“Not near enough,” Starbuck said levelly. “We're headed for a warehouse, down at the train yard. We'll have it all to ourselves, just you and me. One way or another, I figure today's your day to turn songbird.”
“Songbird?” A vein in O'Brien's temple stood out like twisted cord. “You want me to rat on Buckley?”
“That's the idea,” Starbuck said, motioning with the Colt. “Those ledgers are only part of the story. Your testimony ought to cap it off real nice.”
“It'll never happen! Denny O'Brien don't rat on nobody!”
“Wanna bet?” Starbuck regarded him evenly. “You'll talk ⦠or else.”
“Or else what?” O'Brien demanded. “You're not fooling anyone, Lovett. I'm no good to you dead, and we both know it.”
“It's the other way round.” Starbuck gave him a strange, crooked smile. “Unless you talk, you're no good to me alive. Think of it a while, and you'll see what I mean.”
O'Brien saw a catlike eagerness in his eyes. Suddenly, as though his ears had come unplugged, the Barbary Coast boss got the message. Harry Lovett wanted to kill him, and would, given the slightest pretext. Which mean that his life, from that moment forward, had only one measure of value. So long as he testified, he would be allowed to go on breathing. His decision, considering the alternative, was really quite simple.
He decided to sing like a golden-throated canary.
Â
Early that evening Starbuck walked from the train terminal and hailed a cab. Thus far, all the pieces had fallen into place, and he thought it might be wiser to quit while he was ahead. Yet one step remained, and he was determined to try. He ordered the driver to take him to Chinatown.
His day had been hectic, but rewarding. Denny O'Brien, under questioning, had proved himself a veritable gold mine of information. Once he began talking, it became apparent he had something bordering on total recall. He revealed names and dates
and places, and, in most instances, tied them to events that established an unassailable time frame. Those slight lapses of memory he suffered were easily brought to light by the ledgers. There, too, the evidence was overwhelming. With meticulous care, he had entered every payoff, noting the date and the amount, along with the percentage of gross take from various Barbary Coast operations. The entries, itemized in O'Brien's laborious scrawl, covered prostitution and gambling as well as the all-pervasive protection racket. The ledgers substantiated that Christopher Buckley had shared in the proceeds to the tune of more than $1,000,000.
Late that afternoon, after taking a deposition from O'Brien, Starbuck had at last notified Charles Crocker. Shortly thereafter, a squad of Central Pacific security guards reported to the warehouse. O'Brien was sequestered in a windowless room, and men were posted both inside and outside the building. Their orders were direct and without equivocation. Anyone who attempted forcible entry to the warehouse was to be shot on the spot. When Starbuck departed the warehouse, he'd had no qualms about O'Brien's safety. Nor any concern that his songbird would try to fly away.
On the Street of a Thousand Lanterns, a crowd was gathered outside Fung Jing Toy's house. A policeman was posted at the door, and a paddy wagon stood at curbside. Starbuck paid the hansom driver, then eased through the throng of Chinese who stared silently, almost expectantly, at the front door. He
approached the policeman and nodded amiably.
“What's all the commotion?”
“Oh, would you believe it?” the officer replied in a thick brogue. “The big Chink himself has done been murdered.”
“Fung Jing Toy?”
“Aye, the very one,” the officer observed solemnly. “God rest his heathen soul.”
The door opened, and a murmur swept through the crowd. Several policemen, formed in a protective wedge, escorted two Chinese down the steps and hustled them into the paddy wagon. Starbuck instantly recognized the men, Wong Yee and Sing Dock. The last time he'd seen them they were guarding the entrance to Fung's underground chamber.
“Are those the killers?”
“Caught red-handed,” the officer affirmed. “And them the Chink's own
boo how doy
. Cut him to ribbons with their hatchets, they did. Terrible sight. Terrible.”
