“Mr. Hearst?”
“Hmm?”
A little newsboy held up a copy of the afternoon edition of the Examiner and Hearst reached down from the stage to grab the copy. The boy tipped his cap at Mr. Hearst and Mr. Hearst reached into his pocket and flipped him a silver dollar off his thumb. The boy caught it in midair with such a natural gusto that it brought a smile to Hearst’s face, and he unfurled the paper and saw the banner headline: ENCHANTED SAN FRANCISCO. He flipped below the fold to see a photo of the fat man at the defense table, his new attorney, McNab, held in conference, the fat man looking confused and worried, starting straight into the camera as if a startled animal.
He’d brought it all on himself.
Hearst looked up from the pages to watch the chandelier finally rise off the ground, tinkling, crystal winking in the light, the men grunting and straining and marching down the aisles up to the waiting doors through which fans of Miss Davies would soon pour. He looked back at the photo and stared at the face of the fat man, so dumb and confused, a sick animal, with animal virtues and animal desires. How drunk would a woman have to be to see something in that soft, doughy face and stupid eyes? How drunk and confused would a woman have to be to let herself be bedded by a millionaire brought into this world in a Kansas mud shack who lived his days cleaning out saloon spittoons before becoming a buffoon to millions?
Hearst had sat in darkness for days when the detective had come to him about the party. He had told him about the actors and Hollywood types who had filled the beach house with their gay laughter and alcohol and jazz music from a Victrola brought out onto the sand. They had danced away the last night of 1919 with cases of the last legal alcohol in this country and the fat man had been the king there, twirling around small, fresh Miss Davies, plying her with drink until even his doughy face could be attractive. All his tailored suits and manicured nails and twenty-dollar haircuts couldn’t hide what he’d been. And the thought of him sleeping under the roof that Hearst had built for Miss Davies made him want to vomit, but how could he be angry at Marion? How could he ever fault Marion for the appetites of a fat man? A buffoon.
The fat man had simply walked away that first day of 1920 without a moral headache of consequence-maybe the bright sunlight had brought him some discomfort or perhaps he could not gorge himself on cakes or pies that day. But he had escaped without a bit of gentleman’s remorse, the tainted, now-illegal liquor in his blood, driving in his ridiculous automobile like a circus oddity. Hearst rubbed his head and his eyes. He must gather himself. Someone called to him, but he waved him away. Someone called to him again.
He had not a bit of remorse for what he had done. He had only wanted Fatty caught, pants around his ankles, his appetites and vileness and poor breeding known to those who sat in the darkness and giggled at his antics. And now that that had happened, he was finished with the man. He had nothing to do with the death of that girl, absolutely not a thing. That girl was an extra, a supporting player, in a perfectly designed drama written and produced by Hearst with direction from that odd Hungarian fellow, Fishback, although Fishback hadn’t the slightest idea who’d given him the script. The Dark Man handled it all for Hearst, finished it off for Hearst, and now the justice for the fat man was in the blind woman’s hands.
Hearst heard yelling and grunting and opened his eyes, suddenly aware of all those watching him up on stage and in the light. The beams in the ceiling groaned and strained, the chandelier halfway up through the mammoth space, rising to the very top, the topping to the wedding cake, and Hearst saw the faces marvel at the theater, the perfection, every attention to the slightest detail. Hearst stepped back, hands in the pockets of his tuxedo, and placed the top hat back on his head.
“Yes?” he asked, turning to those who called him.
And then there were yells from the men, the whoosh of the hemp rope from calloused hands, the release of tension of the creaking beams above, and finally a giant, spectacular crash of the chandelier breaking and scattering across the Granada, the thousands of hand-fitted crystal pieces raining around him on stage and into the seats like sleet. Hearst turned his head, a piece of glass ricocheting off the floor and tearing across his cheek.
“Mr. Hearst! Mr. Hearst!”
He turned, the broken crystal all at his feet.
“Mr. Hearst, are you okay?”
Hearst nodded and stepped forward in a crunch.
“You’re bleeding.”
Hearst reached for the silk handkerchief in his pocket and touched his cheek, dabbing off a bit of blood. He said to no one in particular, “So I am.”
SAM SAW THE MAN twice in the glow of scattering headlights. The long brick cavern grew black again and soon there was only the sound of feet clacking in the tunnel and a constant drip of water from the roads above. He walked straight into the darkness at a decent clip, the man a good distance ahead of him. Another car passed and Sam caught sight of the fella looking back over a shoulder; another car passed and the man was gone, maybe running now, Sam knowing he was in no shape to follow. He kept walking, darkness and light, two machines at a time and then three, the constant rhythm of his leather soles thwacking hard and ugly under him. He could just make out some streetlamps from where the tunnel ended under Bush Street. Sam stopped and listened, the tunnel dripped, no cars, little light. He stood still and lit a cigarette.
In the strike of a match, he saw a man’s face.
Sam fumbled for the match and it dropped to the wet ground with a hiss.
He felt the point of a gun in his ribs, smelled sulfur, and heard a voice say, “Keep walkin’. ”
Sam kept moving down the slope toward the mouth of the tunnel, a hand rough inside Sam’s jacket pulling the.32, where streetlamps bled light into the cavern. A little Essex Coach roared past them, honking its horn twice. The man kept close, Sam smelling his ash breath on his neck. When the machine had disappeared, Sam closed his eyes, waiting for a bullet to tear through his spine.
But they kept on, the tunnel growing into a wide open mouth. He could see people coming out of an apartment building and a billboard advertising cigars. THE SIZE PLEASES YOU. THE QUALITY PLEASES YOU. THE PRICE PLEASES
YOU. DON’T ARGUE. DON’T INFER. A NICKEL WILL PROVE THE ASTONISHING GOODNESS OF THE NEW CURRENCY CIGAR!
Fog seeped outside on Stockton, headlights cut through banks, while more machines roared into the tunnel. Sam’s shirt was completely soaked now, and he moved dead-leggedly, feeling feverish and sick. When the light met them gray and weak, the gunman faced him. Sam’s breathing stopped for a moment, but he stared back at him, dead-eyed, with a steel bluff. The man recognized it and smiled back, calling it.
He handed Sam back his gun. “Beat it.”
Sam pointed his gun into the man’s ribs.
“Why don’t you reach for my wallet?” the man asked.
“I’m not a thief.”
“Reach for it.”
Sam reached inside the man’s jacket and pulled out a fat, battered leather wallet.
“Come on,” the man said. “Open it.”
Inside, Sam found a small silver badge like the one he carried. PINKERTON NATIONAL DETECTIVE AGENCY.