Up a rancid stair and down a dark corridor where bugs scurried in the dirt, he found a solid door with a card tacked to it:
LABOR LEAGUE OF LOS ANGELES.
He tried the handle, but it was locked. He rapped on the door.
“¿Quién es?” It was Marquez’s voice.
“Es el señor Mack Chance, Diego.”
He heard footsteps, then the bolt shooting back.
“My friend,” Marquez exclaimed, and flung his arms around Mack. They hugged and slapped each other, Mack getting a noseful of sweat, garlic, and the stale musty smell of clothes worn too long.
The girl had been hovering behind the ex-priest. She was barefoot, a small-breasted, timid waif with a starved look. She had straight stringy hair, brown with streaks of yellow, and luminous brown eyes that regarded him with hesitancy or perhaps fear. Her appearance shocked him as much as the sordid little office: two rooms, the outer one crowded by a huge cheap desk. An unwashed window overlooked a yard where two cats prowled a refuse heap. Through a half-open door Mack glimpsed a gas ring, stacks of pamphlets, and a floor pallet big enough for two.
Mack smiled to hide his dismay. Diego Marquez, always a burly man, had gained thirty or forty pounds, most of it in the belly that rolled over his belt and strained the buttons of his threadbare white shirt. Red wine stains spotted the shirt front. He had also let his beard grow. It was huge, fan-shaped, and shiny-black, tipped with white. He wore rope sandals; his toes were dirty.
“It’s good to see you, Diego.”
“And you.” Marquez grinned widely. “What a sight. What clothes. El millonario.”
“Not quite.” He glanced at the girl.
“Ah, forgive me.” To the girl, in Spanish, he said, “Felicia, this is Señor James Macklin Chance. A good man, a decent man—despite his capitalist disguise. Will you run to the corner and get us a bottle of red?” He gave her a coin and she slipped out like an obedient puppy. Marquez carefully bolted the door after her.
Mack dropped his cream-colored rancher’s hat on the desk strewn with scribbled notes and some printed sheets headed MANIFESTO! On the wall hung a state map. Dots, arrows, and cryptic inscriptions in different colors covered the Central Valley and the regions around Los Angeles.
“Where did you meet that girl, Diego?”
“In the Valley, near Fresno. I was organizing the stoop labor. Her stepfather grows melons and treats his workers like serfs. Worse than serfs—swine. Felicia is nineteen years old. The man married her mother nine years ago and corrupted Felicia herself shortly after. He promised a posse would lynch me if she associated with me, but it was all bluff. She helps me in my work, and she has a better life now than she ever had before. Besides, I was chaste for many years; I have a lot to make up for.”
A flash of his eyes under his bristly brows carried a warning: I’ve said all I have to say, so don’t ask more.
Marquez offered him the only chair, and out of courtesy Mack sat down. The former priest said he moved his headquarters often, going wherever he felt needed, organizing workers whenever they were courageous enough to risk the firings, threats, and violence of their employers. “I have another roving commission, but a less popular one than before. And you—you’re doing well—”
“Reasonably. I’m married—did you know that?”
“Oh yes, I heard. Los Angeles is still a small town, and you are a large figure in the landscape.”
“I own some orange groves—”
“Riverside,” Marquez nodded. “So now the gold drops into your lap from the trees while at the same time it flows out black from your oil wells. Remarkable. The day we met you said that your goal was riches. I congratulate you.” There was no mockery or reproof in his tone.
Felicia returned with a clay jug of wine. She placed it on the table, put her hand on Marquez’s shoulder, and raised on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. With a smile and a murmur to Mack, she went to the inner room and closed the door.
Mack didn’t want wine at this hour but he took half a cup and held it. “My lawyer told me you’d set up shop in Los Angeles.”
Marquez studied the cats prowling in the garbage. “Not a very impressive headquarters for a war, is it? But we don’t have much money—by ‘we’ I mean the movement—and what we have is better spent on handbills and meeting halls.”
“Why Los Angeles right now?”
