGrath kicked in the door. It flew open, knocking Deacon Isaiah to the floor. McGrath strode inside. He took out a cigar and lit it, looking down at the frightened minister. “Get your things, Marcellus. You’re taking a trip.” Deacon Isaiah scrambled to his feet, brushing himself off. “What do you mean?” McGrath blew a cloud of smoke at the minister. “Just what I said, Marcellus. Get your things, unless you don’t want them. In that case, get in the car. You’re leaving town.” He thrust a finger out the open door. Deacon Isaiah gave McGrath a questioning look. “Why do I have to leave town?” McGrath took a draw on his cigar. “You’re welcome to stay, but I wouldn’t recommend it.” “Why?” McGrath eyeballed the short man standing in front of him. “You sure are one dumb spook. You made a call to Joseph Royal and informed him that Reverend

Williams was planning to picket the studio again.” Marcellus frowned. “If you killed him …” McGrath chuckled. “You’ll do what?” Marcellus stood in resigned silence. “Don’t worry. Some good ole boys just gave the reverend a good scare.” Marcellus sank to his knees. “Oh Lord.” McGrath reached down and yanked Marcellus to his feet. “I can assure you the Lord isn’t going to do a goddamn thing to save your black ass, Marcellus. Relax. Williams and his wife weren’t hurt. That did cost me extra. Now, get your things. You’ve got a train to catch.” Marcellus hurried to his bedroom. “If you think about getting a gun or trying to run, I will shoot you,” said McGrath. Two minutes later, Marcellus was dressed and holding a cardboard suitcase. McGrath yanked him out the door and down the walkway and shoved him into the Chrysler. The car drove away into the ink-black night, its taillights disappearing in the distance. McGrath glanced over at Marcellus. “I told you there’d be hell to pay. You’re lucky you did make that call. Tell me—was all that Deacon Isaiah stuff for real? A hustler like you, Marcellus?” Marcellus glanced down. “Some of it.” McGrath shook his head and chuckled as they headed toward La Grande Station.

***

Joseph Royal was seated in his office. He stared in horror at a small article on page eight in the Tribune. The headline read: Negro Minister’s House Burns; Klan Suspected. The door to his office suddenly opened, and William McGrath marched inside. Miss Corwin, the secretary, followed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Royal. This man just barged in,” said Miss Corwin. “It’s okay.” The secretary quietly exited the room and closed the door behind her. “You used the Klan?” Joseph asked, not bothering to hide his anger. McGrath gave the studio head a look of disdain. “You wanted results.” “But the Klan? I’m a Jew. How do you think it would look if it ever came out that I was in league with the Klan?” McGrath took out a cigar, lit it, and tossed the match onto the plush Persian carpet. “Relax, Mr. Ratavensky. This job required a certain amount of violence. The men required to perform that type of work aren’t interested in subtleties. They were paid to put the fear of God into Preacher Williams. They accomplished that.” “Why are you here then?” Joseph said. McGrath placed a hand on Joseph and pushed him back into the chair behind the large mahogany desk. “Sit down, and take the load off. You don’t have to be concerned about any of that information getting out.” He winked. “What about Deacon Isaiah? He might talk.” McGrath exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Don’t concern yourself about Deacon Isaiah.” “You didn’t kill him?” McGrath frowned and chomped down hard on his cigar. “I’m a goddamn professional. No, I didn’t kill him.”

“Well, at least that’s something.” “You wanted to know why I’m here. You’re going to provide the talent for Michael McGuire’s new club.” “I didn’t know he was opening one.” “He is. You’re going to provide that club with talent free of charge for the next seven years.” “Seven years? You must be kidding.” “Do I look like I’m kidding?” “And if I don’t?” McGrath reached into his breast pocket, and Joseph tensed. McGrath smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to shoot you.” He tossed a black-and-white photo onto the table. It was an image of Joseph banging the underage Alice Krensky. “They say a picture is worth a thousand words.” The studio head’s face filled with shock. “You want more money. I will pay you.” He started to get up, but McGrath forced him back down into the chair. “It’s always about shekels with you people, isn’t it? I don’t want your fuckin’ money, you tasteless Heb.” “Then what? I provide this entertainment, and I will get the negatives?” “No. You get to rest soundly that these photographs will not find their way to the newspapers or your wife.” “And I provide Michael with talent free of charge?” “That is correct.” Joseph sank back in his thick leather chair and sighed. “Fine.” McGrath took out a contract from his coat pocket and laid it in front of Joseph. “Sign it.”

Joseph sighed, picked up a fountain pen and signed the contract. It was the price of doing business in Hollywood. McGrath returned the contract to his pocket and glanced at the studio head. “Smart man.” He turned and marched out of Joseph Royal’s office.

***

Marcellus got off the train in San Francisco. The city had changed greatly since he’d departed a dozen years ago. He hardly recognized it. Marcellus made his way to the Tenderloin, one of the few areas where some proprietors would rent rooms to coloreds. He had all of forty dollars to his name. The majority of his wealth that he had skimmed from the collection box and wealthy parishioners was in a safe at the church. Marcellus hadn’t been able to retrieve the cash when McGrath forced him to leave town. Marcellus found a room. It contained a bed; a cold-water sink; and a small, battered dresser. It cost him three dollars a week. At that rate, Marcellus would soon be out of money. He had to find a job. The only thing Marcellus knew how to do besides preach was play the piano. He wasn’t as fast as he once had been, but he could bang out a melody. He put on the only good suit he had packed and a black derby and strode out the door to find a joy-house in need of a piano man. Many of the former houses were closed. Those that were operating didn’t need the services of a piano man. Day after day, Marcellus walked the streets. He tried hustling a few women at the train station, but the coppers gave him the stink eye, and Marcellus disappeared. He had lost his touch. The city had changed, and so had he. He had gotten softer. Many of the old haunts were gone, victims of the purge that had taken place following the fall of Mayor Schmitz and Boss Ruef. Bessie’s house was gone. So were the House of Blazes and Aunt Josie’s. After two weeks in town, Marcellus had nothing to show except for a few coins from playing piano in saloons for tips. He thought about preaching, but he had no church or connections. Deacon

Isaiah was dead and gone in Los Angeles. The sky was a flat gray. The wind blew cold. Marcellus made his way down Powell Street. Suddenly, two men came up on either side of him. One of them was Red Randy. Marcellus didn’t recognize the other man, who was larger than Red Randy and had a mean face with an ugly red scar that ran from his left eye down the entire side of his cheek. “Well, look who finally came home, Bill,” said Red Randy as he put his arm around Marcellus and drew him close. “This nigger sure could play the piano. You still play the piano?” “A little,” Marcellus replied. “A little? The way we heard it you was looking for a job playing piano. That don’t sound like a little. That sounds like a nigger lying. You lied about that reporter. Now he’s famous and living across the country, and I can’t deal with him. But I can deal with a lying nigger.” Bill took out a sap and hit Marcellus across the back of his head. The two men grabbed him as his knees sagged. They held him up as they turned down an alley. They tossed him into the back of a Ford truck and covered the body with a canvas tarp. Red Randy and Bill got into the truck and drove off. A small article appeared two days later in the Gazette, on page ten. The headline read: Negro Male Found Drowned off Angel Island. Red Randy grinned big when he saw the article. He tossed the newspaper into the trash and headed out the door of Rory’s Saloon. He wished he could the name of the man who’d told him Marcellus was in the city, but he couldn’t. He had been drunk at the time. It didn’t really matter anymore. Red Randy adjusted his hat at a jaunty angle, smiled, and whistled The Wild Colonial Boy as he made his way down the street.

45

The Meeting

Michael McGuire, Jimmy Grazzi, and William McGrath met with the Canadians at the Clam Digger, a small restaurant in Ventura. The eatery sat across from the beach. It was early. A fog hung over the area, but it was thin enough for them to still see the ocean. The Canadians were Charles and Wilfred Geldon, two Englishmen who had come to Canada to make their fortune. Charles was older by four years. Both wore drab gray suits and had pale complexions. Jimmy and McGrath sat on either side of Michael, facing the Canadian brothers. “We will need regular shipments. A hundred cases a month to start. That number will go up, I’m sure,” said Michael. McGrath sat with a blank expression. Jimmy arched an eyebrow at the mention of such a large figure but remained silent. Charles nodded. “We can handle that. We can land it here easily. The shoreline at this location is perfect.” “What about Long Beach or Santa Monica?” Michael asked. The Canadian brothers conferred for a moment. Charles shook his head. “Too much traffic at both locations.” Michael extended his hand. “We have a deal.” Charles shook Michael’s hand. Michael nodded toward Wilfred. “Doesn’t he speak?” Charles chuckled. “Wilfred speaks. He’s the brains of our company. Wilfred fancies himself a botanist.”

Wilfred looked at Michael. “I’m only interested in making enough money to finance my studies. I plan to travel to Tibet. They have a number of floral species found nowhere else in the world.” Michael gave the man a friendly smile. “That sounds interesting.” He stood. McGrath and Jimmy stood up as well. Michael tipped his hat. “We’ll be in touch. The first shipment must arrive before Christmas.” Charles gave a nod back. Michael and his two companions exited the restaurant. It was early, and the fog had not yet rolled back out to sea. They climbed into McGrath’s Chrysler, pulled out of the parking lot, and headed south for Los Angeles. “Hundred cases a month—that’s a lot of booze,” said Jimmy. “The Continental is going to use half of that. Walter Sing will take some off our hands. Once we get control of downtown and the east side, we’ll need five times that amount,” Michael replied. Jimmy pushed his hat back on his head. “Max Greenberg might have something to say about that.” Michael turned and looked at Jimmy with an icy expression. “You ever meet a Jew that an Italian couldn’t take?” Jimmy grinned. “Never.” Michael smiled. “Don’t forget that. When the Irish came here and got their asses kicked, they fought back. When the Italians were hunted in New Orleans and lynched like dogs, they fought back. Only the Jews whine that they are a persecuted. Truth be known, there isn’t a people walking that haven’t gotten their asses kicked at one time or another. Fuck Max Greenberg. How are you coming with recruiting men?” “I’ve a dozen that will go to the wall for sure. Another dozen …” Jimmy held up his hand and wiggled it back and forth.

