Devil’s garden

28

Minta thinks you’re a good egg,” Roscoe said. “Minta is a sensible woman.” “That she is.”

There was a long silence between the two men in the rear of the Pierce-Arrow limousine. Roscoe was dressed in pajamas and a robe. He rolled another cigarette, fumbling around with the paper and tobacco until he got the thing made. The leather inside the cab reminded Sam of a fine saddle; it all smelled rich and oiled.

“Now we got that settled,” Sam said, “I need to get back to work.”

“I read about that gold,” Roscoe said. “They said it was a ‘Mystery at Sea.’ ”

“Not much of a mystery,” Sam said. “We found most of it.”

“You found the robbers?”

Sam shook his head.

“Can I call you Sam?”

“Sure.”

“Sam, I was set up.”

“I know.”

“Fred Fishback directed the whole thing. He arranged the trip, called the girls, and brought the booze. The son of a bitch blindsided me. All that crap he said on the stand about me asking for the key to the ladies’ changing room is a bunch of hooey.”

“Why?”

Roscoe looked out the window, the machine idling at Pier 35. A group of sailors passed his car, eyes wide with amazement at the fine machine. He smoked and shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You remember me asking about you knowing Mr. Hearst?”

Roscoe didn’t say anything.

“Why’d you lie?”

“I said I’ve met the man once.”

“He’s taken an interest in you.”

Roscoe turned from the window, his profile in the glass.

“His bagman paid Fishback,” Sam said. “I saw it. That same man poisoned the woman who’d come to the city to testify on your behalf. Between Hearst and Brady, the facts will never be heard. The real truth has already been buried or burned up in an incinerator.”

Roscoe looked confused but nodded, and then nodded some more.

Sam leaned into the space between them. He checked his watch and rubbed his head.

“Why do you continue to protect him?”

Roscoe shook his head.

“He’s walking all over you,” Sam said. “Hearst is making you look like a fool. You keep on keeping whatever you know a secret and you’re headed to San Quentin. Why a grown man would want to be anyone’s whipping boy is beyond me. My ass would get sore after a while.”

Roscoe looked at him and Sam saw more rage than he expected. But the rage soon softened and he started to cry, and he was very open about it. Sam had never seen a grown man so open about weeping before another man. He looked like he was about ten, wiping the mess away with his fists.

“I’m not protecting Hearst,” he said. “I’m no one’s whipping boy.”

Sam leaned into the soft leather seats. He lit a cigarette, reached into the bar and poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter. “Jesus Christ,” Sam said, taking a long pull.

Roscoe reached over and poured him another.

“I could get used to this.”

“No, you couldn’t,” Roscoe said, not looking at him anymore but staring out the window and thinking. The hand-rolled cigarette burned between his fingers. His robe was silk and probably cost more than Sam’s suit and shirt and shoes put together. “All this makes you soft.”

“I left my hat on the boat,” Sam said, reaching for the door.

Roscoe held up his hand. “Hold on. Christ, let me think. I just don’t know. God damn. I don’t understand any of it. It’s making my head hurt.”

“It’s a simple story, Roscoe. You walked into a frame job and the frame job went really wrong. About as wrong as it can get. And that isn’t your fault. But to hold out on me with anything isn’t just pigheaded, it’s damn stupid.”

“Do you know that for the weeks I spent in that jail, all I did was try to remember what happened in that room?”

“What happened?”

“I couldn’t. I thought maybe I did kill her. I could imagine it. I could imagine me falling asleep on her, touching her too rough.”

Sam finished the glass.

“I’m so goddamn clumsy when I drink,” Roscoe said. “I wanted to die. If there had been a gun in that cell, I would’ve stuck it into my mouth. I convinced myself that I’d killed her. I read the stories and those stories rolled in my head. I saw myself crushing her. I didn’t really stop blaming myself until today. When Freddie turned on me, I knew it had been a frame job. He worked me goddamn perfectly. He arranged the sets, brought in the actors, and had it play out just like he’d written it.”

