A Dying Note Page 9

  The implied threat could not have been plainer.

  Her fear shifted into anger. “If you think to frighten or blackmail me—”

  He moved into the showroom and away from her. “I am certain you and Mrs. Sweet will do all you can, using your considerable talents and connections to help me find my wayward son. I have others looking for him as well, so I do not expect this to take long. In the meantime, keep me apprised of any developments, particularly if you hear any news indicating where he might be. I will let myself out, Mrs. Stannert.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Ante up, gentlemen.” Inez watched the six men at the round table pitch in their pennies for the next hand, rubbing her arm absently. The memory of Harry’s hand on her arm, pulling her close, still burned.

  The copper bits plinked onto the table, sounding like a miniature version of the rain that dripped onto the wood porch outside the back door.

  She dealt the cards.

  To her left, violinist Giotto Laguardia swirled the brandy in his goblet as he examined his cards, mouth turned down. His unhappiness, she suspected, was probably not with the cards but with the fact he was not part of Nico’s quartet that evening. Her suspicion was confirmed when Giotto said to the table at large, “So, Nico is playing at the Flood mansion tonight. A quartet. Anyone know who the other three are?”

  The Ash brothers, Walter and William, looked at each other. They often appeared to communicate with a glance, as if an invisible telegraph wire was strung between them. They shrugged simultaneously. Walter said, “He didn’t ask you to be second violin?”

  Giotto glared. “I’m here, yes? That should answer your question.” His voice clearly communicated his displeasure at being left out. He downed the last of his drink. It had disappeared quickly, Inez noted, as she pushed the bottle toward him.

  To her right, the labor newspaperman, Roger Haskell, grumbled and shifted his foul-smelling cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Better luck next time, Giotto. I gotta say, hope my luck at the table tonight is better than this weather. And the news. It’s been dreary, all around.”

  Inez raised an eyebrow. “Bad news on the labor front, Mr. Haskell?”

  That was all the encouragement he needed; the floodgates opened.

  “Is there ever anything good?” he asked. “The disgrace in the Hawaiian Islands. Heard about it? It’s all about sugar, kinda far removed from the music world, but strikes at the heart of the workingman’s plight. The Chronicle today had a piece on the Reciprocity Treaty with the Hawaiian Islands. All the treaty’s done is hand a couple of sugar producers a virtual monopoly. You like sugar in your coffee or tea? Well, you’re supporting slavery or worse for the plantation workers. And our local sugar baron, you all know his name, sells the sweet stuff for more here than on the East Coast. He pays the railroad forty dollars a ton for two thousand-five hundred tons of freight from New York to San Francisco, but the railroad doesn’t even carry the cargo! This hundred-thousand-dollar per annum subsidy keeps Eastern sugar out of the market, see? As a result, he charges two cents a pound over the New York price for all the sugar consumed on this coast. Think about that.”

  He drew hard on his cigar and expelled a noxious cloud. “That’s just a drop in the bucket of the tribute daily exacted from the people by the giant corporations of this country. There’s no competition as far as the manufacturing industries and the railway systems are concerned.”

  Haskell sounded almost cheerful after his recitation of the sad and sorry state of labor affairs. His attitude was no surprise to Inez. She had pegged him early in their acquaintance as the sort who was most happy when miserable. Perfect for a union-leaning publisher of a small labor newspaper.

  Of course, his cheerfulness could indicate he had been dealt a strong hand.

  Time would tell.

  “Mark me,” he continued, “there will come a time when the oppression by the moneyed powers of this country will be so great it will no longer be endured. The people will demand the government adopt radical measures for eradicating the evil. The sooner this work begins, the better it’ll be for us. In my opinion.”

  Otto groaned.

  Percussionist Isaac Pérez nudged Otto with an elbow. “Mourning the future loss of Miss Donato’s sugar-laden pastries due to market manipulations?”

  “Just mourning the waste of a cent.” Otto tossed his cards down. “I’m out.”