Michael scratched his jaw. “Keep the second group loading and unloading only at the warehouse. Don’t allow them to pick up any shipments. They should be told as little as possible.” Jimmy nodded in agreement. Michael turned to McGrath. “Stop by the club. I want to check on how the construction is going.” Thirty minutes later, McGrath pulled up in front of the semi-completed Continental. Work had stopped. Michael jumped out of the car and marched over to the foreman, Harry Martin, who was smoking a cigar and talking to one of the laborers. “Why has worked stopped?” Michael asked. Martin was a short, stubby man dressed in khakis and a blue shirt. He turned to Michael and took the cigar from his mouth. “No sand.” “What do you mean no sand?” Michael asked. “Just that, Mr. McGuire. L.A. police won’t let our trucks cross town. Without sand, we can’t make concrete.” “When did this happen?” “This morning. I put a call into your office, but they said you were at a business meeting.” Michael glanced over at McGrath, who had walked up. “This is Jim Davis’s work.” McGrath took Michael aside out of earshot. “I’ll make some calls.” Michael gave a nod. “We need to have this place opened by New Year’s,” he whispered. McGrath gave him a pat on the shoulder. “I’ll get your sand.” Michael walked back to Harry Martin. “Send the men home. Have them here

first thing tomorrow morning. You will have your sand. Will I have my club built by Thanksgiving?” Martin rubbed his neck and puffed on his cigar. “The deadline was December eighteenth. You get the sand; I’ll have your club built before that date.” Michael smiled. “Fair enough.” Michael and McGrath got back into the Chrysler and drove off, heading east on Sunset. They stopped by the office downtown so McGrath could make his calls to secure the sand for the construction crew. Jimmy and Michael got in the Packard and continued across town. Michael pulled up in front of El Serape, a Mexican cantina on Brooklyn Avenue, and cut the engine. “Are you armed?” Michael asked. Jimmy gave Michael a funny look. “Yeah.” “Leave it.” Jimmy was shocked at the order. “This is Greenberg’s turf. You want me to walk into the place with nothing but my dick in my hand?” “We will be searched. If you have a weapon, they will take it as a sign of distrust.” Jimmy shook his head in disbelief and stashed his Smith and Wesson .38 under the seat. Michael got out of the car and didn’t say a word. He adjusted his tie and hat and entered the cantina. Jimmy followed. The place was a family-run restaurant. Large sombreros hung from the ceiling. The place was empty, as the lunch crowd had yet to arrive. They walked to the rear. Two men in ill-fitting pin-striped suits stood at the entrance that led out to the patio in the rear. The men stopped Michael and Jimmy and patted them down. Satisfied, they nodded toward the door leading to the patio.

Max Greenberg sat alone at a table. Abe Dershowitz, a gunsel, stood off to the side. Greenberg was dressed in a brown suit, broad-brimmed brown hat, green shirt, brown tie, and brown wing-tip shoes. He didn’t bother to get up. There were two chairs across from him. Michael and Jimmy sat down. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.” Michael gestured toward Jimmy. “This is my associate Anthony Chambers.” Greenberg did not extend his hand. “Chambers.” He chuckled and glanced over at the gunsel. “A ginzo and a mick—can you believe that, Abe? What’s the world coming to?” He looked at Michael. “So, what’daya want to see me about?” A waiter came outside. Greenberg picked up a fork from the table and threw it at the man. The waiter dodged the utensil, which hit the wall and clattered to the ground. “Get the fuck outta here! Can’t you see I’m talking business?’ Greenberg shouted at the waiter. The man quickly retreated back inside. Greenberg grinned, exposing a mouth of bad dental work. He took his hat off and wiped his forehead with a napkin. He revealed a scalp that had only small wisps of curly red hair. At twenty-eight, Greenberg was nearly bald. “Sorry. Creeps like that bug me. So, what’daya wanna tell me?” Michael kept a blank expression. “I thought we could be partners on a business venture.” Greenberg replaced his hat and snatched a toothpick from the shaker sitting on the table. He rocked back in the chair and picked his teeth, gesturing for Michael to continue. “As you know, the Volstead Act takes effect beginning next year. You have a number of establishments that will need liquor. I can provide that service for you.” Greenberg sat up in the chair. “What makes you think I need your booze?”

Michael placed his hands palm down on the table. “Because you currently sell green beer you get from a pair of Germans. Your gin is garbage and is made at a warehouse on Vermont. The scotch and whiskey you serve are made there as well. It comes from the same batch, only you treat that mess with iodine and maple syrup for flavor and appearance.” Greenberg eyed Michael. “Well, ain’t you the connoisseur.” “Once it becomes illegal, people will pay for good liquor.” Greenberg took out a cigar and bit off the tip. He spit the tip onto the floor and lit the cigar, not bothering to offer one to Michael or Jimmy. “You’re right. People will pay to drink. What I serve may not be the top-drawer stuff you micks like.” He shrugged and blew a cloud of smoke. “The stuff I sell is cheaper. Cheaper means more money. It’s that simple.” “I could supply every club and joy-house you’re running,” Michael calmly replied. Greenberg glanced over at the gunsel again. “Can you believe this guy, Abe?” He looked at Michael with his beady brown eyes. “You’re going to sit there and tell me you can supply me with thirty cases of booze a week?” “Yes.” “How?” “That is my business.” Greenberg blew a cloud of smoke into the air. “That’s pretty bold talk for a mick whose grandpa runs a dive t in Venice.” “The Continental is what it is, Mr. Greenberg. I am a man of my word.” Greenberg laughed loudly. “You got nothin’ but a pot to piss in, and you’re going to tell me you can handle my liquor needs?” Michael sat stone-faced and silent. “What’ll it cost me?” Greenberg asked.

“The going rate: $150 dollars a case.” Greenberg chewed on his cigar. “The going rate?” “That is my offer.” “And I take your word that you will deliver?” Michael gave a nod. Greenberg shook his head and chuckled. The smile fell from his face, and he fixed Michael with a hard look. “Your word ain’t worth a fuckin’ nickel. You’re a pup wet behind the ears who took over granddad’s operation. You fought in the war. That doesn’t mean you know a damn thing about this business. It does mean you were a sucker. Only suckers fought that war, and I don’t want a sucker for a partner. As far as your word is concerned, my people will be back in the Holy Land before you find a fuckin’ mick worth his word.” Michael stood up. Jimmy followed his lead. “I’ll take that as a no then,” Michael replied calmly. Greenberg chuckled. “You’re smart for a fuckin’ Paddy. Maybe you wanna come work for me.” Michael tipped his hat. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Greenberg.” Michael and Jimmy turned and headed back into the restaurant. “Tell your granddad he should stick to what he does best: running from the cops,” Greenberg called after them. The two men exited the cantina. Jimmy got in the Packard. He reached under the seat and pulled out the Smith and Wesson. “I’m going in there and kill that fuckin’ Yid,” said Jimmy. Michael put his hand on the revolver and indicated for Jimmy to holster the gun. “This is not the time or place.” Jimmy reluctantly holstered the gun. “That slacker called us suckers.”

“Indeed, he did, James.” Michael pointed to the driver’s side. “You drive. Give you something to focus on.” Jimmy climbed in behind the wheel, started the car, and pulled out into traffic. He glanced over at Michael. Michael only referred to him as James when he was dead serious. “What did you learn from meeting Greenberg?” Michael asked. Jimmy grinned. “He’s a cheap Heb with no fuckin’ taste in clothing.” “That’s one thing. He is also weak.” Jimmy gave Michael a questioning look. “Weak? The son of a bitch insulted us, and we took it like a pair of finocchios.” “The loudest man in the room is the weakest. Max Greenberg is all talk.” “Then why didn’t you let me shoot the fuckin’ guy?” “It wasn’t the proper time. Once the club is completed, we will deal with Greenberg.” Jimmy gunned the engine and swerved around a slow-moving truck. A vehicle coming in the opposite direction honked its horn. Jimmy pressed the pedal. The Packard ed the truck and cut back into the right lane, barely avoiding a collision with the oncoming Ford. Jimmy gave the ing driver a hand gesture showing his disdain for the man behind the wheel. “Sorry, Michael. That fuckin’ Heb got my dander up.” “Don’t. Max Greenberg is small potatoes, not worth the sweat off your balls, Jimmy.” Jimmy laughed. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” Michael gave Jimmy a pat on the shoulder. “Trust me.”

46

One Night in Chinatown

Jim Davis was mad. He couldn’t prove it, but he believed it was Sean McGuire who had pulled some strings and gotten construction going on the Continental again. Davis was unaware that is was actually Michael McGuire who had signed one percent of the building’s ownership to Father Maher, the pastor at St. Vibiana. The priest held sway with the city’s Catholic population. Unlike his grandfather, who viewed the church with disdain, Michael saw it as a powerful tool. He didn’t give a damn about Catholic doctrine. He had witnessed man’s inhumanity in and Belgium. God was not to be found on the battlefield, but he could be very handy at the ballot box. The priest made some calls. Work resumed. The oligarchy had no love for the McGuire family. They didn’t care much for papists. The pulpit spoke, and the oligarchy listened—begrudgingly. Maher controlled the votes of many. Word came down to Davis: “Back off.” Davis reluctantly complied. He and his partner, Sergeant Bill Conner, kicked in the doors of Central Avenue clubs and rousted Negroes. They hit Hollywood and rousted homos and dykes. Jim Davis wasn’t happy. Bill Conner sensed his partner’s dissatisfaction and took him to a bar near Bunker Hill that the cops frequented. Davis had discovered the delights of quality scotch. “Enjoy it while you can, Jim. Next year, it’ll be against the law.” They were sitting at Nick’s Place, a bar named after its owner. The proprietor, Nicholas Stavros, was a Greek who’d jumped ship in San Diego twenty years ago and never looked back. He was now Nicholas Stewart, formerly of Liverpool and now an American citizen, and he had the papers to prove it.