“Except for one thing.”

Roscoe looked up at Sam.

“The girl wasn’t supposed to die.”

“Sure she was.”

Sam shook his head. “She was sick. No one was planning on that. But when it happened, they changed the script and rolled with it, and now you’re being railroaded to prison. So why don’t we cut out all the bullshit and you tell me why William Randolph Fucking Hearst wants to destroy your life.”

It began to rain outside. The rain pinged on the waxed hood of the big machine. Roscoe flipped a switch and told the chauffeur to drive. The wheels rolled.

“I don’t want her hurt.”

“A woman,” Sam said. “Always a woman.”

“She’s a hell of a woman,” Roscoe said, as the chauffeur kicked it in gear and they headed down the never-ending row of piers, arc lights blazing the way, the rain catching in their bright glow. “She saved my life. And, above all, I want her name left out of this. She’s sweet and gentle and caring. She saved my life.”

“You said that.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“And just how did that work?”

“There was a New Year’s party,” Roscoe said. “Two years ago. She owns a beautiful beach home that looks like an old-fashioned plantation. We were all very, very drunk.”

“What’s her name, Roscoe?”

“Marion,” he said. “Marion Davies.”

“The film actress?”

Roscoe nodded.

Sam nodded. He waited.

Roscoe didn’t say anything.

“And who is Mr. Hearst to her?”

“A friend,” Roscoe said. “Her benefactor.”

“I bet.”

“You ever have a woman care for you when you’re down-and-out? When you feel like you’re at the bottom of a well and can’t see for the dark?”

Sam glanced away.

“I had problems,” Roscoe said. “With my manhood. I confided very personal issues to her. I was drunk and told Miss Davies. I was quite drunk. Very drunk.”

“So you were drunk,” Sam said.

“She said I lacked confidence and the whole business was in my head,” he said. “We walked on the beach when all hell was breaking loose with fireworks and champagne bottles uncorking and all that, and she led me by the hand behind a sand dune.”

“And proved you wrong,” Sam said. He ashed his cigarette into his hand.

Roscoe noted the gesture and handed him a cut-glass tray.

“This is all in confidence,” Roscoe said. “You must assure me.”

“I assure you.”

“Miss Davies isn’t what I call chaste,” Roscoe said. “Surely Mr. Hearst understands that. He’s quite a bit older, and for him to go to all this trouble… She’s known to entertain other gentlemen.”

“God bless her.”

“No one saw us.”

“Oh, someone saw you,” Sam said. “You just didn’t see them.”

“The only thing on that beach was shadows and moonlight,” Roscoe said. “I never told a soul.”

“They’ll convict you, Roscoe,” Sam said. “If Miss Davies is the friend you think, she’ll give us the goods on Hearst.”

Roscoe shook his head.

“This man has destroyed your life.”

“I don’t believe it,” Roscoe said. “Why would a man like Mr. Hearst go to all that trouble?”

“Do I need to draw a picture for you?” Sam asked. “You screwed his girl.”

“Mr. Hearst doesn’t have time to take such an interest-”

“I’ve seen him take an interest in a lot less.”

Roscoe watched Sam. Sam drank some more. There was more rain and headlights cut across the darkness of the cab.

“Miss Davies is-”

“I’ve done some work I’m not proud of,” Sam said. “I know for a fact Mr. Hearst once sent a man, the very same man who paid Fishback, to kill a fella by the name of Little. All Little did was try and help some miners and he ended up with his neck stretched under a train trestle.”

“That sounds like a business matter.”

“It wasn’t just money,” Sam said. “Hearst couldn’t control him. He spoke out louder and better than any Hearst stooge. He attacked Hearst in his speeches and on street corners. Workers listened to Little, respected him.”

“I can’t.”

“Get a message to Miss Davies,” Sam said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

Roscoe shook his head, arm casually resting against the door. The cigarette smoldered in his hand, Roscoe seeming to forget about it.

