Ever since she’d met him in Los Angeles, the guy had given her the creeps. He wasn’t a bad-looking fella, maybe fifty or so, with iron-colored hair and kind of a dark complexion. He wore a black suit with a black tie and a fedora-type hat made of velour. A real dandy.

He kept on driving and nodding to himself before making a big, sloppy U-turn on Union and then meeting Van Ness and heading south again.

“Where we headed?” she asked.

“You tell me. I’m just driving.”

“We have a deal?”

“You’ll get half tomorrow.”

“What about Semnacher?”

“Set a meetin’.”

Maude smiled and fixed her hands on the empty purse in her lap, feeling the rumble of the six cylinders under the big, long hood with all that space in back. She adjusted in the seat and stared straight ahead, smiling, and asked him to drop her at the Palace Hotel. As they drove, the streetlights clicked on along Market, shining down into the cabin and showing a good chunk of the man’s right ear missing, as if someone forgot to complete the picture.

10

Sam set the typewriter on the kitchen table and started hitting the keys while Jose reheated some Irish stew from the night before. The windows were open, letting out the hot air from the stove and the hot air in from Eddy Street, while Sam worked in his undershirt and smoked and hammered out a response to his latest reply from the United States Veterans’ Bureau. A Mr. Carter had curtly replied that Sam’s lung condition rated less than ten percent of a disability, to which Sam replied-in a very official tone-that that was absolutely incorrect, and he requested another evaluation, this time with a lung specialist.

“Mr. Carter again?” she asked.

“I’d like to meet this Mr. Carter,” Sam said. “Rotten bastard probably keeps a stack of denials on his desk with a big fat quill pen. Look at the flourish, the way he writes ‘Carter.’ ”

Sam ripped the paper from the black L. C. Smith, held it up to the bulb hanging in the kitchen, cigarette bobbing in his mouth, and read back through what he’d written. “Do you know how many veterans are illiterate or just yes-men and take the government’s word as the word of Christ? I read a story in the paper today about this man called Zero in New York who sells off jobless veterans at an auction.”

“Do you want bread?”

“Yes, please.”

“I mended your socks,” Jose said. “They’re hanging on the fire escape.”

Sam folded the letter and stuck it in an envelope.

He took a seat across from Jose at the little table, the typewriter he’d borrowed from the office pushed between them. She poured him some coffee, and they ate for a while, and it seemed to him that the stew she’d made from the butcher’s special was the sweetest meat he’d ever tasted.

“Do you ever wish you’d met an officer?” Sam said.

“I was gunning for a private,” Jose said. She smiled with her eyes, which were soft and blue, curly brown hair pulled from her strong, contented face with pins. She wore a housecoat with a soiled apron and no makeup.

“I’d love to take you out on the town.”

“Like this?”

“After the baby comes,” Sam said. “We’ll have dinner at the Cliff House and go dancing on the beach. Later on, we’ll find a speakeasy and dance till dawn.”

“A speakeasy?”

“Since when did you become a nun?”

“From a reformed Catholic, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Thanks for the stew.”

“I think it’s better on the second day.”

“Has the old woman asked for the rent?”

“Yes.”

“And did you stall her?”

“I said she’d have it Monday.”

Sam didn’t say anything, only fished with the spoon in the bowl.

They had four dishes, some borrowed silverware, the table, and a Murphy bed that folded down at night. A table fan swept the room from its spot in the corner.

“What’s new on the Rappe girl?”

Sam finished the bowl and set it aside. He lit another Fatima and leaned back in the chair, mismatched from the other three.

“Just like the papers said, a ruptured bladder.”

“Caused by external force.”

“That’s what they said in the grand jury and what they’re taking to police court.”

“Still doesn’t make sense,” Jose said. “No other injuries?”

“She had bruises on her arms,” Sam said. “But Dominguez can argue that she got those when they were moving her around.”

“Nothing about her vagina being torn or bruised?”

“Not that we know about.”

“And no broken bones.”

“No broken bones.”

“Do you realize the kind of weight that it would take to burst a woman’s bladder?”

“They do call him ‘Fatty.’ ”

Jose shook her head and reached for his pack of cigarettes. She smoked and stared out onto Eddy Street, looking through the bars of the fire escape lined with clothes she’d scrubbed in a galvanized pot.

“Unless the bladder was diseased.”

Sam looked up at her and mashed out his cigarette. He reached for more coffee.

“The attending doctor ordered an autopsy immediately after the girl died.”

“And?” Jose said.

“After,” Sam said, “he had several of her organs destroyed. Including the bladder.”

“What do you know about this girl’s past?”

“What you read,” Sam said. “She was an angel plucked from heaven to remain a virgin until Arbuckle met her.”

“You know many thirty-year-old virgins?” she asked.

“Plenty.”

“I bet.”

“Jose, what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that a bladder can rupture from all types of things. I’ve seen some horrible bladder conditions brought on by venereal ailments.”

“Ailments?”

“Ailments.”

“When do you want to go dancing?” Sam said.

“After we pay the rent,” she said. “And when you finally unpack that damn trunk. You make me feel like this is a hotel.”

“Fair enough,” Sam said, standing and pulling himself into his tweed jacket and pulling his cap on his head. He tucked a little.32 in his side pocket and his Pinkerton’s badge at the breast.

“Where you headed?”

“Lucky me,” Sam said. “I get to play chauffeur to Mrs. Arbuckle.”

“You don’t mean…?”

“I do.”

HEARST MET MARION DAVIES when she was sixteen and performing in the chorus line in Stop! Look! Listen! on Broadway. He’d made the show every night it had run, paying a boy to wait at the stage door with flowers and jewelry and a diamond-encrusted watch that Marion had promptly lost on their third date. But he’d agreed to more watches-that she never wound or checked-and there were secret dinners at Delmonico’s and drinks at the Plaza and lovemaking that made Hearst feel half of his fifty-eight years. Hearst’s wife, Millicent, had been a chorus girl, too, but back in the nineteenth century, and after five boys she’d lost a bit of her charm and zest for life. With Marion, he’d finally found a solid girl with enough energy to keep up with him and realize that life was just one big rolling party where the world provided constant entertainment. And it was best in San Francisco. There they could escape the prying eyes of the scandal sheets and be out on the town as producer and ingénue, getting ready for the town’s world premiere of Enchantment in November.

By the time they left the Opera House, they were already feeling a bit of the champagne they’d had at the intermission of Tosca, and it had all been a bunch of laughs during the opera, because Marion had dressed as a little Chinese man in a blunt-cut wig and silk pajamas. She’d even made up her eyes to look like an Oriental, while Hearst had dressed as a grand emperor with a flowing red robe decorated with dragons and flowers and a Fu Manchu mustache pasted to his face.

A driver in a Cadillac touring car motored them up Nob Hill from the Civic Center, looping to the portico of the Fairmont, and the grand Chinese Ball that had brought out all the little yellow people from the Chinese colony to serve food, dance, and mix with the elite dressed gaily in their own pajamas and silks.