“And we will enforce the law,” said Davis with a cynical chuckle. Conner looked over at Nick, who stood behind the bar. “What are you going to do when the Volstead goes into effect?” Nick Stewart was a medium-built man with a friendly face and an amiable manner. He grinned and replied, “I’m going to turn this place into a pizza parlor.” Davis and Conner looked at the barkeep as if he had levitated, and then both cops broke out laughing. “That’s rich,” said Davis, slapping his hand on the table. “You ain’t even a fuckin’ guinea,” said Conner. “Who ever heard of a damn limey runnin’ a pizza parlor?” cracked Davis. That sent the two cops into paroxysms of laughter again. Nick smiled and continued wiping down the bar. “What’s a working stiff supposed to do?” the barkeep replied. The remark caught the two cops off guard. They stopped laughing. “I suppose you’re right, Nick. Not much a regular guy can do,” said Davis. “What about a fish-and-chips place?” asked Conner. Nick shook his head. “Naw, pizza. Everybody likes a good pizza.” Davis frowned. “Never much cared for dago food.” “I like a nice veal parmesan,” said Conner. “Damn garlic gives me heartburn,” said Davis. “Take a bromo. Always works for me,” said Conner. Davis downed the rest of his drink and set the glass on the table. “All this talk of food is making feel mighty empty tonight.”

“How’s about we head over to Boyle Heights for some deli?” Conner asked. Davis frowned. “Jew food’s worse than that dago slop.” He slapped his chest. “I’m thinking some Chinese.” Conner’s eyes met his partner’s, and he understood. The sergeant tossed some bills on the bar, and the two cops exited the establishment. Conner was behind the wheel as they drove down the street. Even though it was a weeknight, Chinatown was lit up. “Any place in particular?” Conner asked. “The Golden Dragon,” Davis replied. “That’s a tong house. They paid us this month,” said Conner. Davis turned and shot Conner an ugly look. “I know it’s a tong t. It’s also owned by McGuire’s Chink friend. Maybe I can’t fuck that papist prick, but I sure as hell can fuck his Chink buddy.” “Last time we worked over Walter Sing; we were told hands off. Chinatown’s a funny place. The tongs don’t like their people getting roughed up. They pay tribute better than the Jews and niggers.” “Fuck the tongs, and fuck Sean McGuire,” Davis said. Conner shrugged. “You’re the boss.” Bill Conner pulled up in front of the Golden Dragon. He looked over at Davis, who was checking his pistols, and said, “I take it we aren’t calling for backup.” Davis snapped his revolver shut. “No, and we ain’t taking names either.” Conner slipped on a set of leather gloves. He placed a pair of brass knuckles on his left hand and stuffed a lead sap in his pocket. Davis looked at his partner. “You ready?” Conner nodded.

“Then let’s do it,” said Davis. The two cops got out of the car and marched inside the restaurant. Both men had their nightsticks ready. They clubbed the maître d’, who went sailing into a waiter. Both hit the floor hard. Plates, glasses and silverware crashed with a loud clatter. Davis and Conner waded into the establishment. They shoved and beat any man or woman who came in their path. They overturned tables. Glass and china shattered. Pandemonium ensued as the patrons bolted for the doors. Walter Sing came running down the stairs from his office on the second floor. Dozens of customers were fleeing out the front. He struggled to make his way into the main dining room. One of the waiters pulled him aside. “Gweilo police,” gasped the frightened waiter. “How many?” The waiter shook his head. Seeing an opportunity, he made for the door, abandoning his employer. Walter marched into the dining room. Davis turned. His shirt was splattered with blood. He spotted Walter. A big grin filled his face. By the time they were done, the Golden Dragon was in ruins. Davis had cuffed Walter to a post. Neither cop touched him. Walter was forced to witness the destruction of the business his father had started. When Lieutenant Jim Davis and Sergeant Bill Conner marched out of the establishment, there wasn’t a stick of furniture left, and not a glass, plate, or cup was left unbroken. Food and drink were scattered among the debris. A crowd gathered on the street in front of the restaurant. The onlookers parted like the Red Sea when the two cops emerged. Davis clamped his chest and got into the car. “That sure made me hungry. I’ve got a hankering for some fried chicken and biscuits. Let’s head over to Nigger Town.” Conner chuckled as he pulled away from the curb and headed down the street. “You’re the boss, Jim.”

***

It might have been the buzz on Alameda, but as far as the city’s Anglos were concerned, the raid on the Golden Dragon was just another police action on a Chinatown t, a location known for its gambling, prostitution, and opium dens. Many citizens wanted the entire neighborhood removed. The Chinese didn’t actually own the land. They were prohibited by law from doing so. They were merely tenants. Orange County had solved their Chinatown problem. The city fathers merely turned a blind eye when a group of white citizens set fire to the area and drove the Chinese across the Santa Ana River and out of Orange County. There were plenty of white folks in town who believed the same thing should be done in the City of the Angels. Sean and Michael came the following morning when they heard about the raid. The restaurant was cleaned up by then. It was no longer elegant but was functional. Other neighborhood businesses had been quick to offer tables, chairs, linens, and glassware. The materials weren’t as fine as the ones Walter Sing had used, but they allowed him to keep the restaurant open. “Walter, why didn’t you call?” Sean asked. Walter gave him a look that said everything. “Gweilo.” “What gweilo?” Walter sighed. “Jim Davis and his partner.” “Son of a bitch!” said Sean. Walter looked at Sean and Michael with a complacent expression. “You said you would take care of Davis.” Sean remained silent. “The tong will take care of this problem,” said Walter.

Sean glanced at Michael. “That would not be a smart move, Walter,” Michael said. “Why?” “If the tong goes after Davis, it will bring the wrath of the entire police force down upon Chinatown,” said Michael. “It is better than doing nothing and allowing this type of thing to happen.” Sean looked at Walter, his eyes intense. “You weren’t born when the massacre happened here in ’71. Your father almost died.” Walter held up his hand, cutting Sean off. “I am very familiar with how you saved my father’s life. Times are different. This is the twentieth century.” Michael scratched his jaw. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but you own your establishment because my grandfather’s name is on the deed, and he gave it to your father. The Chinese can’t own property, they can’t become citizens, and they can’t marry anyone except another Chinese. As far as the gweilo are concerned, you have fewer rights than a former slave. If you take any action, all of Los Angeles will burn you down.” Walter’s shoulders sagged, and he sat down. “What am I supposed to do? What are the other businesses supposed to do?” Michael placed his hand on Walter’s shoulder. “Give me three months. I promise you Jim Davis will never harm you, your establishment, or any other in Chinatown.” “Three months?” Michael’s eyes met Walter’s. “This is a delicate matter. You have my word.” Walter stood. “Fine. Out of respect for our families’ friendship.” “Thank you,” Michael replied. Walter shot Michael a serious look. “If nothing is done to remove Lieutenant

Davis by the New Year, I will have to consider our agreement void. Now, if you will please excuse me, I must see how they are coming along in the kitchen.” Sean and Michael tipped their hats and exited the restaurant. “I hope you haven’t bitten off more than you can chew,” said Sean as they walked to the Packard. “You can’t just shoot a cop.” Michael opened the enger door, and Sean got in the car. Michael came around and jumped in on the driver’s side. “History has shown that any man can be killed.” He started the car and pulled out into traffic. “So that’s your plan? Next election is a way’s off.” asked Sean. “We tried our connections downtown. My way is a bit more permanent.” “Killing a cop isn’t taken lightly, son.” “I know, Grandfather.” “Good luck.”

***

That morning, Michael met with Jimmy Grazzi at La Paloma, a small Italian restaurant in Hollywood. They were seated in a booth, drinking espresso. “I need you to find out when Max Greenberg is getting in his next shipment of reefer,” said Michael. Jimmy pushed his hat back on his head. “Getting that kind of information will not be an easy task.” “That’s why I am asking you to handle this. Any man who can provide you with solid information about Greenberg’s business will get a $500 bonus.” Jimmy whistled. “You must really want this guy. Save your money. We’ve got

enough men to take care of Greenberg.” He made a gun out of his left hand, put it to his temple, and acted as if he shot himself. “What I’ve got planned requires a bit more finesse. We don’t want any fingerprints leading back to us.” Jimmy flashed a grin. “You want to hurt the guy.” “Yes.” “But you don’t want him dead?” “I want Greenberg taken down so it benefits all concerned.” “Does this have anything to do with Jim Davis and Bill Conner pulling that number on Walter Sing?” Michael stirred his espresso and looked across the table at his friend. “You are perceptive, Jimmy. That’s one of your best qualities.” He took a sip of his coffee and set the cup down. “Believe me, the less you know, the better it will be.” Jimmy chuckled. “You sound like the army brass during the war.” “I promise when the time is right, I will tell you all. For now, just find out when Greenberg gets in his next shipment.” Jimmy raised his cup as if to toast. “Here’s mud in your eye. I’ll get what you need.” “Thank you, James.”

