exerpts from the novel
The Electronic Windmill
By Pete McKinley
Chapter VI
The SS Crescent Moon, leaving the offshore fog bank, sailed into sunlight. A bright blue sky was overhead as the ship altered course, pointing her bow slightly to starboard of center beneath the bridge that spanned the gateway to San Francisco Bay. Standing at the rail, Cole looked up as the ship cleared from under the massive structure. The air was cool even in the sun and there was a crystal sharpness to the sweeping view from his deck. He wondered if Sir Francis Drake had actually found the narrow passage leading to the bay and had sailed around the landlocked harbor. Drake would have seen a desolate sand-blown peninsula with bent and stunted trees. Did the white angular buildings stepping up the inclined land, or the tall towers marking the center of the city add to, or detract from, the beauty of the view? He would be willing to bet that Drake, in his stench-ridden ship seeking fresh water and provisions, would vote for the present panorama over the past.
Off to port, a second bridge crossed the middle of the harbor without enclosing it. Ocean-plying vessels sailed under it to Carquinez Straits and beyond through navigable waterways to Sacramento and Stockton. The ship, heading east, would pass beneath still a third bridge arching out from the peninsula. This structure touched and island two-thirds the way across, bored a tunnel through its hills and then bridged the other third of the crossing to the East Bay cities that ringed the true mainland.
A tug was overreaching the ship’s slowing speed, coming up from the port stern preparing to aid in the docking at a covered pier jutting from the peninsula’s shore. The compact boat moved past midpoint of the bigger ship, reduced power and nosed gently into the forward port side. The SS Crescent Moon’s bow turned toward land and the little boat maneuvered her alongside the pier with experienced ease.
Cole turned from the rail heading for his cabin. Myron Brown would be waiting for a phone call. The cable for the ship phones should be hooked up soon, but he didn’t want to use the ship’s phone. He was sure all measures had been taken to prevent the eleven passengers and crew from leaving the ship without a thorough search, or the cargo to be unloaded without the same meticulous scrutiny. He wanted Brown’s permission to reveal the purpose of the just completed trip to his partners.
As he reached the cabin door someone called his name, and turning, he saw Mike Crowder hurrying after him waving a piece of paper.
“Hi, Mike, I was going to take my gear from the cabin and stack it by the gangway then give you a call,” Cole said. “After the farewell party last night I doubted if anyone would be stirring.”
“Yeah, that was the usual goodbye blast, but it normally ends earlier. Probably no one else will get off the ship until afternoon.” He paused and then continued, “Oh, this is for the card lessons.” He handed over the piece of paper, and Cole saw that it was a check for two hundred and eighty-six dollars.
“Wait a minute; are you sure it came to this much? That’s pretty high tuition.”
“It was that much and don’t worry about it; with the tricks you taught me, I’ll get it all back with interest next trip.”
“Thanks, Mike. Aunt Hester always told me gin rummy is ninety percent luck and that’s gambling, but the other ten percent is using your head to make money, and that’s business.”
“Some business,” Mike grinned.
“You have my phone number and address. How about giving me a call,” Cole suggested. “We like doing business with friends, especially when they’re such fast pay.”
“We’re sailing again as soon as the ship’s unloaded, about a three day job,” Mike explained. “I’ll call you in a couple of weeks when we get back.” He started to leave, then suddenly turned. “Hell, I forgot the most important thing I wanted to tell you. Customs is checking people and luggage tougher than usual. The luggage is the thing that takes time, so if you’re in a hurry leave your gear and pick it up later.”
“I’m scheduled for a meeting starting thirty minutes after I return. What about the frozen ducks?” Cole asked.
“I’m sure they’ll be held up too. Let me handle them for you. I’ve gone through this before, you just have to be patient.” Mike thought for a moment. “I’ll have our company driver drop them off at your office or at your apartment, if you prefer, along with the luggage. The ducks will be packed in dry ice,” he added.
“The office will be fine. I appreciate the help. Now, I owe you some free lessons.”
“Next time I’ll be charging tuition,” Mike muttered.
Without luggage, Cole passed through customs with very little inconvenience, except for the removal of most of his clothes and a rectal probe. He found a pay phone inside the covered pier and called Myron Brown. Brown said if Cole felt it was necessary to discuss his findings with his partners, to go ahead as long as they could be trusted, and that he was looking forward to the full report.