Starbuck turned and walked away. Somehow he wasn't surprised by Fung Jing Toy's death. Some dark complex of gut instinct and premonition had warned him that Buckley would move swiftly. With Denny O'Brien in custody, Mr. Frisco couldn't risk the possibility of still another turncoat. All the more imperative, Fung represented a corroborative witness, the one man who could substantiate O'Brien's testimony. Buckley, expedient to the end, had simply ordered the Chinaman's assassination.
Yet Starbuck was surprised by the choice of assassins.
Wong Yee and Sing Dock were clearly the tools of Christopher Buckley. Their loyalty to a white-devil overlord, rather than Fung, confirmed Buckley's absolute domination of the Chinatown tongs. Still, while a key witness had been silenced, the blind man had no reason for celebration. He was, ironically enough, very much in the dark.
The ledgers were the one element Buckley couldn't have foreseen, and never suspected. A mute form of corroboration that spoke louder than words.
Mr. Frisco was shortly due the shock of his life.
“Perhaps you could elaborate, Mr. Starbuck.”
“Well, in a manner of speaking, you might liken it to the links in a chain. Adair led me to O'Brien, who in turn led me to Fung. From there, things led straight to Buckley. He was the last link in the chain.”
“You refer to Christopher A. Buckley, proprietor of the Snug Café. Is that correct?”
“Correct.”
“Now, you used the analogyâlinks in a chain. Would you consider it valid to broaden the analogy, and call it a chain of command?”
“Yes, I would,” Starbuck agreed. “It was organized along military lines. Fung and O'Brien were like field commanders, with their own sector of operations. They were free to run things to suit themselves, but they were responsible for their actions. In other words, they reported to a higher authority.”
“So Fung controlled Chinatown and O'Brien
controlled the Barbary Coast. They operated independently on day-to-day matters, but they were answerable for the overall results in their sectors. Is that essentially correct?”
“Yes.”
“Would you consider it a fair statement to characterize Christopher Buckley as their commander-in-chief?”
“I would,” Starbuck acknowledged. “He appointed them, and he could strip them of command any time he took a notion. His orders were the last word.”
“By that, you mean there was no appeal?”
“None whatever. He was the last link in the chain, and his word was final. It all stopped there.”
The Grand Jury room, located in the Hall of Justice, went silent. The jurors were attentive, listening raptly, their eyes fixed on Starbuck. They gazed at him with the look of circus spectators watching a tiger eat its keeper. From the news stories, they knew he had killed three men during the course of his assignment in San Francisco. Hushed and eager, they waited to hear more.
Edgar Caldwell, the district attorney, paused for dramatic effect. He adjusted his spectacles, and stood for a moment consulting his notes. An ambitious man, he was commonly thought to be a force in county politics. Yet his conduct of the hearing indicated he was putting distance between himself and Buckley's local machine. He was seeking an indictment, but on the man rather than the Democratic
Party. At length, he turned back to the witness chair.
“Mr. Starbuck, a minute ago you testified thatâand I quoteâthings led straight to Buckley. What did you mean by âthings'?”
Starbuck wormed around in his chair. With a straight face, he briefly recounted his cover story, and the offer to buy one hundred Chinese slave girls. Then he told of Fung's suspicions, which led ultimately to the meeting with Buckley. He concluded with a short synopsis of the meeting, and Buckley's open admission of power.
“Let's be clear on that point,” Caldwell insisted. “Buckley stated that he'd been asked to arbitrate the matter?”
“Yes.”
“Then he went on to state that he would approve the dealâthe sale of a hundred Chinese virginsâif your references were in order. Isn't that correct?”
“So far as it goes,” Starbuck amended. “I also had to show good faith by putting up a hundred thousand in cash.”
“Which you obtained from your employer, Charles Crocker?”
“That's right.”
“To recap, Mr. Starbuck.” Caldwell struck an elegant pose for the jurors. “Buckley dictated the terms necessary to consummate the deal, and he then imposed those terms on both Fung and O'Brien. Is that your testimony?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Have you any direct knowledge of why Fung and
O'Brien would comply with his demands?”