47

The Card Game

Danny Doyle was smart enough to read the writing on the wall. His days as Jack Taylor were numbered. English Jack had taught him to watch his back and put something aside for the inevitable. Royal Studio retained his contract, but Joseph Royal never offered Taylor anything other than oaters. Everyone in town knew oaters were the bottom of the barrel. It didn’t matter how many kids came up to Taylor and wanted his autograph; Joseph wouldn’t put him in a feature. You were what you drove in Hollywood, and Danny Doyle now drove a Ford. He’d gotten rid of the Pierce-Arrow and the chauffer when he didn’t get the lead in Conestoga. Joseph Royal had given him double-talk about the film not being the right vehicle for Jack Taylor. Doyle could spot a load of shite a mile away. He kept his mouth shut and his head down and ground out the oaters for Royal Studio. He moved into a modest rental and banked every cent he could. Doyle was thirty-three. He knew it was only a matter of time before he would be too old to play the hero leads, even in oaters. It had been a good run, but acting in the flickers was just a game to Doyle. He wanted one decent score before Jack Taylor rode off into the sunset forever. Joseph Royal had invited Doyle to dinner, ostensibly to discuss his contract, which was coming up for renewal. Doyle dressed in a fashionable suit and arrived on time at Joseph’s house. When he got there, he was surprised to find that instead of dinner, Joseph had invited him to a high-stakes poker game. Heads of studios and producers were there—and not one Irishman among them. “I hope you don’t mind,” said Joseph when Doyle entered and saw the other men. “The cook prepared a cold dinner. We can talk business during a break. I thought it would be more enjoyable to spend the evening playing cards.” Joseph Royal introduced Danny as Jack Taylor to the other men. Doyle smiled and cracked his Irish jokes for the crowd. The producers loved it. Doyle knew

the score: Joseph had invited him to put him in his place in front of an audience. He realized this was the opportunity he had been waiting for. The game started after a round of drinks: five-card-draw poker. Doyle had allowed Joseph to win the Van Gogh some years back in a card game. He knew it was an investment in his future at the time. Things had changed. Doyle was banking on Joseph Royal’s hubris this evening. The game started off slow, easy, and friendly. As the night wore on, the stakes grew. Doyle bided his time. He bet small and allowed Joseph or one of the other players to win when he had a solid hand. Doyle watched Joseph and spotted the man’s tell. Whenever Joseph placed a winning bet, he would take a sip of his scotch before making the bet. Doyle also knew Joseph was cheating. He spotted the dealer, Irving Freedman, a producer at Universal, dealing from the bottom of the deck to Joseph. Freedman was rumored to be looking for another studio to ply his talents and move up the food chain to production head. The pot currently sat at two grand. Doyle was well aware he could be cleaned out if he wasn’t careful. Joseph hadn’t said a word about his contract. Danny Doyle now understood that Joseph wanted his money before he fired him. Doyle won the pot on that hand, which didn’t endear him to his employer. The group took a break. Some refreshed their drinks and partook of the cold meal. Joseph cornered Irv Freedman. Outside of the first drink before the game, Doyle kept to water. He knew Joseph would go in for the kill once they returned to the table. While the others were eating and schmoozing, Doyle played with a spare deck sitting on the bar, shuffling the cards and cutting them. The game resumed. Joseph didn’t wait long. One by one, the other players dropped out, claiming the bet was too rich for their blood. Finally, in the third round, the pot grew to seven grand. It had come down to Doyle and Royal. “I’ll raise you a thousand,” said Joseph as he took a sip of scotch. Doyle remained cool and met the bet. “Tell you what, Mr. Royal: How about I raise you fifteen, and you throw in the painting you won off me? I see you have it hanging in your house now.” The bet was far more than Doyle currently held in his safe or bank . He

never blinked. Joseph eyed the man sitting across the table from him. “How about if we make it twenty thousand and the painting?” Doyle had six thousand in the bank and another four in his safe at home. He would have to work for the rest of his life to pay such a bet. He smiled. “Done. You will take my IOU, as I hadn’t expected the game tonight and didn’t bring that much cash with me?” Joseph chuckled. “We are all gentlemen here. Your IOU is acceptable.” “Cards, gentlemen?” Irv Freedman asked. “I’ll take two,” Joseph Royal replied. Freedman dealt from the bottom to Royal. “I’ll take three,” said Doyle. Freedman dealt three cards to Danny from the top. Joseph Royal studied his hand. Freedman had dealt him a king, which gave him a trio. He looked up at Doyle and smiled. “Your call, Jack.” He spread the three kings out for all to see. Danny Doyle stared at the hand and then at his. There was a deafening silence in the room. Then Doyle laid his cards on the table: a royal flush, aces high. “A royal flush, Mr. Royal. Guess I got your fourth king.” Doyle grinned as he scooped up the money from the table. Joseph did a slow burn. The other men said little. Doyle pocketed his winnings and stood up. “It’s late, gents, and I’ve got an early day tomorrow.” He looked directly at Joseph. “I will take that painting, Mr. Royal.” Joseph got up and marched out of the room. He returned monetarily with the painting. Doyle took the Van Gogh and tossed two hundred-dollar notes onto the table. “That’s for the frame, Mr. Royal.”

Doyle started out of the room and then turned. “Oh, by the way, Mr. Royal, I won’t be returning to the studio.” Joseph fumed. “There isn’t another studio in town that will hire you.” Doyle nodded. “That’s all right. You boys have a good evening.” He turned and exited the room. As he walked down the large concrete steps of the large porch, he did a jig. Joseph grabbed Irving Freedman and marched the little man into an ading room out of earshot of the others. “What the hell were you thinking?” Joseph said. “I dealt you two kings in the first hand and a third when you asked for cards. Taylor must’ve cheated.” “Jesus fucking Christ, Irving, of course the gonif cheated. What was I supposed to do—accuse that fuckin’ mick bastard of cheating better than me?” Freedman stood mute as Joseph stormed out of the room. The winning hand had cost Joseph $20,000 and a Van Gogh. Irving Freedman sighed unhappily. He knew under the evening’s circumstances that Royal Studio would not be considering him for the studio’s production head.

48

Calamity

The family had fractured. Sean retreated to his house in Beverly Hills after the meeting with Walter Sing. He knew at his age, there was little he could do against someone like Jim Davis. He remained at home and brooded. Ward Howard and Jenny had gone to their separate corners. Sean won the boardroom showdown, and for the moment, he allowed sleeping dogs to lie. Howard was still the Oso Negro’s foreman. Michael wasn’t interested in dealing with ranch operations. He saw the ranch as a good cover for McGuire Enterprises’ less legitimate business interests. Michael didn’t make waves. Howard remained at the ranch and rarely had direct with any member of the McGuire family. Jenny had her own place in town and worked for the National Woman’s Party. Emily was in fourth grade and doing well. She spent some weekends out at the ranch but preferred the company of her mother and her mother’s friends to the rough-hewn cowboys. Jenny had no intention of ever going back to Howard but refused to get a divorce. She knew it would hurt the agency having a divorced female attorney as its legal representative. Jenny also knew children were cruel. She didn’t want Emily to come from a broken home. Work kept Jenny busy, though she was never too busy to spend the weekends and evenings with Emily. Jenny always made sure she was home in time to have supper with her daughter and go over her homework. When Jenny traveled out of town for work, she took Emily with her. The young girl loved when they went on trips to Sacramento or Chicago. Emily was Jenny’s pride and joy. Michael continued to live with his grandfather but frequently spent the night at the Alexandria downtown rather than driving all the way back to Beverly Hills. Much of his business was conducted at night now, along with Jimmy Grazzi and William McGrath.

There were no more Sunday dinners with the family and friends. Michael made a point to take Sunday dinner with his grandfather. He would go over the week’s business and get Sean’s advice. Occasionally, Jenny would stop by with Emily. Frequently, the mother and daughter went on weekend trips to Santa Barbara or San Diego. The once tight-knit group had gone their separate ways. It was the modern way.

***

Jenny left her office at noon and drove the few blocks to the women’s clinic where she worked as a volunteer. She was in a good mood. Jane Addams was speaking at the Shrine Auditorium that evening, and Jenny was taking Emily to hear the woman who’d founded Hull House. Jenny felt it was important to expose Emily to feminists whenever possible. She didn’t want her daughter to fall into the marriage trap, as she foolishly had done. Jenny intended for Emily to be a twentieth-century woman. There were more protestors, miscreants, and misogynists than usual marching outside the women’s clinic that day. The clinic was an old three-story building situated on Los Angeles Street in a rough neighborhood. As Jenny entered the building, a number of men and women verbally accosted her. “Whore.” “Pig.” “Communist.” “Baby killer.” One man spit on Jenny. She kept her eyes ahead and didn’t flinch as she marched inside the clinic. The first floor held the istrative offices and examination rooms. The second and third floors were the wards for women too ill to return home and too poor to stay in a traditional hospital.

Gladys Meyers, a nurse in her forties, smiled when she saw Jenny. “Good day to you, Jenny.” Jenny took a handkerchief from her purse and wiped the spit from her face. “Quite a crowd out there today, Gladys.” Gladys waved off the group outside. “Bunch of baboons. It’s on of Miss Addams coming to speak.” She glanced out the front window. “Get a job, you worthless bunch of reprobates.” She looked at Jenny. “Wish I had the time to do nothing but harass people.” “No, you don’t, Gladys,” Jenny replied. Gladys’s face became flush. “I’d never harass folks, Miss McGuire. I just meant —” Jenny gave Gladys a pat on the hand. “I know what you meant, Gladys. We must always to ignore the anger directed at us and focus on our job.” The nurse nodded. “You’re right.” She glanced at the people outside once again. “Sod the buggers,” she said and continued down the hall. Jenny removed her hat and walked into the changing room. She stowed her purse and hat in a locker and donned an apron to cover her dress. She then walked over to Elizabeth Hartman’s office and knocked on the door. Hartman was the director of the clinic. She had come from a wealthy family and lived in San Marino. Jenny entered. “Good afternoon, Liz.” Hartman was on the phone and held up a finger for Jenny to wait. “Yes, yes, that will be perfect. Thank you so much, Cecil.” She hung up the receiver. “That was Cecil Goldman. He has reserved the first two rows at the Shrine for the clinic tonight.” “That’s wonderful,” said Jenny. “You are bringing that beautiful daughter of yours tonight?” Hartman said. It was more a statement than a question. “Oh yes, of course.”