That was the hell of it, Cole thought as he hung up. He didn’t have any findings. He’d met some nice people and had had a great time, but none of it seemed to be connected with the possible use of the ship as a dope smuggler. He was anxious to discuss the events of the past two weeks with his partners. The four of them in Rain, Carver, Shu-li and Jones worked separately on their individual assignments, but always confided in each other, divulging every fact concerning their projects and helping each other when stymied on a job. The annual shareholders’ meeting was scheduled, but this shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes, and as always, they would be anxious to listen to his story.
“To solve a problem, four heads are better than one only if the four heads produce one acceptable solution,” Aunt Hester always said. This admonition made sense to Cole, and he rejected meetings and conferences where problems were left dangling or put over for further discussion. The three other people in the corporation also discussed their work, but they too arrived at their solutions individually. Now he needed their points of view to help him take a bearing on his present position so that he could decide on the next move.
Taxis are hard to find anywhere in San Francisco. On China Basin Street, they’re impossible. Cole waited confidently and saw the empty cab turn into China Basin from Illinois Street. It pulled alongside. Cole got in and directed the driver to Number 10, Black Pearl Road.
Racing the engine through automatic gears, he turned left still on China Basin, swung right into Third, and began a slow cruise. “Black Pearl Road, is that near the old International Settlement?”
Cole wasn’t too surprised that the cabbie didn’t recognize the address. There was only one ancient red brick building on the road, and nobody had occupied it for years prior to its purchase by Rain, Carver, Shu-li and Jones. “Not too far,” Cole said. “It probably would be quicker if we took the Embarcadero to Lombard. It’s on the other side and about a quarter of the way up Telegraph Hill.”
They cut down Brannan to the Embarcadero past the foreign trade zone and the old Ferry Building. Cole pointed across the tracks to Lombard and said, “Take another left at the next street.”
Black Pearl Road extended a short half-block. The two-story building at the end faced the center of the road. Cole asked the driver to pull up to the turn-around in front of the old brick structure. Leaving the cab, he overtipped. “The extra money is for being in the right place at the right time.”
“Thanks! Say, what is this place? I never knew it was here.” The driver leaned over and looked out at the building.
“The lower place is Borgia’s, the best food in town.” Cole didn’t bother to explain that the offices of RCS&J Corporation were located on the second floor.
The cabbie waved and raced the engine. “I’ll check it out some night.”
Borgia’s didn’t open until eleven in the morning but it didn’t matter. Giuseppe, or someone, would be in the kitchen, and he could call for coffee from the office.
There were only two numbers on Black Pearl Road, and the restaurant was Number 13. Cole unlocked the door to Number 10 and entered a carpeted foyer open to the second-floor roof. A wrought-iron chandelier hung from the second story ceiling, lighting the entrance and circular stairway. He climbed the stairs to a large room used as a combination lobby and conference area and switched on light that sprayed up and down the muraled walls, simulating sunlight. The murals were set in squares depicting scenes from the city, and there were times when one got the uncanny feeling of looking at them through windows. The room was heavily carpeted and furnished with coordinated lounges, comfortable chairs, coffee tables and floor lamps. At one end there was a well-preserved antique bar. Several color-oriented phones rested inconspicuously on small tables. Off this room, four offices overlooked the bay, each furnished and decorated to suit the occupant.
The door to Cole’s office was closed. He opened it and moved quickly to a walnut desk. The desk was the only clue that the room was used for business. There were several inner-office memos and a small stack of letters lying on top. He sat down, putting his feet on a pulled-out drawer, and reached for the memos.
One was a report from Kang Shu-Li, Secretary-Treasurer of the corporation. He noted a memorandum from Pilar and also a penciled note from her, explaining that a message from Larry Carver was on the recorder. Larry was Executive Vice President and had been in southern California when Cole left two weeks ago. Presumably, he was still there.
Pilar’s memo concerned a new project she’d undertaken to redesign functional plastic lawn furniture from giving the appearance of lumps or stumps in the grass. There was nothing personal.
Since Kang’s main interest was the every-day operation of the corporation, and his report concerned the shareholders’ meeting today, Cole read it first.
To the Chairman of the Board, to the other members of the Board of Directors, to the Executive Officers, and to the Common Shareholders of Rain, Carver, Shu-li and Jones Enterprises, Inc.:
It is gratifying to report that the condition of the corporation at year’s end was better than had been forecasted. Our holdings as of December thirty-first included the common and preference shares of some forty-three corporations, in the total amount of $372,456.00 (market value on that date); five pieces of real estate, including the building we occupy; and three parcels of undeveloped land appraised value of all real estate, as of July last year, $486,000.00.