“Hearst may have set the trap, but I was dumb enough to be snared,” Roscoe said. “I’ll carry my own water, thank you.”

“If you don’t speak up, they’ll win,” Sam said. “This isn’t just Hearst, it’s the lot of lousy bastards.”

“Who are we talking about?”

Sam studied the fat actor’s profile.

“He’s already won,” Roscoe said. “And dragging Miss Davies into the mud won’t do a goddamn thing.”

“Thinking like that is the reason this country is a goddamn mess.”

“I don’t follow.”

Moments passed. The big black Arrow rolled on. Sam ran a handkerchief across his sweating face. He felt his breathing slow as he composed himself and smiled at Roscoe.

“How’s your”-Sam pointed to Roscoe’s crotch-“now?”

Roscoe crossed his legs. He turned his eyes back to Sam, face breaking into a grin.

“Every time I see those Vigilant women, I feel like a scared turtle.”

THANKSGIVING MORNING, Sam awoke to the baby crying. He could smell coffee and bacon in the tiny kitchen and hear Jose rummaging around with the groceries and dry goods he’d brought home. He found his watch and his cigarettes, neatly made the Murphy bed and closed it up into the wall. He was still working on the cigarette when he walked into the kitchen, Jose handing him a warm cup and smiling. He kissed Mary Jane on the head. It was cold in the apartment. He owed the landlady for the heat.

“And a turkey, too?”

“A turkey, too,” Sam said, sitting at the rickety table. “Not a bad-looking bird. Bit skinny. Kinda felt sorry for it.”

“How much was this?”

“It’s Thanksgiving,” Sam said. “Rumor has it, we’re supposed to stuff ourselves.”

Sam rubbed his head and yawned, Jose laying the baby in his arms. She cried and cried and he stood and rocked her, walking around the tiny flat and to the window, fogged in the early morning. All of Eddy Street seeming gray and cold.

“Jose, I may have to leave for a spell.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll keep dinner warm.”

“Longer than that. Not today, maybe next week. I may have to take that ship back to Australia. They haven’t located the loot and the Old Man may want me to sail with her.”

“I read The Call last night,” she said, face never changing. “I heard the purser located some of the gold through a dream. I found that odd.”

“So did we,” Sam said. “But the fella we make for it jumped ship yesterday morning and hasn’t been seen since.”

“How much is still missing?”

“Twenty thousand,” Sam said. “I’ll make sure you and the baby have plenty. I can pay up the rent for some time.”

“How?”

“It’d be taken care of. You wouldn’t have to worry for a thing.”

“I never asked for a thing, Sam.”

There were just the sounds in the kitchen for a while and the silence just kind of hung there between them for a long moment, Sam searching for something to say but Jose speaking first.

“I read about Mr. Arbuckle, too,” she said, cooking eggs now, hard-frying them, and browning the toast alongside in the skillet. “Doesn’t look good. His friend Mr. Fishback said that Arbuckle asked him to sneak into the women’s changing room to see Virginia.”

“Don’t believe everything you read.”

“You want some of those preserves?’

“You bet.”

“Say, you’re good with the kid, Sam. She asleep?”

“Like a baby.”

“Ha.”

“I’ve been doing some thinking about Mr. Arbuckle.”

“You have some theories?”

“I don’t think the autopsy was covering up her being pregnant. I think one of the reasons she came to the city was to get rid of the child.”

“Why do you say that?”

“There’s a doctor,” Sam said. “The one called by Mrs. Delmont to the St.

Francis. I shadowed him sometime back and, among other things, he treats whores.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s an abortionist.”

“Easy enough to find out.”

“But you don’t believe he was protecting Miss Rappe’s virtue when he destroyed her organs.”

“Nope.”

“You believe he was covering for something he botched.”

“Yep.”

“You don’t say much.”

“Nope.”

He smiled.

She laid down his plate of eggs. He slowly, very carefully, passed over the sleeping child to her. She took the handoff with a smile, the kid still dozing.