“Good.” “I’m going to make my rounds. I just wanted you to know I was here.” “Thank you, Jenny. Some of our volunteers have been intimidated by the yahoos outside. I’m glad you weren’t.” “Never,” Jenny replied with a smile. She closed the door and went up the stairs to the sick ward. The wards consisted of fifteen beds on either side for a grand total of thirty on the floor. The third floor was used for terminal patients and those with highly contagious conditions. The second held patients who’d had botched abortions or nonfatal industrial accidents. The second floor rarely had an empty bed. Jenny spent most of her time assisting in that ward. The staff referred to the second floor as “Hope” and the third floor as “Rest.” Jenny was halfway through her rounds, when there was a loud crash. She didn’t think much of it and continued with her work. Then she heard shouting coming from the main floor. Jenny and some of the other nurses left the ward and walked to the staircase. Fire and smoke billowed up the stairwell. One of the young women screamed and dashed down the stairs. Jenny and the others hurriedly followed. Gladys came rushing up. “The bastards set fire to the place!” the nurse exclaimed. “We’ve got to get the women out,” said Jenny, already turning and ascending the stairway to the second-floor ward. Others rushed up the stairs to assist. Some of the patients who were well enough were already heading down the stairs. Within moments, the clinic became a scene of pandemonium. Jenny made six trips to assist patients down to the street. Flames licked the walls of the main floor, dancing up the thick wool curtains and scurrying across the ceiling. Choking black smoke billowed upward. Jenny ed off a young woman who had lost her sight in a dye factory to Elizabeth Hartman, who stood in the entrance, counting heads and getting patients settled on the sidewalk. Jenny raced inside the blazing building. “Don’t!” Hartman shouted.

Jenny made it up the stairs. From the second floor, she saw the fire had now consumed the lower portion of the stairway. There were still four more women on her ward to be evacuated. Jenny grabbed a girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen and a small woman from another bed. “Come on. We must get to the roof,” said Jenny. The three women struggled up the stairway, which was filled with smoke. Coughing and choking, Jenny and the two women collapsed on the third floor. There was a loud explosion as the heat blew out the windows on the ground floor, and the fires shot up the building like a rocket. Jenny dragged the two women into a small room used as a storage closet. Thick black smoke filled the entire third floor. The young girl cried. The older woman was in shock and didn’t say a word. Jenny held both close to her. “This is because I killed my baby!” cried the young girl. “God’s punishing me!” Jenny hugged the young girl tighter. “God has nothing to do with this, darling. It’s those bastards outside who set fire to the place.” The young girl continued to cry. The smoke crept in under the door and filled the closet. Jenny hoped Emily had washed her hair when she got home from school so she would be presentable for Jane Addams’s speech. Jenny coughed hard. The burning smoke filled her lungs. The young girl stopped crying. The light got dimmer. It was like falling down a deep well as Jenny slowly lost consciousness, and all went black.

***

Michael and Jimmy Grazzi came out of the building two blocks off Pershing Square that now housed the office of McGuire Enterprises. Michael preferred a

less conspicuous location than the Bradbury. Michael noticed the thick black cloud of smoke that rose in the air and the direction it came from. “Come on” was all he said. He and Jimmy jumped into the Packard. Michael was behind the wheel. He sped down the street in the direction of the smoke’s origin. Traffic was heavy. It took them twenty minutes to reach the women’s clinic. A fire truck was parked in front. Dozens of firemen were hosing the building, which was consumed in flames, and tending to the injured. Michael jumped from the car and raced toward the flaming building. A fireman caught him. Michael tried to break away, but Jimmy and the fireman restrained him. “My aunt works there!” “Most of them got out,” said the fireman. “She’s probably here on the street with the injured.” Michael raced over to the triage area that had been set up. His eyes quickly scanned the victims sitting and lying on the ground. Jenny was not among them. A woman in her thirties with a soiled dress on walked up to Michael. “You’re Michael McGuire?” asked Elizabeth Hartman. Michael gave Hartman a questioning look. “I’m Elizabeth Hartman, the clinic director.” “Yes,” Michael stammered. “Where is my aunt?” Hartman was silent. Her eyes spoke volumes. Michael’s knees buckled. Jimmy braced his friend, holding him up. The two men stood and stared at the building, which was now a flaming inferno. It took the fire brigade three hours to finally extinguish the blaze. They brought out nine bodies. They laid Jenny down on the pavement. Except for the smudges

of soot that covered her face and clothing, Jenny looked as if she were sleeping. “Take her to Johnson’s Mortuary on Wilshire,” Michael told the ambulance workers dealing with the bodies. Michael dropped Jimmy at his hotel. He hadn’t said a word during the drive. “You sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Jimmy asked as he got out of the Packard. Michael nodded. “Thanks. This is something I have to do on my own.” Jimmy tipped his hat. Michael headed west on Sunset Boulevard. William McGrath was working the club in Venice that night, so the business was covered. Michael parked the car, went inside the house, and poured himself a drink. A few minutes later, Sean entered the room. He could see Michael was shaken. “What is wrong?” Sean asked. Michael searched for words but couldn’t find them. Sean gave his grandson a stern look. “Something has happened.” Michael nodded. “And you needed a drink before you told me.” Michael nodded again. He set the glass down. “Jenny—she’s dead. She was killed in a fire at the clinic.” Sean stood silently staring at Michael with a look of disbelief. Suddenly, he clutched his chest and fell to the floor. Michael attempted to revive his grandfather. He was unsuccessful. Sean McGuire was dead.

49

The Funeral

No one was arrested for the fire at the women’s clinic. The newspapers called it a tragedy and said little else about the incident. Jenny’s and Sean’s funerals were private. The only people present were family and immediate friends. John Bear and his family attended. Hadley was in Europe and sent a huge bouquet of flowers, as did Walter Sing. Sean and Jenny were buried in the family plot at the Oso Negro. William McGrath and Jimmy Grazzi waited by the Packard while the services were conducted and the bodies were laid to rest. After the burial, the group retired to the adobe. John Bear was unusually talkative. He related stories of Sean to his children and nine-year-old Emily. After dinner, the guests departed, and Michael called his mother and Ward Howard into the library. McGrath and Jimmy were already there. “Take a seat,” Michael said as he sat down behind the desk that had once been his grandfather’s. Ward and Olivia traded glances and sat down. Jimmy Grazzi stood behind Michael. William McGrath stood by the door. “What is the meaning of this?” Ward demanded. Jimmy took a step toward the foreman. Michael raised a hand and stayed his friend. “This is a time of reckoning, Ward. This is the day I am settling all family s.” Michael replied in a quiet tone of voice. “My wife just died. Don’t you think you’re a bit out of line with this type of behavior?” Ward barked.

Michael reached into the top desk drawer, withdrew a leather-bound journal, and placed it on top of the desk. “Do you know what that is?” he asked. “Some type of journal?” Ward replied. Olivia looked at her son. “Michael, I really think—” Michael’s eyes fixed on his mother with an icy gaze that stopped her midsentence. She had seen that same look many times before in Sean. Michael turned his attention back to Ward. “It is my aunt’s journal.” Ward slouched in his chair. Michael stood, picked up the journal, and walked over to Ward. “You abused my aunt.” Ward remained silent. “Do you deny it?” Ward adjusted himself in the chair. “Michael, you don’t understand. You’ve never been married.” “Answer my question. Did you abuse my aunt?” Ward saw there was no getting around it. He lowered his head, nodded slowly, and whispered, “Yes.” Michael took out a ship’s boarding from the desk drawer and tossed it at Ward, who caught it. “What’s this?” asked Ward. “It is a second-class ticket on the Bristol. It is sailing for Australia this evening. I’ve been in with Lord Campbell’s nephew, Albert. You may recall Lord Campbell was my grandfather’s friend and British business partner. His nephew has a ranch in Alice Springs. You will work on Mr. Campbell’s farm. You will not be a foreman, but you will draw wages.” Ward started to rise. “Now, wait a damn minute.”

McGrath’s gun flashed in his hand. The foreman slowly resumed his seat. “This is America,” Ward said. “You can’t shanghai me to some foreign country.” Michael fixed Ward with a cold look and calmly said, “You will be on that ship, or your brains will be all over the back of that chair. Now, I can get a new chair, but …” His voice trailed off. “What about Emily?” Ward said. “Don’t worry about Emily. She will be well taken care of.” “How do I know you won’t have McGrath or your Eye-talian buddy there kill me?” “You have my word,” Michael replied. “Mr. McGrath will take you to the dock and see you off. Mr. Campbell will wire me when you arrive at his ranch. Don’t think of trying to jump ship. There are men among the crew who have been well paid to see that you land in Melbourne safely. If you attempt to return to the States, I will find out. Neither Mr. McGrath nor Jimmy will pull the trigger. I will. Do you understand?” Ward silently nodded. “What about my things?” Jimmy picked up a leather suitcase and tossed it in front of Ward. “All taken care of,” he said. Ward stood. “May I say goodbye to Emily?” “No. That might upset her. She has been through enough,” said Michael. Realizing he had no other alternative, Ward picked up the suitcase. “You’re welcome,” said Michael. “For what? You’re shipping me off to some foreign country like some steer,” Ward replied. “For your life,” Michael replied coolly. Ward stared at Michael for a moment and then shuffled out of the room.

