Devil's Garden Page 26

  “Go figure,” Sam said, warming his hands on the coffee mug.

  “No foolin’.”

  Sam watched him head for a small closet and pull out a few boxes.

  “I wanna show you something.” He pulled out a small wooden box and sat it on the edge of his bed. With great care, he opened the top and a few old rags and then held two halves of a black sphere, about the size of a cantaloupe. He broke the halves apart and held one aloft, the light from the single bulb that hung from his ceiling catching winking jewels and carved designs.

  “That’s a hell of a soup bowl,” Sam said.

  “It’s the skull of a very holy man,” Phil said. “A lot of museums would like me to give it to them. But unless they have the funds to buy it, I’ll keep it as a family heirloom.”

  “Who was the holy man?”

  “A guy who had a good skull.”

  “What’s that spoon and stuff for?”

  “I understand it was used to sip blood from human sacrifices.”

  “Come off it.”

  “An uncle of mine who lived in Calcutta sent it to me. It was taken as loot by a member of the British Younghusband Expedition to Lhasa, Tibet. I always figured the original owner mighta put a curse on it.”

  The cold wind whistled around Phil’s boardinghouse and the single orange bulb in the room dimmed and buzzed back to life in time with the shaking power cables outside. Sam drank more coffee and reached into his coat, grabbed a pack of cigarettes, and lit one. Phil handed him the halves of the skull and he studied the way the jewels had been laid along the separate pieces.

  “Heck of a story.”

  “I hide it pretty good,” Phil said. “You’re the first I showed it to. Well, that’s not true. I showed it to some gal a few months ago. You know, to impress her that I wasn’t just a deadbeat and had some cash if I wanted it. But you know, it gave her the creeps.”

  “Go figure.”

  “I didn’t. I thought she’d like the jewels.”

  “Can you imagine what some crazy collectors would do for that thing?”

  “They’d probably try to bump me off.”

  “I’d guess so.”

  “Sam?”

  “Yep.”

  “You gonna talk to the Old Man about what you saw?”

  “I am.”

  “What if he sez to lay off?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’d lay off, Sam,” Phil said. “Just like you say, bang out that report, sign your number, and go home with a clear head.”

  “That’s not so easy anymore,” Sam said.

  “You’re not well, Sam.”

  “No,” Sam said. “I guess I’m not.”

  AT NOON, SAM WALKED BESIDE JOSE, pushing Mary Jane through the Civic Center Plaza in a carriage she’d borrowed from the bootleggers downstairs. It was Sunday and Sam still had not slept, the sun bright and shining and harsh in his eyes as he kept up with his family, other families lounging on the green grounds with picnic baskets set up in front of City Hall. He felt wrung-out, dry, but too tired to sleep. He’d lain down for two minutes on the Murphy bed when he’d first come in, Jose on her way out, but he wanted to walk with them, leave the apartment, clean his head out and forget about the Arbuckle case.

  “I read your notes,” Jose said.

  “Which ones?”

  “From Virginia’s autopsy,” she said. “Interesting stuff.”

  “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Mary Jane.”

  “She’s asleep.”

  “So she is.”

  “Didn’t you say Arbuckle’s lawyers have found people to testify that the girl suffered from spells brought on by drinking?”

  “They did. I have to meet one of ’em in about an hour.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A buxom Swede.”

  “You’re a great kidder, Sam.”

  “You know me.”

  “I particularly like the part about ‘a young woman who lost her life so that San Francisco shall not be made the rendezvous of debauchee and gangster.’ ”

  “Debauchee,” Sam said. “Good word. I like the way it sounds.”

  “The autopsy troubles me.”

  “It troubles me, too.”

  “The city coroner said when he checked the pelvic cavity, he found it packed with cotton.”

  “Pandora’s box.”

  “Sam.”

  Sam lit a cigarette and walked. “We know all this.”

  “And the bladder, uterus, and rectum were absent.”

  “They were removed and studied,” Sam said. “Destroyed soon after.”

  “You got to ask yourself, why would a doctor do that? What’s he protecting?”

  Sam shrugged, changing places with Jose, now pushing the carriage. Jose followed beside him. Sam tipped his hat at another couple walking in the opposite direction with their carriage and baby. The sunny kind of day brought on that kind of thing.

  “And this lawyer, McNab, will argue the bladder was already diseased.”

  “Yep.”

  “Why would those first doctors cover that up?”

  “I assumed they wanted a stellar virgin presented to the altar.”

  “So the police pushed a cover-up?”

  “I think so.”

  “But this was done before the police were involved.”

