“That’s ZumZum Sykes and his sidekick Jay Masters,” Hank explained of the two men standing in front of the concession stand. Hank went on to say that there was one concession on the main floor and another upstairs, the Club, reserved for folks in the private boxes. Upstairs and down the champagne flowed, but it was a better vintage upstairs.
Hank seemed to know everyone—at least, he knew the men. He nodded and, as we passed by, called them “captain” in sotto voce. “Evening, captain… Evening… Good evening, captain.”
“How is it they know you?” I asked.
“Ah, miss, leave it that The Rose is popular with these sorts. Now, you ladies want to push on to your seats?”
“Quit hurrying us, Hank. We’re here, aren’t we? We want to lookie-loo.” Morie squinted at the fancy folks, her mouth frozen in a little-girl smile.
For once I agreed with Morie. AB Spreckels, the renowned bachelor, and Alma de Bretteville—our Alma—were in the house, though not together. Spreckels was on one side of the hall, talking with a group of men in tails—their wives with their furs and headdresses forming a hedge beside them.
“Oh, look, girls,” gasped Morie. “There’s Claus Spreckels.” She pointed with a gloved hand at AB’s father. “The sugar king.”
“That’s right, ma’am,” Hank said. “Papa Spreckels, he’s the money behind the push to send the mayor to the graybar hotel.”
“Graybar?” Pie asked. “What is that?”
“Jail. The stony lonesome. See, old man Spreckels is out to get Handsome Gene, ’cause the mayor went against Spreckels on the trolleys deal,” Hank explained. “You ladies might have got a whiff that his son AB Spreckels, standing over there, courts Ms. Alma de Bretteville on the sly.”
Hank leaned in and added for my ears only, “Miss Alma and AB, they’s weekly customers—strictly top-shelf, private digs upstairs.”
Hank, the fount of the evening’s gossip, included Pie and Morie as he further explained that AB could not be seen with Alma. Instead, he’d purchased tickets in the orchestra section for Alma and her relatives while he planned to sit upstairs in the Spreckels family box. It was the same deal Rose had divined for us.
Morie had strong opinions regarding Alma de Bretteville. “That girl is a cheap trick,” she declared.
“Ahh, say what you like, mum,” countered Hank. “She’ll get Spreckels to marry her, if I know a thing or six. Alma’s the horse to bet on.”
At the center of commotion, Alma was easy to spot—six feet tall. As usual, she looked stunning, dressed in a blue satin gown with a low-cut bodice the likes of which was seen only in Paris, and even then, not in proper society. Top-shelf, Hank had said.
“Look at her,” Morie hissed. “Carrying on like she’s someone.”
“She is someone,” I declared.
“Over here, Alma. Over here!” cried the photographers from the Call and the Chronicle, the tabloids jockeying to get her picture.
Alma scanned the crowd, mocking everyone. Where did she get all that confidence? How did she know to turn a certain way, so that the flashes illuminated her just so?
“Hey, Alma, nice dress. Did your sugar daddy buy it?” queried a brazen reporter.
Hank didn’t appreciate the question. He headed for Alma with my hand locked against his ribs. We cut the marble hall on the diagonal, piercing the crush, with Morie and Pie trailing behind, trying to keep up. No one questioned Hank’s authority. He reached Alma and offered her his free arm, which she gladly took, patting Hank’s biceps with a gloved hand.
Alma smiled at me. “Well, look who’s dressed up, and very nicely.”
“Alma de Bretteville, may I introduce Miss Vera Johnson,” Hank said with obvious pride. “A special person.”
“Why, hello, Special.” Alma beamed, looking ahead and smiling for the cameras. “I’m dying to know what makes you Hank’s special friend.”
“One day I’ll tell you,” I said.
“Good. I warn you, though, I make it a habit never to wait long.” She grinned as Hank took a step back, joined Alma’s hand to mine, and disappeared.
I looked back nervously, but Alma tugged on my hand. “Here, pet,” she said, plucking a gardenia from her hair and slipping it into mine. “There. Now smile.”
She signaled to the photographers one last picture. The bulbs flashed in a dazzling freeze.
“What’s your name, doll?” a reporter asked.
“Fellas, meet Vera Johnson,” Alma said rapturously. “Now, consider yourselves warned, boys,” she added, and with that benediction, Alma released me to the masses. She had other people to see.
The photographers moved on as well, a gadget-toting school of fish, now clustering by the mayor, who did not wish to have his picture taken on the eve of his indictment. The mayor, my mayor, I thought possessively, agreed to pose just once, with his wife, Julia, and, of course, Eugenie and her siblings, Evelyn and Richard.
A reporter called out, “Mrs. Schmitz? Do you plan on visiting the mayor in San Quentin?”
“Gentlemen, tonight we’re here to enjoy the opera,” the mayor replied, his voice strained. “We don’t see the likes of Enrico Caruso every day, now do we?” He held up a hand, signaling that was all.
Morie and Pie rushed to greet Eugenie and her mother.
That gave me my chance with the mayor.
“Ah, Vera!” he boomed, addressing me with his public voice. “How are you?”
I tugged on his lapel so he would stop that nonsense and meet my gaze. “I have something for you.” I opened my bag