The ex-priest snatched up a copy of the Times. “Because in Southern California, there is no greater Satan than Otis. He is the Antichrist of workingmen. Scarcely a day goes by without some attack, usually gratuitous—” He turned the pages, found what he wanted, and read aloud: “ ‘The scabrous scum and degraded desperadoes of the communist conspiracy skulk among us again.’ ”
Mack laughed. “He can turn a phrase, anyway.”
“It would be funny if it weren’t so despicable, not to say dangerous. He’s winning the battle here. Do you know what they’re starting to call this bastion of the open shop? Otis-town.” Marquez ripped the paper and flung the pieces on the floor.
Felicia was softly singing a lullaby in Spanish. Glancing at the inner door, Marquez’s face gentled. Mack put his wine cup on the desk and reached inside his coat. “I’d like to give you a bank draft. A contribution to your work.”
“Why? I’m not in the business of selling absolution to rich men anymore.”
“That’s damned insulting.” Mack stood up as if to leave.
“Yes,” Marquez said, frowning. “Yes, I suppose it is. I apologize. I am so used to every encounter being a confrontation, or becoming one, I’ve lost my churchly manners.” He laid a big hand on Mack’s shoulder. “I’ll be happy to accept a donation. Anonymous or otherwise.”
“I’d prefer it to be anonymous.”
That seemed to disappoint Marquez, but he said nothing. Mack wrote the draft for a thousand dollars.
“Thank you,” Marquez said quietly as he took it. Then he read the amount. “Thank you—madre de Dios. What a blessing. Be assured it will be put to good use.” He folded the draft quickly and thrust it in his shirt pocket, as though the miracle might vanish. “You are a good man, Mack. I apologize again for the slur of a moment ago. I heard that you defended your Chinese workmen bravely.”
“I guess I was stupid to do it. All the growers were against me because I paid a living wage, and 1893 just repeated itself. I couldn’t hire so much as one Chinese after the fire.”
Marquez locked his hands behind his back and eyed the colored map thoughtfully. “This is a noble state in many ways, full of shining hope and opportunity. But some do not want to share California once they have carved out their portion of it. They especially do not want to share it with people whose color or speech is different from their own—”
“Diego, I must go.”
Marquez regarded him with unblinking intensity. It was an eerie moment; the priest had come back to life. “You look haggard and tired, my friend. All is not well with you?”
He wanted to lie but somehow the man inspired honesty. “No. I’m losing a small battle of my own.” Pain and embarrassment overwhelmed him. “I came to Los Angeles to find my wife. We’ve been having difficulties—”
“There’s no difficulty finding her. I saw her yesterday, in fact. A handsome woman. Everyone knows her. I believe she’s stopping at the Pico House.” Again he put his massive hand on Mack’s shoulder, to commiserate and wish him a successful quest.
“Thanks, Diego. Take care of yourself.”
“And you also. May the Almighty save us from meeting on some field of battle.”
“You’re expecting more battles.”
“Many more. God go with you.”
“Yes, sir, she certainly is in the hotel,” said the clerk at the Pico House. “She went to the dining room not ten minutes ago.”
Mack found himself walking quickly, eagerly, toward the elegant headwaiter stationed near the doorway. Hearing string music, his spirits lifted. He set his mind on pleasing and complimenting Car
la, on making her feel good about seeing him and going home to Riverside. Maybe he’d try to interest her in plans for the yacht. She could help with the interiors, choose the furnishings, travel to Europe for them, spend whatever she liked—
“Yes, sir, good day,” said the headwaiter, bowing.
“I’m Macklin Chance. I believe my wife’s here?”
The darting eyes should have warned him. “Quite so, Señor Chance. Will you step this way?”
A nervous little cough accompanied his smart pivot, and he marched away between the crowded tables, no longer blocking Mack’s view of a cozy table in a corner. Carla sat there, but not by herself. She was dining and chatting with Walter Fairbanks.
Mack was immediately less cheerful, but more determined. Carla saw him first. Her annoyance showed only a moment.
“Mack, dear. I had no idea you were coming to Los Angeles today.”
“I had business with Potter.” He took off his hat and gave Carla’s companion a cool stare. “Fairbanks.” He found himself turning the hat brim in his hands, a betrayal of his tense, angry state.