  Sam nodded. He pushed the carriage with one hand, smoked with another. “You know, we could carry a bar in this little buggy. It’s perfect. All that jostling around would mix a cocktail or two.”

  “You are hopeless, Sam.”

  “Too true.”

  “You look terrible.”

  “It’s the lighting.”

  “You need to see a doctor.”

  Sam looked at his watch. “I need to go.”

  “Please come home. Lay down.”

  “Just this one thing,” Sam said, winking at her. “I have to meet with an old friend.”

  PETE THE FINK SPOTTED SAM just as soon as he stepped into the Ferry Building terminal, waving with a free hand and dragging a big leather suitcase with the other. A woman a good head taller walked beside him, carrying a small pink hatbox and wearing a hat and snug black dress trimmed around the neck and sleeves with white fur. She was a true blonde, with blue eyes and red lips and a beauty mark just beside her mouth. She looked nervous as she waddled behind the Fink and didn’t stop glancing all around the big Ferry Building even as she was introduced to Sam, Sam noting they stood at the same height as she said “How do you do” with a noticeable accent. She smelled like powder and perfume, and although a large woman, she wasn’t fat, just big and healthy.

  Sam grabbed her hatbox, letting Pete continue to drag the big suitcase, and they walked through the main terminal, as large as a couple of football fields, a glass ceiling letting in the bright afternoon light. Pete nudged Sam in the ribs as they watched the big Swedish girl move ahead of them, her muscular and healthy buttocks swaying from side to side. The girl attracted attention from every man she passed, all of them craning their necks, just about tripping over their feet, mouths wide-open, watching the girl show a nice set of calves below the hem.

  “Where you fellas puttin’ us up?” Pete asked.

  “Are we supposed to put you up?”

  “Sam, if you screw me, me and Miss Morgan here will get right back on that ferry to Oakland and be back in Los Angeles by midnight.”

  “We got a place. The Golden West.”

  “Sounds like a flophouse.”

  “It’s where I had my honeymoon.”

  “Don’t I feel much better,” Pete said. “Say, can I have some help with this? Irene, honey, what’d you pack, some rocks?”

  Sam walked beside Irene and she was aware of him but kept glancing around the terminal at the shoeshine men and porters and bustling masses visiting the city for the weekend. Many men smiled at her. She smiled back. They tipped their hats. She smiled. Chinese men bo
wed. It was all so universal, Sam thought.

  “First time in the city?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you’re from Sweden.”

  “Gutenberg.”

  “Like the Bible.”

  “Sweden isn’t in the Bible.”

  “I see.”

  They kept walking, Sam’s detective eye noting her breasts of the appropriate and recommended size for a nice Swedish girl.

  “Pete tells me you knew Miss Rappe.”

  “I work for her for two years.”

  “As a nurse?”

  “I go with her to gymnasiums to keep with exercises. I make sure she take steam. I give her massage two times a day. All like Mr. Lehrman say.”

  “And you saw her get sick?”

  “Many times,” Irene Morgan said. She stopped and grasped the dress at her large bosoms and started to pull the material down. “Like this. When she drink alcohol, her clothes are gone. Woosh.”

  She pulled down so that Sam could see her brassiere. He put a hand on her hand to stop her from going further and said, “Does Mr. Lehrman know you’re here?”

  “He fired me.”

  “When?”

  “When Miss Rappe leaved.”

  “When was that?”

  “Oh, long time,” she said. “Months.”

  “Why’d she tear at her clothes?”

  “She would get sick when she drank.”

  “Did Pete tell you to say that?”

  “No. No, I tell him,” she said. “I don’t want to get in trouble, okay? I don’t want people to think I’m bad of character.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “A policeman come to see me and said if I say these things about Miss Rappe that it would ruin me. He said the government could even send me back to Sweden. I told Pete these things and he said you were a good policemen. Is that right?”

  “Absolutely,” Sam said. “I’m a great policeman.”

  “That man told me I could be hurt.”

  “No chance,” Sam said. “We’ll look out for you. We got our best man on it.”

  “Who?”

  Sam smiled. “Me.”

  Pete walked beside them now, a black porter pulling the big suitcase, and Pete, hearing that last comment, winked over at Sam. “Don’t be modest, Sam. Tell her the way it is.”

  The three moved outside the Ferry Building, waiting for a yellow taxi to take them back toward Union Square. Sam readjusted the cap on his head and offered a cigarette to Irene. Pete the Fink sat on the big piece of luggage, legs on each side, like he was riding a horse.

  “It’s scary,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The city.”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “It killed Miss Virginia.”

  “I don’t know what happened to Virginia,” Sam said. “But it wasn’t the city.”