  Inez knew a bad hand wasn’t the only reason for Otto’s uncharacteristic dolefulness. When he had arrived to the gathering late, still wearing the black armband from his day’s employment, she had pulled him aside for a quick word. “Have you told any of the others about the longshoreman’s visit to your boardinghouse this morning?” she murmured, handing him a glass of whiskey.

  Otto had glanced at his companions, chatting and smoking at the table, out of earshot. “I have not seen them. I was working all day. I have not talked to anyone of this.” He looked down at his tumbler, gave the liquid a tentative swirl. She suspected he was barely controlling the urge to toss it down in one gulp.

  “Good. No need to stir the pot any more than it has already been stirred. At least until we know what is what. Or who is who. It is being taken care of, and we should know soon. If the conversation allows, I will ask if anyone has seen Jamie out and about today. Verstehen Sie?”

  He’d understood.

  That was two games and six refills ago. And rather than increase his joviality, all the liquor had done was to carry him deeper into his funk.

  “Not even staying in for the first round of betting?” Welles asked, eyeing Otto’s slim stacks of pennies and nickels.

  “Not even,” Otto responded, and leaned back in his chair, fingers clasped over his checked waistcoat. “Landlady has been at the door. Rent is overdue.”

  “Well, you’re not the only ones in the city scrambling to pay for lodgings right now,” continued Haskell cheerfully. “The city’s school fund has officially been declared exhausted as of yesterday and is short by seventeen thousand bucks. Teachers who didn’t present their warrants for payment before ten-thirty Saturday are now going to have to wait until the middle of December to get paid. Pity the school marm who’s got nothing saved up for room and board. It’ll be a long time until the next meal.”

  With a twinge of sympathy, Inez thought of Miss Pierce and her snappish attitude toward Antonia. Perhaps she was one of the unfortunate teachers.

  Haskell settled comfortably into his seat with another smoky exhalation. She debated the wisdom of buying a different brand of cigar and offering them all around at the next gathering, with the intent of switching Haskell off his current highly unpleasant favorite.

  Welles said, “How about the music world? Anyone know of any leads?” He had dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days.

  William Ash said, “Jossefy’s looking for a harmonium player, I hear.”

  “No use to me,” said Welles glumly. “I’m not an organist. But maybe I ought to take it up. Could maybe pick up work in churches or for ladies’ clubs.”

  Inez wondered why he was sitting in the game. His wife could no doubt make good use of the penny he’d just tossed into the pot. Inez decided she might see if she couldn’t arrange it so he left the evening richer than when he had arrived. She never engaged in card mechanics such as false shuffling and culling when the pots were small. If she did decide to try and better Welles’ lot, she would have to be careful. Despite the meager size of the winnings, the musicians were cutthroat, often reacting as if they were betting gold eagles when only raising nickels. For a moment, Inez drifted off into memories, reminiscing about evenings at the Silver Queen when hundreds, even thousands of dollars sometimes rode on the single turn of a card.

  Giotto opened the first round of betting with a penny.

  Everyone called.

  With a pair of sevens, Inez
decided to let the game play itself out naturally and instead focus on finding an opening in the conversation to ask if anyone knew a “Robert Gallagher.” She also hoped she could slide in a query about Jamie. If someone had seen him earlier in the day, it would mean it wasn’t Jamie who was pulled out of Mission Creek that morning.

  Haskell said, “It’s tough out there now, Welles. All the newcomers of summer are fighting to find winter work. Thought you were keeping busy with California Theater.”

  Welles looked down at his meager pile of coins. “I got the boot from the California.”

  Sympathetic murmurs rippled around the table.

  Walter Ash, a cigarette held casually in one hand, squinted through the smoke. “How so? You never miss a beat, Welles. Or a note.”

  “Someone offered to play for less.” He set his jaw. “I had another position lined up, but it didn’t work out.”

  Haskell pointed his cigar at Welles. “And that’s why you fellas got to form a union.”