“That would be a hell of a thing to prove.”

“It’s not my case anymore,” Sam said. “Other men are on it.”

“But you’re still poking around?”

“A fella I think is a good egg asked me to.”

“That simple?”

“Yep.”

“You’re a good egg, Sam.”

Sam didn’t respond.

IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON when Sam stepped foot back on the Sonoma.

A couple of seamen in coveralls painted the deck and smoked cigarettes. He recognized one of them from the days before and gave him a short wave and hello, looking for the first officer, McManus or Captain Trask, but was told that both of ’em had gone ashore to meet with their families. Sam was headed back down, stepping onto a staircase leading belowdecks, back to the engine room and the hidden vent shaft, when he heard his name called.

He turned.

Tom Reagan stood there looking down on him. He wore a black slicker and black fedora and motioned for Sam to come on back up. “We need to talk.”

Sam followed him.

The wind on deck was a cold bastard. He lit a cigarette for warmth. Tom did the same.

“Hell of a place to be on Thanksgiving.”

Sam nodded.

“I think that gold is long gone,” Tom said. “How ’bout you?”

Sam nodded.

Tom smiled at him and it was a knowing smile. Sam shuffled on his feet a bit.

“’ Course it wouldn’t take much to hide a coin here or there. A man could fill up his pockets and walk right out.”

Sam studied Tom’s face, his granite features pinching, taking a draw on the cigarette. Those small eyes in that bullet head squinted at Sam.

“I guess that’s right.”

“Something’s not sitting well with me, Sam.”

Sam watching him. He waited.

“I don’t like when someone isn’t straight with me. I like ’em to be honest.

I like to lay out the truth, plain and unvarnished, for all the world to see. I don’t like cheaters. Even when I wrestled back in school, I knew the rules and played ’em straight.”

“Get on with it,” Sam said.

“Now, hold on. I need you to listen to me. ’Cause I’m not even sure what to do about this.”

Sam’s heart started to race. He took in a breath of cold air and dropped his hands into his pockets. He could smell the paint fumes from the deck ahead of them and it was making him nauseated. He grabbed the edge of the railing and felt it was slick with paint, which he wiped off on his clean handkerchief.

“Goddamnit.”

“I like you, Sam,” Tom said. “I think you’re a straight shooter and I respect that. I want to give you a fair chance.”

Sam nodded. “How’d you know?”

“Something’s been wrong from the start. You can’t blame a person for cheating, but this… this is something else altogether. Makes me ill.”

“Tom-”

“Hold on,” Tom said, putting up his meaty paw. “Hold on. Hear me out.

I don’t want a word of this coming back to me. You hear me?”

Sam nodded.

“Arbuckle is being crucified,” Tom said. “Brady knows he’s innocent.”

“What?”

“There’s more,” Tom said. “But I need you to figure some stuff out on your own.”

Sam took a deep breath, wiping more paint from his fingers. The sun was behind Tom and it was weak and white through the clouds. The men painting the deck whistled while Sam found his footing. He lit another cigarette and began to walk side by side with Tom.

“You’re okay, Tom.”

“You look sick.”

“I’m okay now.”

“So what do we do?”

“What can you tell me about Rumwell?”

“You don’t fool around, do you? You go straight to it.”

Sam shrugged.

“So you know?”

“I guess so.”

“I don’t know what to believe,” Tom said, beside him, making Sam feel small although the men were the same height. “Everyone on this case is a liar. It can make you screwy.”

“I say we talk to him about what we know.”

“Rumwell?”

“Why not?”

“He won’t admit a goddamn thing.”

“It’s a funny thing the way the conscience works on a guilty man.”

“You look like a man with experience, Sam.”

