The Mayor
Six months after the shake, the city was a cacophony of saws and hammers, with drays hauling fresh-milled lumber to thousands of new building sites. The tents of Lafayette Square now had flower and vegetable beds to mark the various plots. In the Presidio the refugee camps gave over to rows of earthquake cottages. The rent for these one-room shanties was two dollars a month toward a purchase price of fifty dollars. For that you got four redwood walls, fir floors, a cast-iron stove, and a cedar-shingled roof. The cottages were painted dark green to blend with the surroundings. The latrines and kitchens were separate, as were the playgrounds and schools spread across twenty-six camps throughout the city.
With the building of the shanties, the newspapers reported widespread optimism: our new city was rising—bigger, bolder, cleansed. The papers failed to cover the extreme shortages of beef and milk and bread and lumber. And the thousands of victims still missing. The epidemics of cholera and influenza and scabies sweeping the camps.
I suppose the citizens of San Francisco, having lived the disaster, wanted good news. That, or they wanted revenge.
When Schmitz came to visit Rose, he arrived as I once did: at midnight, his car rolling into the driveway with the motor cut.
The women were upstairs, preparing for the reopening of the roller-derby rink. Miss Flora, the derby queen, had promised to put on a spectacle.
Schmitz always insisted on coming through the front door. I met him there. The mayor tried to embrace me; I offered my hand instead.
As ever, he was impatient, eager to talk about himself. Had I read the papers? Of course I had. Now that the initial crisis had passed, there were calls to reconvene the grand jury in the hopes of sending Abe Ruef and Eugene Schmitz to prison at last.
“Vera,” he said, “I count on you to give it to me straight. What do you hear?”
“About you? Nothing good,” I said.
He laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t expect you, of all people, to put a bow on it.” He cast about for something more pleasant, his eye landing on Rose’s marble Venus. “I see the goddesses came through the quake.” He smiled dimly, his eyes darting as he tried to think of something bright to say. “Good we stopped the fire, eh? Good we did a few things right.”
It seemed that I should feel sorry for him; he had a genius for pulling on that string. I told him that Rose would be glad to see him and I pointed the way.
He hesitated. The devout Catholic, the huckster who made a living off of prostitutes, was embarrassed to be seen visiting the madam in her bedroom. He cleared his throat. “Up? This way?”
I walked him up, curious to see how it’d go, grafter to madam.
Capability had dressed Rose in a pink silk turban and matching bed jacket. She wore a flowered velvet patch, the effect of which made her look like a tropical pirate.
“Gene,” Rose said, taking his hands, “the gods must love you fierce, to have burned our town just to save your German tush.”
Schmitz snorted appreciatively. He was a good actor, I’ll give him that. He saw the travesty of Rose’s face and didn’t flinch.
“Rose, I’m glad to see you so well.”
“Well? I’ve busted everything but my spirit, Gene, and that sure could use a drink. Vera, would you mind?”
I fetched the whiskey—Tan was prepared to bring it, but I took the tray. As I came in, Schmitz was saying, “But if Abe is coerced into testifying against me—”
Rose held up her hand. “Hold that thought,” she said.
I made a quick business of pouring their drinks while the mayor remarked, “You’re lucky, Rose, to have such a daughter. I trust Vera has told you we’re old friends.”
“Yes,” Rose agreed, “she’s very resourceful, this one. She’s been a help to me.”
“I’m glad,” he said. “Now, Mrs. Johnson, that was a tragedy. Julia and I were so fond of her. Vera, how is Pie getting on?”
“She’s fine,” Rose answered. “Better every day.” Rose had hardly seen Pie, but that didn’t keep her from having an opinion. “Though she’s had a hard run, Gene. Death and heartbreak.”
Schmitz nodded. “I’m afraid there won’t be any school to distract you girls for another few months. But I did just hear that Alma de Bretteville has started a school for the younger children in Golden Gate Park.”
“Alma de Bretteville started a school?” Rose said. “She’s a scrapper, that one. Good on her. Vera, you know Alma. You should help her with her school. It would get you out a bit.”
“I’m busy here,” I said.
“It would get you out a bit,” Rose repeated with emphasis.
“If you’re amenable, Vera, I’m sure Alma could use the extra hands,” Schmitz added. “Eugenie has been very active helping out at the refuge. In fact, she is so engaged, I fear we may lose her to the nuns.” He sighed.
“Don’t let her, Gene,” Rose warned. “God does not need you to sacrifice a daughter.”
Schmitz wasn’t sure; perhaps the sacrifice of a daughter was exactly what God required.
“Vera,” Rose said. “The mayor and I have some things to discuss.”
I excused myself. As I was pulling her door closed behind me, Schmitz didn’t hesitate to start in. “Rosie, what a fix we’re in. I have soldiers with guns aimed at our citizens, citizens with no shelter, roads and schools nonexistent, and, to our greater worry, Spreckels and