  “We tried,” said Welles testily. “You were there, Haskell. You remember what a mess it was.”

  “What happened?” asked Giotto.

  Welles just shook his head.

  Haskell said, “Way I heard it, there was infighting, different fellas thinking they oughta be king. Some thought rival organizations were conniving to make sure the union failed. Others claimed the leaders were out for themselves and not for the common good.”

  “The union was a sham,” said Welles. “Just like now, every man for himself.”

  “We’re artists!” interjected Isaac Pérez. “Not dockworkers or sailors. What use is a union to us?”

  Walter and William nodded in synchronized agreement.

  “Cards, gentlemen?” Inez prodded.

  Haskell tossed a couple onto the table. “Two.”

  Inez obliged.

  Welles held up three fingers, and pushed his discards toward Inez. Replacements sailed his way.

  Giotto rapped the table with his knuckles, standing pat.

  Pérez discarded three.

  The Ash brothers each took one.

  Welles shifted in his chair as he examined his updated hand. “The missus and I, we had one in diapers and another on the way. I was trying to save up every penny I could, and wasn’t crazy about paying union dues. It seemed like all the plum jobs went to the officers and their cronies anyway. Soured me on unions.”

  Haskell added, “Plus, after the union disbanded, the treasury funds were supposed to be divvied up among the members. Before that could happen, the treasurer disappeared.”

  Curiosity piqued, Inez asked, “The treasurer absconded with the funds?”

  Welles grunted and didn’t answer. Haskell responded, “Who knows? All anyone could say was that a big chunk of the money disappeared along with the guy who was supposed to keep track of it. A black day for the members, I remember that. Reported on it and hated doing so. Shenanigans like that give unions a bad name. Welles doesn’t want to talk about it, but you could ask Nico for details, if you want. He was part of the union, too, back then.”

  Haskell leaned back in his chair and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. “On second thought, you probably shouldn’t ask Nico. He’s kinda sensitive about the subject, like Welles. It was just after the Donato parents had died, and he was taking care of Carmella while hustling for work. Not a good time for anyone.”

  Welles threw in a nickel. “Let’s get this game rolling.”

  Eyebrows raised. Murmurs circled the table. Pérez peered at Welles. “Madre de Dios. Luck finally breaking your way, Thomas?”

  Welles looked at the Spaniard with a stony expression. “Guess you’ll have to pay to find out, Isaac.”

  Inez winced. Welles seemed uncommonly testy. Perhaps due to the loss of his job and then having a replacement position slip through his fingers. He was usually implacable and hard to read, particularly at the poker table. Rather like Harry Gallagher, who had been one of her regulars at the Silver Queen. Harry had been an enigma from the start. No more so than during their brief affair, which had flared into existence soon after her then-husband Mark had disappeared and she’d believed him dead. The liaison had been quickly extinguished once she had discovered Harry was a married man.

  Haskell still seemed to be ruminating over Welles’ misfortune. “I’ll keep my ear to the ground for someone needing an experienced domino thumper,” he said. “Competition’s fierce in that area right now. More talented hopefuls pouring into the city every day.”

  As good a segue as any.

  “By the way,” Inez nonchalantly rearranged her hand of cards, “does the name Robert Gallagher ring a bell for anyone? New to town?”

  She scanned her visitors.

  Blank-faced, the lot of them.

  “What does he play?” asked Walter Ash.

  Inez realized that neither Flo nor Harry had said and she had neglected to ask.

  “I don’t know. He would be fairly new to town, though. Six months? Less?”

  “Why are you asking?” said Otto, taking a cigarette from his case and hunting his pockets for a match.

  “Someone from out of town queried me about him today. It was not a name I’ve encountered, but I thought one of you might have heard of him.”

  Shakes of heads and shrugs of shoulders were the only responses.

  She relaxed. At least none in her immediate circle recognized the name. Now, to find an opening in which to inquire about Jamie Monroe’s whereabouts. She returned her attention to her pair of sevens, which had not been bettered a whit despite three new cards.