“I do,” Starbuck nodded. “O'Brien called him Mr. Frisco. He stated that Buckley could approve or disapprove the deal, and everybody would just have to live with the decision. The question at issueâand Buckley confirmed this in our meetingâwas how to conclude the deal and still keep peace between Fung and O'Brien.”
“If I may paraphrase,” Caldwell said, one eye on the jurors. “Buckley would hand down his edict, and his henchmen, Fung and O'Brien, would have no choice but to obey. A fair summation of the facts?”
“In a nutshell, that's the way it worked.”
“Very well, Mr. Starbuck. Suppose we move on. In previous testimony, one Dennis O'Brien identified a certain set of ledgers. He stated that one ledger in particular dealt with payoffs to Buckley, as regards criminal activities on the Barbary Coast. Are you familiar with the ledgers in question?”
“I personally observed O'Brien take those ledgers from his office safe in the Bella Union.”
“So the ledgers were intactâall entries previously recordedâat that time?”
“Yes.”
“Did O'Brien voluntarily surrender the ledgers?”
“No.” Starbuck smiled. “I forced him to open the safe at gunpoint.”
“Please describe the events that transpired immediately thereafter.”
“I took O'Brien to a warehouse ⦔
Starbuck's testimony consumed the better part of
an hour. When he was finished, Caldwell excused him from the witness chair and thanked him profusely. The jurors sat spellbound as he walked from the room. Their expressions indicated they believed the man, and the story he'd told.
Outside, moving along the corridor, he felt an enormous sense of relief. Three weeks had elapsed since the capture of Denny O'Brien and the death of Fung Jing Toy. In that time, waiting for a grand jury to be empaneled, he had worked closely with the district attorney. His continued presence had also worked as an influence on O'Brien. The Barbary Coast boss had cooperated fully, and turned state's evidence in exchange for a reduced sentence. A convincing witness, he had testified earlier in the day. And along with his ledgers, he'd apparently made an impression on the jurors.
There now seemed little doubt as to the outcome. An indictment would be forthcoming, and Buckley would stand trial on charges ranging from criminal conspiracy to accessory to murder. Conviction would very likely put him behind bars for the rest of his life.
For Starbuck, it was the end to a long and trying period. He had enjoyed the chase, and felt great personal accomplishment at having brought Mr. Frisco to bay. Still, there were bad memories as well, and a change of scenery seemed very much in order. His thoughts turned to Denver.
Then, rounding the corner into the lobby, he abruptly stopped. Christopher Buckley, being led by
another man, appeared through the front entrance and walked toward him. He recalled Buckley was scheduled to testify before the grand jury, and briefly considered not speaking. But upon second thought, he changed his mind. A last word with the blind man seemed a fitting end to the case.
“Afternoon, Mr. Buckley.”
“Good afternoon.” Buckley halted, his expression quizzical. “I'm afraid you have the advantage of me.”
“Luke Starbuck,” Starbuck replied with a ghost of a grin. “Otherwise known as Harry Lovett.”
“Of course!” Buckley said, smiling faintly. “How could I ever forget that voice?”
“Yeah, I reckon a voice is pretty hard to disguise.”
“Well, that's past us now, Mr. Starbuck. I understand you've even dispensed with your gold tooth.”
“Oh?” Starbuck asked pleasantly. “Keeping tabs on me, are you?”
Buckley's smile turned cryptic. “You remember my associate, Knuckles Jackson? He keeps me up to date on the latest newspaper accounts of your activities. All the more so since you've become such a celebrity.”
Starbuck and Jackson traded nods. A large man, Jackson had a square and pugnacious face, with cold gun-metal eyes. For a moment, Starbuck couldn't place him. Then, suddenly, he recalled the night O'Brien and McQueen had escorted him to the Snug Café. Jackson was the resident gorilla who guarded
the alley door. His presence here today spoke for itself. He was apparently trusted to act as Buckley's seeing-eye dog and chief bodyguard.