McGrath followed and closed the door behind him. Michael looked over at his mother. “What—no ticket to Australia for me?” Olivia asked, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. “No, Mother. Your punishment for siding with Howard against the family is exile. You are no longer welcome at the Oso Negro. You will live at a farm that was once owned by Jedidiah McCabe. He was another of grandfather’s friends. The place is not in the best of shape, but you will have plenty of time to fix it up.” Olivia stood up. “And if I refuse to live there?” Michael gestured to the door. “You are free to go. Of course, you will take only your clothes, and you will not have a dime to your name.” Olivia’s shoulders slouched, and she slipped back into the chair. “If you remain on the farm, you will receive an allowance of one hundred dollars a month.” “What choice do I have?” “You do have a choice, Mother. You can walk, or you can stay.” Olivia flew out of the chair and attempted to claw her son. “You are a bastard! I wish you had died in my womb.” Michael grabbed his mother and restrained her. “Considering what I know of my father, you might be correct about my being a bastard. Now, choose.” Olivia hung her head. What fight she had, went out of her like air escaping from a punctured balloon. Michael patted his mother on the head as one would a tamed dog. “Good. Pack your things. Jimmy will drive you there.” Olivia exited the room.

Jimmy looked at Michael. “This may not be the right time, but I just found out that Max Greenberg is getting in a shipment next Friday.” “Is the information solid?” “Yes.” Michael put his arm around Jimmy’s shoulders. “Fine. When Mr. McGrath returns, we will inform him.”

***

Two days after the funeral, Michael delivered an envelope he had found in his father’s safe to the Chinatown address on it. A beautiful woman answered the door. She was dressed fashionably modern. “I believe my grandfather intended this for you,” said Michael. Chu San saw the meaning in Michael’s expression. Walter Sing had not informed her of Sean’s death. Tears welled. She wiped her eyes with the sleeves of her silk blouse and took the envelope. “Thank you.” Michael turned and walked away. Chu San shut the door and opened the envelope. Inside were a letter and a certified check.

My dearest Chu San,

There is so much I wish I could say to you, but I am unable to find the words. You have been my rock and guiding light. I can never repay you for the friendship and loyalty you have freely given me. May you find peace and happiness in life.

Always,

Sean

The certified check was for $20,000—her freedom. Chu San wept until she could weep no more.

50

The Raid

A Ford truck drove up to an older house that lay a few blocks north of Brooklyn Avenue, the main artery running through Boyle Heights. The house had a long drive and a large garage. Two men met the truck at the entrance and waved it through. The driver pulled all the way into the garage. The two men followed the truck and closed the wooden garage doors as soon as the vehicle was inside. Two more men were already inside the garage. The driver jumped out and removed the tarp covering the entire back. Stacks of marijuana plants sat in the bed. The men quickly unloaded them, stacking the plants on pallets. Abe Dershowitz, Max Greenberg’s gunsel, entered through the side door. He was pencil thin and wore a cheap brown suit. A brown fedora topped his head. “Have any trouble?” Abe asked the driver. “Nope, they just waved me through.” “They didn’t ask to see a manifest?” Abe asked. “Nope. This ain’t a commercial truck.” Abe nodded. Suddenly, the garage doors flew open. Jim Davis and Bill Connor stood in the entrance. Behind them were six other cops. Abe went for the .45 in his shoulder holster. Davis shot him dead. Conner pulled his pistol and began blasting. The other police opened fire. When the smoke cleared, the driver was the only man alive. He’d had the sense to hit the floor and roll under the truck as soon as the shooting started.

“Get out from under there,” said Davis when he saw the driver’s feet. The driver slowly crept from under the truck, making sure to keep his arms out. “I ain’t armed,” he said, getting to his feet. Davis pistol-whipped the driver across the face, tearing his lip. Blood sprayed. “That’s for hiding like the coward you are, you damn spic!” he snarled. The driver held his hand against his face, trying to stop the bleeding. “I’m Polish.” Davis sent a solid fist into the driver’s gut, knocking the wind out of the man. “That’s for talking back.” Conner walked over. “Looks like the rest are dead.” Davis glared at the driver. “Where is Greenberg?” “I don’t know,” the driver replied. Davis drove his fist into the driver’s gut again. The man collapsed to the floor. “That’s for not knowing,” said Davis. The lieutenant turned to one of the cops. “Take this piece of shit outta here and book him.” “What are the charges, sir?” asked the patrolman. Davis rocked back on his feet, shared a glance with Conner, and then turned and looked at the uniform cop. “Transporting narcotics across the border, attempted murder, resisting arrest, and being a dumb fuckin’ Polack.” “Yes, sir,” replied the cop as he led the driver out of the garage. Conner leaned in close. “Didn’t your source say Greenberg would be here?” “Yeah,” Davis replied, and then he grinned. “The upside is we caught a bunch of drug pushers with their booty. This is a photo opportunity.” A few moments later, an ambulance arrived to take the bodies away. The orderlies loaded up the dead and drove off. A few minutes after the ambulance departed, the press pulled up. By that time, the officers had searched the house

and retrieved $3,000. Davis set the money on a crate by the pallets of marijuana. He and Bill Conner were photographed standing in front of the cash and contraband. The press labeled the lieutenant, Jim “Two Gun” Davis. Davis lapped it up.

***

Max Greenberg was banging Dottie Gelman, one of the hookers at his Central Avenue joy-house. There was a knock on the door. Greenberg kept going. There was another knock, only louder this time. Greenberg pushed Dottie off him, grabbed his tros, threw them on, and yanked the door open. A short man with a pug face in a gray suit and derby stood in the doorway. “What the fuck? I’m getting laid here,” said Greenberg. “The cops just busted the house on Blanchard,” said Pug Face. “Whada’ya’ mean?” “Somebody must’ve tipped ’em off. They raided the place right after Ray Kopeki pulled in.” “Abe was there.” “He ain’t no more.” “Abe’s dead?” “Jim Davis and his boy, Conner rolled up with a half dozen cops. They shot the place to hell. Kopeki is the only one who survived, and he ain’t in the best of shape.” Greenberg turned back, grabbed his shirt off the chair, and put it on. “Son of a bitch.” “Got a call from the bondsman. They brought Kopeki in along with the entire

shipment.” “Son of a bitch.” “I guess Davis put on a real show for the press.” Greenberg tied his tie. “That fuck Davis is gonna pay for this.” He grabbed his coat. “Come on.” The two men marched out of the room. Dottie called after Greenberg, “You didn’t pay me!”

***

Michael was sitting at his desk in the small office at the Venice club. Jimmy Grazzi had just brought in the tote board with the evening’s take. “Not bad,” said Michael, studying the breakdown. The telephone rang. Michael gestured for Jimmy to answer the call. “Continental.” Jimmy listened for a moment and then responded, “Yeah, I’ll tell him.” He hung up the receiver and looked at Michael. “They busted Greenberg’s boys.” “Good.” “Not so good. Greenberg wasn’t there.” Michael stood up and patted Jimmy on the shoulder. “I didn’t expect him to be.” Jimmy gave Michael a questioning look. “I thought we were going after Greenberg.” “We are. This was merely our first move. Your man did well. Make sure he gets the five hundred.”

Michael gave Jimmy another pat on the shoulder and exited the office.

51

The Departure

Danny Doyle packed his belongings in the Ford: a single suitcase and the Van Gogh. The canvas was rolled up and stored in a leather canister. The canister was secreted under the rear seat of the car. Doyle had given away his furniture and other belongings. Joseph Royal was livid when he found out Doyle had given away Jack Taylor’s cowboy costume. Royal put the word out that Doyle was persona non grate and not to be hired to clean bathrooms at any studio. Doyle didn’t care. He was leaving town. Los Angeles had lost its glamour. Doyle wasn’t sure where he would head. He knew he wanted to get as far away from the studios as possible. Five years of laboring in Hollywood seemed a lifetime. He had thirty grand in his wallet and a .38 under his coat. Hollywood had given him the score of a lifetime. English Jack would have been proud. Doyle locked the door on his apartment and dropped the keys into the mailbox, per the manager’s instructions. He got into the Ford and drove east. Danny Doyle had read the notice of Jenny McGuire’s death. Michael had purposely listed the obituary under his aunt’s maiden name. Doyle figured she would be buried in the family plot at the Oso Negro since Sean’s obituary included that item of information. Doyle had been hesitant to Michael. He wasn’t sure if Michael was aware of his brief affair with Jenny, and he didn’t want to bring up old news that could make the family uncomfortable. Doyle decided that if anyone questioned his visit to the ranch, he would tell them he was moving from the area and wanted to have one last look.

***

Michael and another man came out to see who had driven up. Doyle saw the stocky man wore a gun under his suit coat. He explained his purpose, and Michael told him to feel free to wander the ranch. Michael and the other man returned to the adobe. Doyle went to the horse corral first. He didn’t want to make his real intent for coming obvious. He slowly made his way down to the cemetery plot that lay next to the creek under the shade of a large tree. All the markers were simple, listing a name, date of birth, and date of death. There were no angels or monumental obelisks marking the dead, just plain marble stones that marked the ing of those who had called the Oso Negro home. Doyle wanted to touch Jenny’s marker but was afraid to. He removed his hat and pretended to look out at the creek. “You were a grand gal, Jenny McGuire. Thanks for being my friend. I’m leaving this place, and I wanted to say goodbye to you.” Doyle started to get choked up. He wiped his tears, donned his hat, and walked back to the Ford. Michael was standing near the car alone. “You’re Jack Taylor, aren’t you?” he asked. Doyle grinned sheepishly. “Was.” He extended his hand. “Danny Doyle.” The two men shook. “You used to drive for my grandfather.” Doyle nodded. “That was before I became Jack Taylor.” “And you’re not Jack Taylor any longer?” Doyle pushed his hat back. “No. Quit the business. Joe Royal can go to hell, along with the rest of them.” Michael smiled. “Smart man. The picture business is rife with scoundrels and deviants.” “You’ve got that right,” Doyle replied. “What’re your plans?”

