“My opinion?” Rumwell said. “Rupture of the bladder.”

Roscoe looked down, grabbing his hat. There we go. He let out an enormous amount of air and felt the jury’s eyes all upon him. He looked at his hands, folded them neatly and respectfully for what was about to come.

“And what would cause such a rupture in a woman who was in the very pink of condition?” U’Ren said, walking and smiling, really good at both, keeping that smooth motion down, waiting for the final exclamation from his witness.

Rumwell swallowed, his Adam’s apple enormous.

“Well, sir,” Rumwell said, one eye moving back in line and both lining up dead on McNab and then back to U’Ren. “Upon further examination I found the bladder to be quite diseased.”

Brady was on his feet, yelling. U’Ren could not speak, Roscoe believing the weasel had choked.

Roscoe dropped his hat and it rolled off the table and onto the floor. Louderback was hammering the desk with his gavel to stop the goddamn buzzing in the bleachers.

“Possibly from a venereal ailment,” Rumwell said without being asked.

“I believe gonorrhea. Yes, gonorrhea. I have the bladder in a specimen jar if you’d like to see it.”

“Dr. Rumwell,” U’Ren said, shouting. Rumwell merely blinking back, seemingly confused by all the action. “You will be charged with perjury. I have full transcripts of you earlier testimony…”

Roscoe rubbed his eyes, half waiting for Luke to run down the center of the courtroom and bite U’Ren square on the ass. It would be a hell of an ender, a close shot on Luke’s ugly, satisfied mug.

SAM FOUND FISHBACK staying at the new YMCA in downtown Oakland registered under the name of F. C. Hibbard. He took the ferry across the bay and a taxi to 1515 Webster and walked up the great stairs and into what looked like a massive assembly hall. Only instead of chairs and a platform, he saw vigorous men jumping rope, tossing medicine balls, and stretching their bodies with an odd assortment of pulleys and racks. The whole thing looked like torture to Sam, but Fishback seemed to enjoy getting a good sweat while tossing the medicine ball back and forth to a fat man. Fishback was smoking a cigarette, the front of his white undershirt bathed in sweat.

Sam introduced himself and handed him a Pinkerton card.

Fishback dropped the card on the ground.

“Hell of a show at the Manchu.”

Fishback shrugged. He was a good-looking guy and knew it, with an aquiline nose and dark brown eyes. His cigarette hung out of his mouth and he just nodded or shook his head to the questions Sam asked.

“You are not a member here,” he said finally.

“But I’m an upstanding young man,” Sam said. “And an occasional Christian.”

“You’re not the law,” Fishback said. “You are not a policeman.”

“Why’d you turn on Roscoe?”

The ceiling was very high and very elaborate with moldings and designs. The windows high and bright, sunlight making long shapes on the wooden floors. Fishback tossed the ball around some more, lit another cigarette. “Ty Cobb smoked this brand. He said it’ll make you mentally and physically alert.”

“Always liked Babe Ruth,” Sam said.

“He’s old, worn-out. Smoked Home Runs. Terrible tobacco.”

Sam shrugged. Fishback picked up another medicine ball, a heavier one, and the leather thwacked hard and fast back and forth in the men’s hands. Fishback threw it over his head and started to catch it at his hip, rotating his waist.

“I don’t believe what you said in court,” Sam said.

“About what?”

“About Roscoe wanting to peep in on the Bathing Beauties.”

“He’s a pervert. A big, fat, lousy pervert. The man would stick his willie in a sewer pipe.”

“He thought you were his buddy.”

“I had to tell the truth,” Freddie said, grinning. “It’s the law.”

“How much are you getting?”

“What?”

“From Hearst,” Sam said. “How much did he pay you to direct that little morality play? I bet it was in silver. Or maybe a deal with his picture company? That’d be worth it to an up-and-comer like you.”

Fishback walked over to large rack and planted his feet in some stirrups, bringing up a long pulley system and stretching his wide, muscular torso, a new cigarette in his teeth.

“You look like Wallace Reid,” Fishback said.

“No kidding,” Sam said.

“I don’t like Wallace Reid,” he said. “He’s a dope fiend.”

“How much?”

“How much they pay you, Pinkerton?”

“Three dollars a day.”

Fishback laughed. Sam smiled back at him.

“You heard from Al Semnacher lately?”

“Who?”

“The guy who you got to wrangle the girls,” Sam said. “Hollywood agent. He was in the papers. Wears glasses. Goofy smile.”

“No.”

“Funny,” Sam said. No one else has heard from him either. If I were you, I’d watch my back.”

“What he did to that girl wasn’t right,” Fishback said. “He is a beast, you know.”

“He didn’t kill her.”

“Did she crush herself?”

“She wasn’t crushed.”

“I didn’t have a goddamn thing to do with this,” Fishback said.

“You’re a cog in the wheel.”

“What’s that?” he asked in his thick accent.

“A piece of lousy machinery,” Sam said.

“Are you different?” Fishback asked.

30

I know them,” Roscoe said. It was late and he sat in his hotel room over a bottle of bourbon with Gavin McNab. “I don’t follow,” McNab said, rubbing his eyes, still buttoned tight in his boiled-and-pressed shirt and tie, black coat slung over the back of his chair.

“You know your audience.”

“They’re not an audience,” McNab said. “They’re a jury.”

“What do you think an audience is?”

“They watch you sing and dance and do a little comedy. We’ve spoken of this before.”

Roscoe shrugged and took a sip of the bourbon. Minta had packed along a few bottles for him in her suitcase, knowing they couldn’t be tipping a bellboy during the trial, risking some kind of side scandal.

“What about Mrs. Nelson?”

“What about her?” McNab asked.

“She called her occupation that of a housewife.”

“So?”

“She said it forcefully-like, take it or leave it. She’s no-nonsense. Doesn’t get wrapped up in emotion or bullshit.”

“Did you see her hat?” McNab said.

“Of course,” Roscoe said. “Enormous. Reminded me of something a pirate would wear. I like her. Rock-solid old broad.”

“Who else do you like?” McNab said, a smug grin creeping into one cheek, indulging the fat man.

“Mr. Sayre? C.C.?”

“Clarence,” McNab said. “Cement contractor.”

“He smiles. Big smiles, rosy cheeks. That’s a man who knows what it’s like to drink a few whiskeys, do a little dance. He knows there’s no harm in that. No Satan creeping in the bottle.”

McNab finished off his whiskey. He leaned back into his seat. “Roscoe?” “Hold on,” Roscoe said. “Hold on. Kitty McDonald.”

McNab’s face was fogged out by the smoke coming from his lips, squinting across the table, genuinely intrigued now. The whole indulgence thing passed. “Go on.”

“Rich woman,” Roscoe said. “A fine-looking woman. Did you see her furs?”

McNab nodded.

“She doesn’t want to be there. She wants this whole business to wrap up.

She’ll swing with the rest of ’em. Okay, who’s next? Miss Whosit? The old broad?”

“Mrs. Winterburn.”

“Fantastic name. Isn’t it? Winterburn. Don’t you love saying it? She’s the prim-faced schoolteacher, the woman who’d whack your knuckles with a ruler. Sour old kisser. Didn’t she say she was in one of those women’s clubs?”

“She’s not a Vigilant, if that’s what you’re asking. Do you think I’m an idiot, Roscoe? Her club is literary. She’s part of the Jack London Society.”

“Ha!” Roscoe said, pounding his fist on the table, the whiskey glass trembling. “A woman of the arts. And what am I?”