“Funny thing,” Starbuck said, glancing back at Buckley. “All this hoopla about me doesn't amount to a hill of beans. I've got an idea you're the one they'll remember.”
“On the contrary!” Buckley's tone was lordly, somehow patronizing. “You shouldn't be so modest, Mr. Starbuck. The public loves to be titillated, and you've certainly shown them the seamier side of San Francisco. Small wonder it's captured their imagination.”
“Here today, gone tomorrow,” Starbuck said lightly. “People forget real quick.”
“True,” Buckley said with an indulgent smile. “Fame rides a fleet horse. Nonetheless, you're to be congratulated on a splendid job. You have a few peers in your particular line of work.”
Starbuck tried to divine his mood. For a man facing prison, he was altogether too congenial, and far too unconcerned. His excessively reasonable tone somehow rang false. Then, too, there was something strange about his expression. Behind the tinted glasses, the dead eyes seemed oddly mocking, alight with laughter. The effect was unsettling, vaguely unnatural.
“I admire the way you're taking it all in stride, Mr. Buckley.”
“Why not?” Buckley spread his hands in a bland gesture. “Life is very much like a melodrama, Mr.
Starbuck. Look closely and you'll find that pathos and farce always merge in the end. What appears to be reality is often little more than illusion.”
“I wouldn't know about that,” Starbuck remarked. “Course, just from the sound of it, I get the feeling you're not losing any sleep over this grand jury business.”
“You tell me,” Buckley said almost idly. “Should I be losing sleep?”
“You're on your way to testify, aren't you?”
“Indeed I am.”
“Then I reckon you'll be able to answer the question yourself. There's no illusion so far as the jurors are concerned. It's all hard fact.”
“So I hear,” Buckley said, not without bitterness. “O'Brien and his ledgers apparently make for a convincing tale.”
Starbuck regarded his somberly. “You must have inside sources. Those ledgers were a pretty well-kept secret.”
“People talk,” Buckley replied absently. “A secret ceases to be a secret once it's known by a second party. But, of course, that's hardly news to a man in your profession.”
“No, I guess not.” Starbuck nodded, acknowledging the truth of the statement. “Leastways, I never had any trouble getting people to talk about you.”
Buckley smiled humorlessly. “Come now, Mr. Starbuck. Denny O'Brien talked because you put a gun to his head. Except for that, you would never
have gotten past the stage of speculation and conjecture.”
“Maybe so,” Starbuck admitted. “The way it worked out, we'll never know. He talked, and that's all that counts.”
“Ah, yes,” Buckley commented loftily. “The hard facts you spoke of a moment ago.”
“Hard facts,” Starbuck said slowly, emphatically, “and all down in black and white.”
“You believe they'll indict me, then?”
“Let's just say I'd lay odds on it.”
“A sporting man to the end, hmm?”
“No, I only bet on sure things.”
“Touché,” Buckley said equably. “And what of you, Mr. Starbuck. Where to now that your terrible swift sword has done its work?”
“Another town, another job,” Starbuck countered easily. “There's so many crooks around, it keeps a fellow in my line pretty much on the go.”
“Indeed?” Buckley paused as though weighing his words. “Another town, another job sounds imminently practical, Mr. Starbuck. Allow me to wish you good hunting ⦠elsewhere.”
“Some men might take that as a threat.”
“Perhaps.” Buckley smiled without warmth. “I'm sure you'll take it in the spirit in which it was intended, Mr. Starbuck.”
Starbuck laughed and gave him an offhand salute. With a nod to Knuckles Jackson, he walked to the front entrance and pushed through the door. Outside, he found the way barred by a gang of reporters and
several newspaper cameramen. For all the publicity surrounding the case, he had thus far avoided both interviews and photographs. Today, with the grand jury in session, the press cast aside any pretense of civility. Camera powder flashed and reporters swarmed forward, peppering him with questions.
“What's the latest, Mr. Starbuck?”
“No comment.”
“Will they indict Buckley?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“C'mon, be a sport. Give us the lowdown!”
“I only know what I read in the papers.”