THE PINKERTON OFFICE kept a running list of every greased palm in every hotel in The City. You worked the city by who you knew, who you kept up with, who you routinely paid for the privilege. And they had a beaut of a list, starting with the top hotels, with names and numbers of the hotel dicks, on-duty managers, and doormen. After meeting with Rumwell for a solid three hours, Sam went to his apartment and then returned to the office, placed exactly four calls, and soon came up with a time and place, the Fairmont Hotel tearoom atop Nob Hill. He waited in the office for an hour, used the time to type and then retype a short letter, and then hopped a cable car up Powell.

He wore his best suit-his only suit-freshly pressed, with shoes shined. He was able to make it to the tearoom before being stopped.

From where he stood, talking to the maître d’, he could see the big party. The table stretched behind marble columns and iron banisters, taking up nearly half of the restaurant. Men wore their best black and ladies wore their newest hats. There was gay laughter and toasts and mountains of food. Turkeys with dressing, hams, fresh fruit, and pies sitting atop silver stands. Sam smiled as he watched Police Chief O’Brien uncorking a bottle and pouring a bit for District Attorney Brady, Brady proposing a drunken toast, Mr. Hearst himself wiping crumbs away from his mouth and answering the toast back, clinking glasses with Mrs. Hearst and winking over at two boys who looked nearly identical.

The maître d’ was arguing with Sam, telling him that he could not enter. He said it was closed, private, and the accent was vaguely German. Sam reached into his coat, offering his apologies, and told the man he had urgent business from Mr. Hearst’s office and it was absolutely imperative that this letter reach Mr. Hearst’s hands and no one else’s.

The man took the envelope with great seriousness, taking pride in the task in the way that only Germans can. He shook Sam’s hand warmly and told him to consider it done.

Sam tried to pay the guy a nickel for his trouble, but he looked at the coin in his palm like it was a dog turd.

HEARST RECEIVED THE LETTER not from the maître d’ but from his valet, George. And he left the letter next to his half-eaten plate for many minutes, almost an hour. He drank more red wine, just to taste, since he was not a man to indulge in a weakness, ate a turkey leg, and clapped with joy at the sight of the Baked Alaska.

While the men sat back to cigar stewards and glasses of cognac, Hearst shared a story with the table about serving the flaming dessert to Pancho Villa. He said Villa had been a guest at his mother’s ranch, and after demonstrating some of the most abhorrent table manners he’d ever witnessed the revolutionary jumped from his seat and cocked a pistol at the flaming Baked Alaska.

“He was convinced I’d brought him a bomb.”

There was cordial laughter and much harrumphing from the men, the mayor, the chief, and the D.A., all of San Francisco’s elite. Millicent, Hearst’s wife, smiled over at him, quite tired from her journey west with the twins, prepared once again to make their way back to New York.

Hearst would miss the boys.

Millicent, as always, had begun to bore him with her incessant talk of the Milk Fund.

While the men grew sleepy from the food and drink, plied with more cognac, cigars burning and satisfied, the women’s talk began to dominate the table. Chatter of the latest styles from Paris and of that handsome Italian Valentino. They particularly seemed to like his eyes, finding them oddly hypnotic, and Hearst thought to himself that perhaps he should reexamine the man’s films, learn the technique that had transformed a dishwasher into a lustful attraction.

As his plate was cleared, he remembered the letter, and tore at the envelope with his thumbnail. The message was as simple and straightforward a group of sentences as he’d ever read, so Hearst thought that it had to have been written by one of his newspapermen, an insider. But the last line made him know differently, and he looked up from the cleared linen and smiled, just catching the last few words from Millicent about the boys’ antics when they visited the British Museum and begged their father to buy them an ape.

“He not only can climb a tree,” Hearst said. “But he can serve cocktails.”

“He cannot,” Millicent said, blushing.

“He’s quite talented, you know. Better than a Chinaman.”

More laughter from Hearst’s side of the table, and Hearst stole a glance at George, who leaned against a marble column. Hearst crooked his finger, and as soon as George was at his side he looked up from the long row of family and friends, smelling of sweets and smoke and hearing laughter and great mirth. “Take care of this, will you?”

He dropped the envelope into his man’s waiting hands as if the edges had been set afire.