The Bughouse Affair

11

SABINA

The boarding house the dossier had listed as Clara Wilds’s last known address was on Washington Street south of Broadway, on the fringe of the Barbary Coast. Upper-class women were seldom seen in this neighborhood, and none would dare to walk the squalid and dangerous streets within the one-square-mile of gambling hells, cheapjack saloons, brothels, and opium dens nearby. Sabina’s hack driver looked startled when she gave him the lodging house address. For a moment she thought he might try to dissuade her, but then he shrugged and urged his horse away along the cobbled streets.

The lodging house was a dilapidated wooden structure with cupolas at either end of its sagging roof, and a faded sign proclaiming HOUSEKEEPING ROOMS next to the front door. Trash clung to the foundation; its windows were speckled with dirt; a bundle of discarded newspapers lay on its front steps. The woman who answered Sabina’s ring owned a coarse middle-aged face and gray stringy hair, and wore a stained and ill-fitting housedress; most of her front teeth were missing, and the few that were left were chipped and discolored.

Her surprise at finding a well-dressed young woman on her doorstep was evident. “What do you want?” she demanded.

Sabina neither presented her card nor otherwise identified herself as a detective. Such would gain her nothing but scorn and suspicion. Women such as this landlady would find it difficult to believe that one of their sex was a professional detective, and would be close-mouthed as a result.

She said only, “I am looking for a woman named Clara Wilds.”

“Who?”

“Clara Wilds. She was one of your tenants eighteen months ago-”

“Eighteen months! How do you expect me to remember that far back? I can’t remember half the ‘ladies’ I got living here now.”

Sabina described Clara Wilds. The landlady started to shake her head, but then the light of remembrance came into her eyes. “Oh, her. A trollop and worse. She’s long gone, and good riddance.”

“When did she move out?”

“You mean when did I throw her out. Right after she got out of jail. The police come here and arrested her-just the kind of thing I don’t need. Gives my place a bad name. My roomers ain’t exactly the cream of society, but they’re not criminals, either.”

“Do you have any idea where she moved to?”

“No, and I don’t care. What do you want her for, anyway?”

“A personal matter. Do you know a friend of Clara Wilds’s named Dodger Brown?”

“Who?”

“Dodger Brown. A small man of about forty, with a fondness for wine. She was known to keep company with him.”

“Not in my place, she didn’t. I don’t allow no men in my house, not even in the parlor. I wouldn’t even let her uncle in if he come calling.”

“Uncle? I didn’t know Clara Wilds had an uncle.”

“Well, he don’t advertise the fact.”

Likely he was an uncle by marriage, Sabina thought, which was why the information had escaped mention in the dossier. “Where does he reside?”

“How should I know? All I know is where he has his business.”

“And where would that be?”

“The California Market. Sometimes when that trollop needed money she’d help Tony out in his fish stall.”

“How do you know that?”

“He told me, that’s how. Back when he knew she was lodging with me. I buy my fish and seafood from him.”

“Has he said anything about his niece since you evicted her?”

The landlady frowned in thought. “Once, last year. They had some kinda falling out. She must of stole from him, that’s the kind she is.”

“Did he tell you that was the reason for the falling out?”

“No. You want to know, maybe he’ll tell you. But I wouldn’t count on it if I was you.”

“What’s his last name?”

The woman shrugged. “Tony’s Fish Stand, that’s all I know.”

And with that, she shut the door in Sabina’s face.

The open-air California Market, known far and wide as San Francisco’s “entrepot of foods,” ran for an entire block from Pine to California streets between Montgomery and Kearney. Founded in 1867, when an Irishman nicknamed The Oyster King began selling oysters harvested from the bay tidelands near Burlingame, it was now a vast bazaar of stalls dispensing meat, fresh fish and shellfish, produce, and flowers to hotels and restaurants as well as private individuals.

Sabina had been there a number of times before, to shop and once with Callie to have a meal at another of the market’s prominent features, Sam’s Grill. It was an enticing place, filled with a tantalizing mixture of aromas stirred and carried by a breeze from the bay. As always, the aisles were crowded with women carrying shopping baskets, men pushing handcarts loaded with a variety of goods to and from the vendors.