Doyle shrugged. “Haven’t any. Plan to see some of this country. Only lived in San Francisco and Los Angeles.” “If you decide to come back, I could use a man such as yourself,” said Michael. “Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll return to Los Angeles.” Michael glanced over his shoulder toward the family plot and then turned and looked at Doyle. “My aunt would appreciate it—Your coming out to see her.” The remark caught Doyle off guard. “Yes …” There was an awkward silence. Danny Doyle flashed a grin. “Well, I’d best be gettin’ while the gettin’ is good,” he replied. He tipped his hat and got in the Ford. “You never know—if you find you’re in need, you’ve got a friend,” said Michael. Danny Doyle thanked Michael again and drove away. Doyle looked back as the Ford turned out of the long drive and onto the main road. Michael was walking down the trail toward the family plot.

***

Chu San never looked back at Chinatown as the cab bore her away. After Michael delivered the letter from Sean, Chu San went to see Walter Sing. Even though the courtesan had stopped seeing other men years ago, she was still the property of the tong. Walter informed her Sean McGuire had purchased her freedom from the tong the previous year. She was a free woman. Free woman. Chu San never had expected to hear those words. Her mind raced. She could leave Gum Saan. Her next stop was to book age on the Sarwalk, a ship flying under the British flag. She would not waste the bounty Sean had given her, so she purchased a second-class ticket. Chu San planned to open a fine teahouse back home. She was not sure in which province. Her family was from

the west and led a nomadic life. The ship was sailing to Canton. Chu San didn’t care. She was returning to China. She was leaving Gum Saan. She was leaving the land of the gweilo, where hundreds of white men pawed her body. Sean had been the only white man who never hurt her. He’d treated her with dignity. Chu San would always carry Sean McGuire in her heart, though they had been lovers only once. As the cab carried her across the city, Chu San was amazed at the tall buildings, bustling traffic, and dozens of pedestrians. She had only been outside of Chinatown a few times since arriving there at the age of thirteen. Those few times were when she had gone to the cinema with Walter Sing’s daughter, Liu Tsong. The younger girl loved going to the movies and convinced Chu San to accompany her downtown. The two young girls would take a taxi to the nickelodeon on Broadway. One of the films they saw was, White Lotus. It focused on a pair of star-crossed lovers—a British officer and a Chinese courtesan—on the eve of the Boxer Rebellion. All of the actors were white. Chu San was not impressed with the movie. She thought the story was insulting and made caricatures of the Chinese. Liu Tsong didn’t care that whites played all the Chinese parts. She loved the film. Other than those few times she went to the movies, Chu San never ventured out of Chinatown till today. The cab arrived at the dock in Long Beach. The driver got out and removed the two bags. Chu San tipped the man and carried her two suitcases to the embarking gate. A tall man in a uniform checked her ticket. “Welcome aboard, miss.” Chu San walked up the gangplank and boarded the ship. Her cabin was small, and she shared it with a black woman who was the maid for a wealthy couple in first class. Chu San didn’t care. She was going home. Chu San stowed her luggage and went up on deck. Dozens lined the deck, waving to loved ones standing on the dock below. The ship’s band played a lively march. Chu San had no one to see her off. The only man she loved was dead. A pair of stevedores pulled the gangplank away. The lines were cast from the ship to dock workers below. The ship’s horn blew loudly, drowning out the wellwishers. The Sarwalk slowly pulled away from the dock. Chu San never turned

to look at Gum Saan. She stood looking forward toward the Pacific Ocean and beyond to China.

52

Secrets

Michael stood in the third pew at St. Theresa’s along with his young cousin, Emily for morning Mass. The priest genuflected and turned to the congregation. “In nomine Patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti,” intoned the elderly priest. The congregation responded by making the sign of the cross and knelt as the priest began the service.

***

William McGrath and Jimmy Grazzi sat in a black Ford that Jimmy boosted in San Pedro. They were parked up the block from Jim Davis’s home and had an excellent view of the house and the Chevy parked in the driveway. McGrath took out his pocket watch and checked the time. It was 7:10. He slipped the watch back in his vest. “You sure you wired it right?” McGrath asked without taking his eyes off the house. “Yeah,” replied Jimmy. “There’s a ten-second delay. Once Davis hits the ignition, ten seconds later, he’ll be blown to hell. We did plenty of this type of charge in the war—had to give yourself time to get away before it blew.” He took out a pack of cigarettes. “Put those away,” said McGrath. Jimmy gave the older man a look.

“Smoke draws attention,” said McGrath. Jimmy shrugged and stuffed the pack back in his shirt pocket.

***

The priest raised his arms and said, “Dóminus vobíscum.” A pair of altar boys responded, “Et cum spíritu tuo.” “Ite, Missa est,” said the priest. “Deo grátias.” “Pláceat tibi, sancta Trínitas, obséquium servitútismeæ: et præsta; ut sacrifícium, quodóculis tuæ majestá tis indignus obtúli, tibi sit acceptábile, mihíque et ómnibus pro quibus illud obtúli, sit, te miseránte, propitiábile. Per Christum Dóminum nostrum. Amen. Benedícat vos omní potens Deus, Pater, et Fílius, et Spíritus Sanctus.” “Amen.” The priest moved to the left side of the altar and raised his arms again. The congregation stood. “Dóminus vobíscum,” said the cleric. The altar boys replied, “Et cum spíritu tuo.” Michael patted Emily’s shoulder. She read her missal as the priest said Mass. The young girl did not cry when informed her mother had died. She’d asked Michael where she was going to live. Michael told her they would live in Grandpa Sean’s house for the time being. Emily nodded and quietly packed up her belongings. Even at the funeral, the young girl did not cry. Michael recognized that Emily had more of her grandfather in her than expected. He was proud of his little cousin. She was just a few years younger than Sean was when he had to flee his home in Ireland. Emily dealt with tragedy like a McGuire:

silently and privately. Michael took out his pocket watch and checked the time. It was 7:20.

***

“Hey,” said William McGrath. A car had pulled up in front of Jim Davis’s house. Jimmy Grazzi sat up in his seat. “That’s the partner, Bill Conner. He follows Davis to church,” he said. “Maybe we get lucky and nail two bastards today.” They watched as Conner knocked on the door and stepped inside. It was only a few moments, but it seemed like an eternity before Jim Davis and Bill Conner exited the house. Conner ran over and got in the Chevy parked on the driveway. Jimmy looked at McGrath. “That ain’t supposed to happen. Conner always follows Davis in his car.” “Well, he isn’t today.” Conner started the Chevy. Davis took a few steps toward the car and then stooped to tie his shoelace. There was an explosion. The hood on the Chevy blew skyward and came down in the yard next door with a crash. Glass shattered. The car was engulfed in flames. Davis was hurled backward. Shards of glass raked his face. He hit the ground hard. McGrath and Jimmy sat for a moment. “Is he dead?” Jimmy asked. “Well, his partner sure is.” McGrath started the Ford and drove away. Jimmy turned to look out the rear window.

“Don’t,” said McGrath. Jimmy faced forward as the Ford made a right turn. They could hear sirens approaching in the distance. Jimmy looked at his hands. They were as steady as a rock.

***

Bill Conner was dead. By the time the fire squad got the car extinguished and pulled him out, the former cop looked like a slab of barbecued beef. Jim Davis suffered a minor concussion and dozens of lacerations but was alive. Two hours after the explosion, Davis was in uniform and fuming. “I want the bastards that put that bomb in my car!” Davis roared at the patrolmen in the room. “It was a pro job,” said one of the cops. “I want every crib, t, and hop house overturned. Somebody knows who did this,” Davis barked. The cops didn’t wait to be told again. They saluted the lieutenant and quickly exited the room. “Two Gun” Davis had a good idea who was responsible. He and Bill Conner had knocked over Max Greenberg’s place the previous week. They had killed a half dozen of Greenberg’s men. Greenberg was guilty as far as Davis was concerned. The bomb had been payback. Davis went to his desk and removed a second revolver. After checking to make sure it was loaded, he stuffed it in his belt. He removed the .38 he carried in his holster and made sure that gun was fully loaded as well. Davis looked at a patrolman who was still in the office. “What’s your name?” “Gerald, sir,” replied the cop. “Officer Gerald Sanders.” The cop looked young, a raw rookie. He had a fresh face with barely a whisker.

Davis gave the cop a once-over. “Well, Gerry, if you have a pair, grab your gun. We’re going after some bad hombres.” “Yes, sir.” Davis took a shotgun from the rack. Sanders went for one, but Davis gave him a dirty look and said, “You won’t need that.” “Yes, sir.” Davis was already heading out the door. “Stop with that ‘sir’ business. Call me Jim.” Sanders hurried to catch up. “Yes, sir—uh, Jim.”

***

Michael and Emily were at home, eating breakfast, when William McGrath entered the dining room. He tipped his hat to Emily, walked over, and whispered something in Michael’s ear. “If you will excuse me a moment, Emily, I need to speak to Mr. McGrath.” Michael got up, and the two men went into the kitchen. Jimmy Grazzi was leaning against the counter. “What happened?” Michael asked. “I gave it a ten-second delay just like we did in . How was I to know Conner was going to drive the fuckin’ car?” “So, Conner is dead, and Davis isn’t,” Michael said. “Looks that way,” McGrath replied. “All right. Keep the club closed.”