One of these parcels sold in January of this year for $65,000.00. This particular lot was purchased in the deal with late revered uncle, Po Ling-teng, at the same time he sold us this decrepit building. Total price for both properties $23,758.00.
Rents received from the Borgia lease for the lower half of this building, Number 13 Black Pearl Road, have returned over a period of seven years, after interest charges and taxes for both properties, and insurance for this building, a net gain of $36,480.00. As my revered uncle’s favorite nephew, I was taught all he knew about the intricacies of making money and was cautioned never to do business with relatives. Cole laughed as he read this, knowing Kang was proud of the first deal he’d made for the then partnership. Reading on, he came to Kang’s usual close for a report on corporate affairs:
We have learned much from the late Po Ling-teng, from Larry Carver II, from the late Juan Pedro Jesus Mateos y Diego, and from Ms. Hester Coleridge. Our policy is taken from Ms. Coleridge’s small volume, titled “The Spiritual Man’s Place in an Evil World”, written by Ms. Coleridge after eighty-two years of concerned observation of the human race. “If that which God created in his image cannot move against the tide of wickedness or breast the racing current of corruption, then he must flow with these baleful forces, remaining unblemished, until, with God’s help he can control the impious tide and dam the depraved current for his own single, and mankind’s benefit.”
In her written annotated notes Cole remembered the explanation of this passage was, “If a single human being cannot cope with the modern Babylonian establishment, he should not give up his oneness by joining the opposition rabble, but rather merely comingle his entity with the established bastards and screw them at their own game, sharing any gain with his particular God and other worthy souls of the community.” The original partnership had consisted of Cole Rain, Larry Carver, Kang Shu-li and Robert Jones. The four of them had met at the University. Kang Shu-li had been the business manager and Cole Rain the editor of a college publication that went against the popular radical trend. Larry Carver and Bob Jones worked as reporters. Kang had interested the group in investing in stocks, bonds and real estate. They had formed an equal partnership and each contributed twenty-five thousand dollars to its assets. Kang had been investing in the market since high school days, and, through the tutelage of his revered uncle, had accumulated assets over fifteen thousand dollars. He had borrowed the balance to make up his share from that same uncle, Po-Ling-teng. Cole’s twenty-five thousand had come from Aunt Hester Coleridge, who was only in her seventies at the time, but said he should have inherited the money years ago. Larry Carver’s money came from football. He had signed a contract with a thirty thousand dollar bonus, had played sensationally in three exhibition games and was then carried from the field with a knee that would never stand that kind of punishment again. Bob Jones’ parents and his only sister had been killed in an automobile crash while he was in high school. He had been looking for a safe place to invest part of the insurance, and if you couldn’t trust people your own age, who could you trust?
One of the first investments made by the partnership was the purchase of the two properties described by Kang in his report. They had planned to use the structure on Black Pearl Road for their offices, but the size of the building made it impossible for them to use more than one floor. The lower floor had been rented to Giuseppe Borgia for his restaurant.
Borgia had been in the restaurant business for fifteen years. “Giuseppe’s”, his original place near the financial district, had flourished for only one reason: good food. After making a small fortune, Giuseppe sent to Italy for a bride. Six months later, Lucretia Donatelli, who had been selected by Giuseppe’s parents still living in the old country, arrived in San Francisco. Lucretia and Giuseppe were married in the church, and their reception was held at “Giuseppe’s”, restaurant and bar. It was the perfect place for a wedding party, and all the partners, with the exception of Bob Jones, had been present. Lieutenant Jones, accompanied by his bride, Pilar, was in Texas for flight training.
Cole remembered the reception. Giuseppe and Lucretia had signed the lease for Number 13 Black Pearl Road and completed its renovation. Giuseppe wanted to name the restaurant in honor of his bride and had commissioned one of the many artists who frequented the North Beach area to strike off a small bronze plate. It would be bolted to the brick wall beside the entrance. The plate was to be given to Lucretia at the wedding party. The artist had created his masterpiece. The lettering had an Italian look and stood out boldly from the indented and antiqued bronze background. Giuseppe was honoring his new bride by naming the restaurant “Lucretia Borgia’s Palazzo.”