She stopped one of the men to ask where Tony’s Fish Stand was located. He informed her it was near Pine Street, midway within the marketplace. She made her way through the throng of shoppers, ignoring the entreaties of sellers hawking their wares. Poultry, lamb, beef, seafood. Pineapples, alligator pears, papayas from Hawaii, and great bunches of ripe bananas from Mexico. Locally grown fruits and vegetables. Freshly baked breads, cakes, pies. Freshly roasted coffee beans. And such appetizing cooked foods as grilled sausages, Indian kabobs, and fried calamari.

The aroma of cooking sausages reminded her that it was past lunchtime and she was hungry. And sausages, in her opinion, were one of man’s greatest concoctions. The thought of a grilled bratwurst on rye bread made her mouth water. Her appetite, always healthy, had returned with a vengeance once she’d come to terms with Stephen’s death. She never gained a pound, however, no matter how much she ate; her slender waist was the same as it had been on her wedding day. Sometimes she thought it unseemly to be so fond of food, but as John had said to her once, God would not have put so much of it on earth if it wasn’t meant to be eaten. How could she do less than her part in obeying His will?

Tony’s Fish Stand was a large and thriving enterprise, its ice bins displaying a wide array of fresh fish and seafood. The filets of smoked salmon looked particularly good; Sabina thought she would purchase a piece for her supper.

Three employees were serving customers and restocking bins. Sabina pushed up to the nearest of them. When she asked if he was Tony, he shook his head and called to a handsome, mustached man with graying black hair, “This lady wants you, Mr. Antonelli.”

Tony Antonelli’s eyes sparkled when he saw Sabina. But his examination was appreciative only, without either guile or leer. He filled a tiny paper cup and held it out to her. “Bay shrimp, bella signora,” he said. “Best anywhere in the Market.”

She smiled and took the cup. The shrimp were indeed fresh and succulent.

“You like to buy some for your supper?”

“I was thinking of a piece of smoked salmon. But yes, a quarter pound of the shrimp as well.”

“Come right up.”

He chose one of the best-looking fillets. As he began wrapping it and the shrimp, Sabina said, “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions, Mr. Antonelli?”

“Mr. Antonelli … pah. Tony the Fish Monger, that’s what everybody calls me. Questions about my fish?”

“No. Your niece, Clara Wilds.”

Tony’s cheerful demeanor disappeared. He frowned, and one of his mustaches twitched. “Why you want to know about her?”

“I’m very anxious to find her.”

“Why? What you want with her, bella signora like you?”

Sabina debated the wisdom of identifying herself, decided to take the chance, and presented him with her card.

His frown deepened as he studied it. “Lady detective,” he said, but not in the way so many did, as if the concept was difficult to grasp. He hesitated, then motioned her off to an uncrowded side of the stall. In a low flat voice he asked, “Clara, she’s in trouble again, hah?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What she do, steal money?”

“Yes. By picking pockets.”

“Dio mio! You sure?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“That Sally woman, that’s where she learn that game. Sure.”

“Sally?”

“Friend of Clara’s aunt Bess,” Tony said disgustedly. “Some friend-a thief. Used to be pickpocket when she’s younger, before her hands go bad with artrite.”

“Sally Tatum?”

“That’s right. You know her?”

“I know of her.” Dippin’ Sal, one of the more famous cutpurses who had plied her trade in Virginia City in the early days of the Comstock Lode. She must be in her sixties now, and long retired if her hands had become crippled with arthritis. “Is she still living in Nevada?”

“No, she’s come live down here now.”

“Do you know where?”

“With her son Victor. Another crook, that one. Whole family of truffatori.”

“What’s Victor’s last name?” Dippin’ Sal had been married twice.

“Pope. He owns hardware store, but hammers and nails, they not all he buys and sells.”

“Stolen property?”

Tony shrugged elaborately, then made a dismissive gesture. “I don’t have nothing to do with crooks like him.”

“Do you know where his hardware store is located? Or where he lives?”

“In the Mission district. I know because my niece say so when she works for me last year, before she…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he scowled and muttered something in Italian under his breath. “You think maybe that’s where you find Clara?”

“It’s possible.”

“And then what? You arrest her?”

“If I don’t, the police will.”

He nodded. “Cosi sia. You tell her something for me, eh?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t come to her uncle Tony for money to get out of jail. She’s no longer la familia, you understand?”

“I understand, Mr. Antontelli.”

“Tony. Tony the Fish Monger.”