  “That poor girl,” Irene said, shaking her head. “And with child, too.”

  Sam turned his head, cigarette hanging loose from his lower lip. “Come again?”

  “Of course you know she was pregnant with Mr. Lehrman’s baby?”

  24

  The rains came that Monday, and Roscoe felt strangely comfortable inside the Hall of Justice, listening to the tapping on glass, water running down the high windows, and mainly just falling into the routine of sitting behind the desk, a water pitcher in front of McNab, Minta and Ma sitting behind them. They’d eat lunch together at good restaurants during the breaks, and sometimes Minta would fall asleep during the medical testimony because pretty much all of it was the same only repeated by different doctors who saw Virginia before she died. But not a bit of it made Roscoe tired—they were off, the trial had started, and the twelve folks, five women and seven men, sitting up there in the box, spectators taking notes on the little details that Roscoe was beginning to know by heart. He just sat there and listened, McNab having told him earlier to stop playing with those goddamn elastics and his hat. He said juries didn’t like men on trial who didn’t pay attention, it showed they didn’t give a shit.

  The room changed a great deal after lunch, Roscoe knowing the feel and energy of a room better than anyone. This room was electric. The word was that the showgirls were going to take the stand, and you could hear the whispers about Alice and Zey throughout the hall and along the corridors and down the steps and even out onto Portsmouth Square.

  Zey was first, the girl all smiles as she was led into the courtroom, dressed in blue broadcloth with a fur hat, black stockings, and silk ballerina shoes. She smiled at the judge. She smiled at the jury. She smiled at U’Ren and Brady but didn’t look once at Roscoe. U’ren led her through it, just as he had at the coroner’s inquest and police court, and she sat there with an idiot grin on that doughy face, nodding and repeating things, finely trained and parroted, and looking to Roscoe like a thousand girls who’d read lines. Roscoe closed his eyes and leaned into the desk, rubbing his forehead.

  “And what did Miss Rappe say?” U’Ren asked.

  “She said, ‘He hurt me. He hurt me. I’m dying.’ ”

  Roscoe opened his eyes. He turned to McNab. McNab looked back to the girl, thumping a pencil on the desk, thinking, changing strategy, restless energy ready to pounce on her. The girl continued on about how Virginia had entered room 1219 first and then moments later Roscoe walked in behind her, and she wasn’t sure of the time but at some point later Mrs. Delmont—that goddamn woman—started banging on the door with her fist and the heel of a shoe. That’s when they found the girl writhing in pain and tearing her clothes off.

  U’Ren cleaned his glasses, placed them back on his feral little face, mouth puckered like he’d sucked a lemon, and looked as if he was inspecting his creation for anything he might have missed. But he was finished with her and McNab was on his feet, brushing by U’Ren, nudging the man’s shoulder ever so lightly, but seeming to do it all in a rush by accident. He began to speak almost immediately, the words in his throat for the last twenty minutes. “The girl said, ‘He hurt me. He hurt me’?”

  “That’s right,” Zey said, kind of rolling her eyes like McNab had wax in his ears or was too old to remember.

  “She said it twice?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And then said, ‘I’m dying’?”

  “That’s what I said,” Zey said, looking over at Brady and U’Ren, and McNab caught her eye and moved his bulky bearlike body right in her line of vision. She narrowed her eyes at him like What’s the big idea?

  “Do you recall making the statement earlier that the girl had said, ‘He killed me. Arbuckle killed me’?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I know what I heard,” she said. She rolled her eyes again, and Roscoe noted she was pretty damn good at it. Maybe even practiced it in the mirror, copying Mabel Normand.

  “Your Honor, we’d like to read her earlier testimony into the record,” McNab said. He read every word from her sworn statement but didn’t stop there. With a hell of a flourish, the gruff old man read her testimony into the record and did his best to sound gay and flighty, with every other sentence he read ending with “I sez I don’t remember nothin’. It’s all mixed up, I tell you.” McNab ended with U’Ren asking the girl where she lived and the girl saying, “I don’t want to tell you because I don’t want my mother drawn into this.”

  Zey Prevon-Prevost stifled a giggle. Some on the court laughed. Roscoe noticed no one on the jury even cracked a smile.

  “Did you sign your name to this statement?” McNab asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Were you forced?”

  The girl tried to look around McNab to the prosecution table, without any luck. McNab let the question hang there, not saying a word, letting the big damn silence of the wood-paneled room suck it from her.

  “No.”

  “Where have you been for the last month?”

  “Calistoga.”

  “By yourself?”

&
nbsp; “With Alice.”

  “Alice Blake?”