When the plaque was presented to Lucretia at the party, Giuseppe climbed on top of a table to make a speech: “To all my wonderful friends, I want to say that Giuseppe is now Mister Borgia and my wife is Mrs. Borgia who will have the newest and finest restaurant in San Francisco. Before she was my wife, she was Lucretia Donatelli, the best cook in Italia. That’s why she’s now my wife, and she is going to cook up all her secret recipes for my” he hesitated, catching the error, “for our new restaurant, ‘Lucretia Borgia’s Palazzo’.” After making this speech, Giuseppe moved to the edge of the table to jump off. The table tipped and Giuseppe, clutching the bronze plaque, fell to the floor, breaking his arm. But, since he was completely anaesthetized by the spirit of the occasion, the break wasn’t discovered until X-rays were taken three days later.
There were other minor accidents at the party. Tony Coniglio, carrying a large bowl of steaming vermicelli covered with a tomato, mushroom and meat sauce, was accidently tripped by Father O’Connell. The Father was demonstrating what he termed a side-swipe soccer kick, using for the ball a wet wadded-up napkin. Swinging his leg in an arc, he caught Tony just under the right kneecap with the toe of his shoe. Tony fell forward and with presence of mind threw the vessel he was carrying on top of the bar.
Oversized Larry Carver squeezing into a booth had sat on a broken cocktail glass. A doctor at the party took three stitches in his ass with a borrowed needle and thread, sprinkling an antibiotic over the wound. Someone said it was plain salt and Larry agreed.
The one accident that could have had serious consequences occurred when a couple got into heated argument near the entrance of the restaurant. Cole knew them fairly well; Spike and Lenore Swensen. Lenore was a fragile little thing with flashing blue eyes. Spike was a big crew-cut blond, about six-four, two hundred and thirty-five pounds. He had played ball with Cole and Larry at the University. When Cole walked over to them, Lenore was saying, “You’re always threatening to use physical violence against me. If you ever dare lay a hand on me I’ll see you rot in jail.”
“Calm down, Lenore,” Spike soothed. “All I said was that you can’t handle your booze and there are times when you need your butt spanked.”
Cole interrupted, “Hi, everybody. Why don’t we all go over to the bar and have a drink.”
Lenore leveled him with cold blue eyes. “Why the hell don’t you get lost?”
“Now, Lenore,” Cole took on Spike’s tone, “This is a great party and I just wanted you two to have fun like everybody else. I agree with you. Spike shouldn’t threaten physical violence.” He put his arm around her shoulder while holding a half-filled highball glass. As she moved away from him, the glass was jarred and the drink splashed down the front of her dress.
“Damn you, now look what you’ve done.” With her open palm she smacked Cole on the cheek. Spike made a grab for her and she immediately turned on him, ducked under his outstretched arms and butted him in the stomach. There was a low planter sitting on the floor which caught the back of his legs and beyond the planter was a plate glass window. Spike made a perfect backward dive through the window, his head striking the concrete sidewalk. Huge sheets of glass crashed down. Spike lay still where he had fallen. Lenore stepped through the window and kneeling beside him, took his head in her arms and cooed, “Oh, you poor darling, are you hurt? Please, please speak to me.”
Spike opened his eyes. “I think there’s been an accident. I just heard a hell of a crash.”
“God, honey, you really had me worried.” Lenore took a deep breath of relief. “You’re so damned awkward,” she said, pressing her lips to his forehead.
Cole wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, took a last look, and leaving them, walked over to the bar to get another drink.
All this had happened several years ago and Cole found that he couldn’t be in a reminiscent mood for long without thinking of Pilar.
After Bob Jones had gone into the service, Pilar Jones was called in to design the decor for Lucretia Borgia’s Palazzo and had exactly caught the Italian Renaissance mood. In the first months they had all helped out: Larry Carver with business and administrative advice, Cole with legal help, and Kang Shu-li with suggestions on buying procedures and waste-disposal methods which saved money and increased profits.
A year and a half after the opening, there was no doubt of the success of the new restaurant. It was at this happy time that Cole received a phone call from Pilar Jones. In a barely audible, tear-choked voice she read the telegram announcing Bob Jones’s death.
Pilar Priscilla Mateos’s ancestors had been land grant holders in California for more than two hundred years and there was no financial need for her to ever work. But after Bob’s death she wanted to be more than a fourth owner of Rain, Carver, Shu-li and Jones. The three remaining partners, with some reservations, allowed her to join them. Pilar had a degree in design engineering, but found that applying engineering principles as taught at the University was too restrictive for her more creative free art form. Recently, it had been impossible for her to accept all the requests for her services, and she now greatly enhanced the corporation’s image. Of course Cole’s current assignment was due to the fact that Pilar had designed ceramic tile for McWhorter Brown.