“Hello, Chance.” Reluctantly, Fairbanks caught the waiter’s eye. “Another chair.”
The waiter brought it from a nearby table but Mack remained standing. He noticed a dark-green wine bottle in a silver stand. Empty. So were their glasses. It explained Carla’s high color.
“Well, do sit down,” she said.
“I certainly don’t want to interrupt…”
The lawyer’s cold gray eyes said yes, he was doing exactly that. Mack sat.
Walter Fairbanks was as fit and elegant as ever, his mustache so neat and perfect, it might have been painted on. His dove-gray hat, matching gloves, and silver-knobbed stick lay on a narrow ledge beside the table.
Carla’s eyes darted between the two, as if she expected antagonism, perhaps hoped for it. Fairbanks snapped his fingers and ordered up another bottle of Chardonnay and a third glass. The string trio sawed away at “The Emperor Waltz.”
“I’m in town on business,” Fairbanks said to Mack. “I didn’t expect to bump into any old friends.” He transferred his perfunctory smile to Carla and infused it with warmth. “We met on Main Street, quite by accident. Your wife was coming from a dress shop. Followed by two nigger boys with their arms laden up to here.” He raised his hand above his head.
Carla touched Mack’s sleeve. “You’ll scold me when you see all the boxes from Mademoiselle Claudine’s. But not too hard—please?”
The waiter opened the wine, presented the cork, and poured a little for Fairbanks, who sampled it and shrugged. “It’s satisfactory.” Mack studied his wife, so unexpectedly bright and cordial. It was friendliness for Walter’s benefit, brittle and false.
The waiter filled the glasses and left. Each of them took a swallow, Carla a larger one than the men. Fairbanks said, “I understand you’re still throwing money into that foolish railway in the Valley.”
“What’s foolish about competition?”
“In sports, nothing. I relish it. But—”
“When the San Francisco and San Joaquin is finished,” Mack interrupted, “farmers and small businessmen won’t be stuck paying anything your board of directors demands. They’ll have a choice—your road or the People’s Road.”
Fairbanks reacted with a superior smile. “What a grandiose name that is. I can understand a crazy foreigner like Adolph Sutro backing such a scheme, but not Claus Spreckels. He’s thoroughly Americanized. He has some pretensions to respectability in San Francisco.”
Mack laughed. “By God, Walter, you want a hell of a lot. You and your bosses already own three fourths of the state legislators, and your tame dogs in Washington. Now you’re saying every rich man in California has to kowtow?”
“It’s hardly a matter of kowtowing, as you put it. I would expect intelligent self-interest and cooperation from men of a certain class—that’s all. Men of substance, and good breeding…”
Fairbanks blurted it. Got him, Mack thought, delighted. He slouched in his chair, grabbed the wine bottle—the waiter darted forward, too late—and refilled his own glass. He contrived to spill some.
“Well, as you’ve known for a long time, I don’t meet your qualifications. Never have, never will. In your eye, Walter.”
And he knocked back the wine, all of it, like a thirsty miner in a Mother Lode saloon.
While Fairbanks fumed, Carla’s excitement made her lean into the table, her bosom crushed against the edge, her eyes large as a spellbound child’s. What was it—the excitement of pitting one man against the other?
The waiter brought Carla and the lawyer their food, sweeping the silver domes off roasted capons and holding the domes aloft.
“Splendid,” Fairbanks said without enthusiasm.
“Eat—don’t let it get cold,” Mack said.
Carla picked up knife and fork but Fairbanks didn’t touch his. “Carla tells me you play polo.”
“I do.”
“With a team that includes a Texas cowboy and some limeys living on remittances.” He sighed. “God preserve us, and the noble game.”
“My teammates are damn good riders.”
“Never so good as our Burlingame team, though.”
“Do you ride for Burlingame?”
“Yes.”
“We’d be glad to put your proposition to a test anytime you say.”
“What a good idea,” Carla exclaimed. “Riverside has only played interclub matches so far. They’re eager for a regular game.”