  Haskell started the next round of betting with two pennies. Welles raised one more cent. Good-natured grumbling followed. All stayed in, except Walter Ash, who decided to fold and hang tight to his three copper coins.

  “Call,” said Giotto after nudging his contribution to the pot.

  Welles had a full house, queens and nines. A flicker of approval curled through Inez when the hands of the other players fell short. Haskell examined his three-of-a-kind jacks and shrugged. “Thought I had it sewn up. Good show, Welles. Maybe your luck has changed.”

  Welles, looking less gloomy, merged his winnings with his remaining coins.

  Haskell tipped his chair onto its back legs. “Mrs. Stannert, did you hear that the city is enforcing that gambling ban I told you about last week?”

  Inez raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  “All gambling-houses in the area bounded by Larkin, Market, Church, Eighteenth, and Channel streets and the waterfront. Guess we’re all breaking the law here.”

  Inez gathered the cards and began shuffling. “I suspect the ordinance is directed at Chinatown, Mr. Haskell. And, in any case, if an occasional friendly game of penny poker provokes the attention of the local constabulary, the entire city will be in trouble.”

  Isaac Pérez pulled out his pocket watch and examined the time. “Monroe must have landed a last-minute job somewhere. When we talked yesterday, he’d said he’d be here.”

  Otto reached for the bottle.

  Secretly blessing Pérez for mentioning Jamie, Inez pasted a look of mild interest on her face. “I was expecting Mr. Monroe today as well. Have any of you seen him?”

  Pérez turned to Otto. “Herr Klein here would have heard him snoring last night, yes?”

  Otto slopped some of the liquor onto the table. “Not there last night.”

  Pérez grinned. “Ah! Who is the lucky lady, Klein?” At Walter Ash’s cough, Pérez turned to Inez, abashed. “Apologies, Señora Stannert, for my crude remark.”

  “I was home,” said Otto gruffly, keeping his gaze on the table as he mopped up the spill with his handkerchief. “It was Jamie who was not.”

  Haskell volunteered, “I saw him on Sunday at one of the sandlot meetings, talking with Frank Roney. Roney’s a real force for
labor. He pulled together the Seamen’s Protective Association last year. Monroe is getting in pretty deep with Roney and his type. I gotta hand it to the kid, he really cares about the movement. And he wants to see a musician’s union succeed.” Haskell picked up his cards. “He stopped by the paper’s office last Friday, looking for information on the last merry-go-round in ’74. I gave him what I had, then pointed him to you, Welles. Didn’t he talk to you?”

  Welles’ expression darkened throughout Haskell’s remarks. He picked up his cards, and with barely a glance at them, tossed them back down. “Yeah. He came by.” He opened his mouth like he was going to say something further, then stopped.

  He scooped up his winnings, stood, and grabbed his hat off the hat rack. “The missus is going to have my hide if I’m not home soon. See you guys around. G’night, Mrs. Stannert.” He opened the back door. The sound of heavy rain rushed into the room on the wings of a cold, wet gust. The players pinned their cards to the table to keep them from flying into the breeze. He left, slamming the door behind him.

  Mystified, Inez turned to Haskell. “What was that about?”

  “No idea, Mrs. Stannert. He’s a man of many moods. And obviously under pressure.”

  “So it seems.” She tried to refocus on her hand, but Welles’ anger and its possible origins lingered over the table and cast a dark shadow over her thoughts.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Antonia awoke with a snort, the routine clamor of bells smashing her dream. She wiped at the drool that dampened her cheek and turned one ear into the pillow, clapping a hand over the other ear. The words from a remembered poem beat along with the muffled noise: Hear the tolling of the bells—Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!

  What was monody, again? Then she remembered what Mrs. S had told her.

  “It can refer to poem or music,” she’d said. “In music, it’s a song for a solo singer accompanied by some instrument or other. It defined a particular musical style in seventeenth century Italian song. Where did you hear that term? From Mr. Donato?”