“The club’s in county territory,” said McGrath. “Davis doesn’t have pull in the county.” Michael gave McGrath a cold look. “A cop’s been killed. Davis will be out for blood. There will be some in the sheriff’s department who will assist.” “Closing the club might raise suspicions,” said McGrath. “How long before construction is completed on the Continental?” McGrath shrugged. “A week—maybe two. They’re already ahead of schedule.” “Fine. Put the word out that we’re closed until the new place is up and running. We’re moving equipment.” McGrath nodded. “That’ll float.” Michael looked at the two men. “We keep our heads down and see what happens. One thing is for sure: Davis is going to turn this town upside down until he finds his man.” McGrath and Jimmy both nodded and exited the kitchen. Michael returned to the dining room and resumed his seat at the table. “Mr. McGrath tells secrets,” said Emily. Michael looked up. “It was business.” “Secret business. I like secrets,” Emily replied with a sly smile.

***

Jim Davis kicked in the door of Max Greenberg’s Central Avenue joy-house. It was still early, and most of the girls were sleeping. Hannah Rice, the madam running the house, came down the stairs. Hannah was a bottle redhead and pushing fifty and had a figure that made a battleship look sleek.

“What the hell is all the racket?” Hannah said. “Where’s your boss?” barked Davis as Patrolman Sanders stood in the doorway behind him. “Now, just one minute. We’re paid up.” Davis shot Hannah a mean look. “I don’t care if you’re paid up till fuckin’ New Year’s. Where the fuck’s Greenberg?” Hannah had dealt with plenty of hostile cops. She wasn’t going to allow this one to disturb her house. She placed her hands on her hips and gave Davis an icy look. “You got a warrant, or you can forget going upstairs.” Davis clubbed her in the head with the butt of the shotgun. “Interfering with an investigation.” Hannah collapsed to the floor, and Davis bounded up the stairs. Officer Sanders stooped to check on the madam. Davis turned. “Leave her.” Davis raced up the stairs. He kicked in doors. Whores jumped. They screamed, hollered, and cursed. Davis worked his way down the hall. Max Greenberg stepped out of a room, bleary-eyed. He was wearing a wifebeater T-shirt, a pair of boxers, and brown argyle socks held up with a pair of men’s garters. “What the fuck is going on?” Greenberg growled. Davis charged. He hit Greenberg in the gut with the shotgun butt. Greenberg doubled over. His right hand fell close to the .22 strapped to his garter. Davis pulled the trigger. Most of Max Greenberg’s head ended up on the far wall of the room. Officer Sanders raced up. “Holy Jesus.” “Dumb prick went for his gun,” said Davis.

***

Michael and Emily were coming out of the nickelodeon, when McGrath walked up. He whispered something in Michael’s ear. “Are you sure?” Michael asked. “Yes, happened about an hour ago.” Michael thought for a moment. “Keep the club closed.” “Greenberg’s dead. We don’t have anything to be worried about.” Michael frowned. McGrath had discussed business in front of Emily. “Let sleeping dogs lie, William.” It was one of the few times Michael had referred to McGrath by his first name. McGrath understood the error he’d made. He tipped his hat and walked away. Emily looked up at her cousin. “Secrets.” Michael didn’t say anything. “Were they good secrets?” “Yes, Emily. They were good secrets.” “That’s good, Michael,” Emily replied with an innocent smile. The young girl took her cousin’s hand, and they continued down the street.

53

The Favor

Walter Sing removed a cigarette from a silver case and lit it. He stood with Michael and Jimmy Grazzi outside the completed club on the Pacific Coast Highway. The building had a nuevo-Spanish design: off white, with a red tile roof; large, curved windows; and a beautifully tiled entrance. Conspicuously absent was any sign for the establishment. It was just a long, beautiful building with parking for a dozen cars. “Very nice,” said Walter. “Yeah, the crew finished ahead of schedule. That gives us a little breathing room on the grand opening,” Michael replied. “You don’t have much parking,” Walter said. “One of the reasons my grandfather picked this spot,” Michael replied. He pointed to a strip of land on the opposite side of the street about a half mile south of the club. “We have a parking lot there. We will have a bus shuttle the customers to their cars.” Walter smiled. “And you control the flow of traffic.” “Exactly. Come, let’s go inside.” The three men walked up the steps and entered the club. The interior had a high ceiling with large open beams. Spanish tile accented the archway between the bar and the dining room. The bar was polished maple and curved like a treble clef. A framed menu hung on the wall. El Capitan was written in large script at the top of the menu. Walter looked at Michael with a questioning expression. “You’ve changed the

name of the club.” “Yes. It was time. This is my place, not my grandfather’s. We’ve got a French chef in the kitchen. The place settings are Limoges China.” Michael gestured to Walter. “Courtesy of your import business. The El Capitan is going to be the classiest night spot in the city.” Walter looked about. “Where is your club?” “Upstairs. The only access is through that door.” Michael pointed to a nearly invisible door in the wood next to the bar. “One flight up, we have craps, poker, blackjack, and roulette.” “What about the police?” “The sheriff has been awarded a charter hip. Joe Stillwell isn’t going to allow his boys to shit where he eats.” Walter gave Michael a serious look. “Which brings us to Lieutenant Davis …” He allowed his voice to trail off. Michael nodded. “I know. I gave my word.” “What do you plan to do about the lieutenant, Michael?” “Nothing.” “That wasn’t what you promised me.” Michael looked at Walter with a friendly expression. “I would hope that our partnership would continue. I am going to need workers.” “Ah, coolies in the kitchen.” “That’s a bit harsh. We have always had a good working relationship. I would hope that would continue.” “I will have to consider that. Our relationship has cost me much.” “We can’t make a move on Davis. Every cop in the city is watching out for him now.”

Walter nodded toward Jimmy. “Your man failed.” Jimmy frowned and took a step forward. Michael gave him a look, and Jimmy stopped. Michael turned to Walter and held his arms open. “What would you have me do?” “Exactly. In my father’s country, we would demand the man who failed be the tong’s slave.” “We’re in America, Walter. I will never allow Jimmy to be any man’s slave.” He nodded toward Grazzi. “I doubt he would be much use as a slave anyway.” “A favor then.” “What type of favor?” Michael asked. “I do not know at the present. Maybe I will never ask, but if I do, you will grant me that favor.” Michael studied the man standing across from him. He was aware of the gravity of what Walter was asking. If he failed to grant the favor, he would be a target of the tong. He held out his hand. “Agreed.” The two men shook hands. Walter gave the restaurant another look. “You have done well, Michael. I am sure your place will be a hit with the gweilo and make you plenty of money.” He tipped his hat and walked out of the building. Michael turned to Jimmy. “Never allow your personal feelings to cloud your head.” “The damn chink called me a slave,” Jimmy replied. Michael patted his friend on the shoulder. “Never allow your emotions to be known to anyone other than Mr. McGrath and me.” Jimmy nodded. “Understood.”

“Good. Now, what about Jim Davis?” “We’ve got a scribbler at the Examiner on the payroll. He’s printing whatever dirt we give him on Davis. It’ll stop him from being the mayor’s fair-haired boy, but it won’t stop him from being a thorn in the ass of every club owner east of La Brea.” “Whatever we can do to make the man’s life harder will be fine.” “What kind of favor you think Walter Sing is going to ask?” Michael gave Jimmy a serious look. “I’m not sure. Whatever he does ask for, I will have to grant it.” “I could shoot him.” Michael smiled. “You know nothing about the tong. You should read, The Bear, a book about my grandfather.” “I ain’t read anything besides the sports page since I graduated from Sister Teresa’s eighth-grade class at St. John’s.” Michael smiled. The two men walked out of the building into the soft winter sun. They got into the Packard and drove east.

***

The El Capitan opened on New Year’s Eve. It was a clear, cool evening—the type of winter weather that got easterners moving to California by the droves. The liquor flowed freely. The Volstead Act didn’t take effect until midnight, and the fix was in. The restaurant was packed. The band played standards and mixed it up with jazz. The singer was Faye Swanson, a contract player for Royal Studio who also had a contract with RCA. Jimmy Grazzi kept watch on the bar. He made the rounds, glad-handing the movers and groovers. He told bad jokes, and they laughed. Jimmy made sure the

drinks were poured heavy. Only those he gave a nod to were allowed upstairs to the casino. One of the Twelve Apostles stood guard at the door. He frisked the guests before they got into the elevator that took them to the second floor. William McGrath stood on a balcony overlooking the casino. He kept his eye on the dealers and croupiers. Nothing escaped McGrath’s watchful eye. The chief of police, the sheriff, and a number of the city council were at the tables, having the time of their lives. They all declared the El Capitan the best place in town. Michael came out to the balcony with a scotch, which he offered to McGrath, who declined. “Need to keep an eye the tables,” said McGrath. Michael gave him a pat on the back. “Happy New Year, Mr. McGrath.” McGrath kept his attention on the tables below. “Happy New Year, Michael. Your grandfather would be proud.” “Thank you, Mr. McGrath.” There was a moment of silence. “I’ll leave you to it then,” said Michael. He walked back to his office. Emily stood on a stool, watching the people in the restaurant from a hidden window. She was wearing a beautiful yellow dress and black patent shoes. She turned when her cousin entered. “There are a lot of people down there.” Michael walked over to Emily and looked out the window. “Yes, there are.” “That means there are a lot of secrets.” Emily smiled and hugged him. “Happy New Year, Michael.” “Happy New Year, my dear.”