Fairbanks leaned back, unconsciously smoothing his auburn hair. There was no need; like his mustache, it was sleek and perfect. “It might be amusing to bring our ponies down here to the cow counties and show you fellows how the game should be played.”
Deep color flooded Carla’s face. “Oh, you must arrange it. The Riverside team’s really quite raffish, Walter. My dear sweet husband has a strange fondness for people of that sort.”
“Why, Chance? Do you feel guilty about your newfound wealth? Or are you still a bit uncomfortable among gentlemen?”
Mack’s carefully maintained politeness blew away. He pushed back, stood, and shoved the chair to the unoccupied table it had come from.
“When you’re ready to go, Carla, I’ll call a cab to take us to the train.”
“I’d like to finish my meal, please.”
There was a characteristic edge in that. He reminded himself of his resolve to make things better. “Of course. Take as long as you want. I’ll wait in the saloon bar.”
His unexpected mildness seemed to please her.
Fairbanks produced a learner case, plucked out an engraved card, and offered it between his index and middle finger. “This is the club address in Burlingame. Have your team secretary write ours to set a date.”
“You can get your ponies down here?”
“Oh, I think a special freight car can be arranged,” Fairbanks said, as if Mack were a dunce.
He wanted to bash the lawyer’s face. “I’ll look forward to seeing you on the field, then.”
“No more than I.” Fairbanks’s voice was ice.
Mack donned and tilted his big rancher’s hat with deliberate swagger. “I’m anxious to have you home again, Carla. I’ve been lonesome. Fairbanks.”
A curt nod completed his good-bye.
Fairbanks glared after him. Mack saw it when he tipped the headwater at the door.
Well, why shouldn’t the bastard glare? The table talk had carried an unspoken but clear declaration of war. Carla recognized it; she came rushing out of the dining room in ten minutes—without Fairbanks. She was gay and affectionate, as if they’d never quarreled.
A bellman brought down her luggage and all her purchases—sixteen boxes. At home that night, she said she was sorry for her behavior at the polo game. He offered the same apology and they made love twice in an hour.
Afterward, while she slept in the curve of his arm, Mack wondered if she was ardent and agreeable because he was wil
ling to challenge another man, with her admiration as the prize.
39
WITH A THUNDER OF drivers, screech of wheels, spurting of sparks, neighing of unseen horses, Burlingame came to town.
A switch engine shunted two SP livestock cars onto a siding. Mack and Johnson watched the ponies come down the ramps and stamp, swirling the golden dust.
“Holy shit,” Johnson muttered. “How many’d they bring?”
More ponies clattered down the ramps. There were twenty-six in all.
“I knew Fairbanks wanted to win,” Mack said. “I didn’t know how badly.”
At a Friday-night reception before the Saturday game, the hosts entertained their opponents. Fairbanks mingled easily and affably with the local people but the other members of his team weren’t as social, ill at ease in their suits and stiff collars. There was Billy Rodeen, a white-haired, pug-faced little fellow with a tough air. There was Petticlerq, a stringy young man with patent-leather hair parted in the center and a face heavily pitted by some childhood disease. The third was Roscoe Eagle, a huge bowlegged man with a broad broken nose. He looked like a cross between a cowpuncher and a Plains Indian. He said he hailed from Oklahoma, but that was all he said.
“Old fellow, I smell some rotten fish here,” Jeremy Fripp whispered to Mack. “That’s to say, I smell the odor of cash.”
“What do you mean?”
“If those three chaps are clubmen, I’m dear old Queen Victoria. Your chum brought three paid players.”
Six Burlingame people—three couples—arrived on the Saturday-morning train. It was a perfect autumn day, fair and warm. The club erected two open canvas pavilions, and about noon the spectators began arriving with portable tables, luncheon hampers, silver wine buckets, fresh-cut flowers, and sun parasols. The field swirled with the smells of dust and dung, perfume and tinned lobster.
The twenty-four Riverside ponies—exactly enough as long as there were no mishaps—filled temporary rope corrals behind one set of goalposts. Burlingame used similar corrals on the other side of the field. Mack donned his canvas helmet with a sense of trepidation. The hired opponents were an unfriendly, unsmiling lot.