California Gold (53 page)

“I hadn’t planned to go there, actually.”

Johnson digested the curt, almost dismissive reply. “How’s the wife?”

“About the same. She’s up in San Luis Obispo this week, beautifying herself in the mud and sulfur baths at Newcomb’s Spa. You anxious to go back to work?”

“Not so’s you’d notice. Anxious to play a little polo, though.”

“Good—the team needs you: We have an interclub game Saturday. Carla should be back for it, and my friend Jim Corbett’s finally coming down for a few days.”

“With his missus?”

“No, she can’t make it; she’s packing. She and Jim are going to try New York for a while. He doesn’t know what to do with himself since Fitzsimmons beat him.”

Johnson slipped a plug of tobacco under his lip and worked it around. “Losin’ the title must be damn hard on him.”

“Losing anything you care about is hard.” In his imagination, with keen guilt, he saw Nellie.

Mack galloped down the polo field in a melee of noise and dust. From the bleachers he heard the shouts of the partisans of the red and blue teams. He paid no attention, reaching down, straining down with his mallet. He caught the speeding cork ball squarely and hammered the ball toward the red goal. In the sixth and last chukker, reds and blues were tied at four goals apiece.

Mack’s dirty face streamed with sweat, the field on Jefferson Street a sunlit blur, with shadows of horses and ponies flickering in the corners of his eyes. How much time left? Only seconds, surely. He booted Jubilee. Always the best horse in the last chukker.

The ball rocketed on over the trampled sod. Then, with a neat reverse of his mount, Eric Portfield of the blues hit it the other way. It shot past Mack and Johnson and Clive Henley and Bunny Bunthorne, the reds, toward the blue goal.

Mack whipped Jubilee’s head around and galloped. He passed Johnson, who’d donned a red bandanna for the occasion; the rest sorted themselves out with colored armbands. “Come on, Jubilee!” he shouted over the pony’s neck. Jeremy Fripp of the blues advanced the ball and then looked back. He saw Mack gaining and his brows shot up. Mack was a feared player, not so much because of skill as because of a deep-gutted recklessness, especially in tight spots.

Mack shouldered Jubilee into Jeremy’s horse, a rideoff, and Jeremy and his mount lurched away. Mack now caught up with the ball and windmilled his mallet arm in a mighty back shot that reversed the ball toward the other goal. The red partisans cheered.

Johnson, Clive, and Mack all raced neck and neck for the ball. Bunthorne was more timid, lagging. The eyes of the ponies bulged and their manes streamed. Hot wind rushed over Mack’s face and sweat ran out from under his canvas helmet, his only safety protection. Suddenly Chitwoode of the blues bore down on him like a juggernaut. Mack had to yank Jubilee’s head right and veer off; Chitwoode, not controlling his pony well, would have run over him.

Cursing, Mack rode away from the line of the ball, and Johnson drilled it between the goalposts. Then he stood in his saddle, raised his mallet, and let out a cheer. Mack slowed Jubilee and the whistle blew. Clive Henley yelled, “Hip-hip.”

Chitwoode trotted over, apologetic. “Bloody horse was running out of control. I wasn’t trying to foul you, old chap.”

“Just kill me?” Chitwoode looked dismayed. “Forget it.” Mack clapped Chitwoode’s shoulder. He excused the near collision because the other man was a poor rider.

Mack tore off the helmet, which he couldn’t stand, and shoved it in his belt as the eight players trotted toward the chalked sideline, exchanging congratulations and jibes. Clive shot out his hand to shake. “Bloody good riding, old friend.”

The players reached the sideline, where the fashionable ladies and gentlemen of the audience were spilling down from the bleachers into the pavilion of striped canvas. There, other ladies prepared the tea service.

“Mighty polite game,” Johnson remarked. “We oughta play nasty once in a while. You hear about them clubs in the East, they’ve been goin’ twenty years and better—some with a lot of hired players who know plenty of dirty tricks. We ought to be ready for that kind of stuff.”

“Oh, I say, H.B., you’re not really suggesting we lower ourselves to that level and practice fouling?” The speaker was Portfield, who was a young grower with a starchy disposition but great riding skill. “We’re gentlemen. We play polo for sport.”

“What if we meet a club that doesn’t?” Mack asked. “Hellburner’s right—we’re novices when it comes to rough tactics.”

“We’ll never be in that sort of game,” Jeremy Fripp said.

“And if we are, we’re ready,” Clive said. “Grit will always win out, old boy.”

Mack doubted it, but he didn’t argue. He’d heard tales of vicious rivalries on the field, deliberate fouls intended to maim a horse or rider. There were stories of fatalities too. From the sidelines, polo appeared to be a game of stamina and speed, but little danger. Playing it, Mack found it exciting, but also dangerous, full of stunning physical shocks as players deliberately ran their horses into each other to control or steal the ball. So far there’d been no mishaps at the Riverside club, but that didn’t preclude them.

No reason to worry about it this afternoon, he supposed. The reds had won and it was time for socializing. He saw Carla escorting Jim Corbett into the pavilion and he noticed that she held tightly to his arm—so tightly that Corbett couldn’t help but feel her bosom.

Frowning, he dismounted and patted Jubilee affectionately. She was beautiful, fleet, and brave. He’d rub her down after he enjoyed a cup of tea.

Some of the gentlemen were still explaining the game or its history to their female companions, most of whom fluttered their eyelashes and pleaded bewilderment. Nellie would never playact so inanely, Mack thought, then reproved himself for thinking of her again.

“…goes back all the way to the Persians, m’dear. They played it to train their fastest cavalry. Why, they say even old Ghengis Khan’s Mongols played it—using the severed heads of prisoners for balls. Har-har.”

Mack unwrapped his mallet strap and walked into the pavilion ahead of Johnson and Portfield. They were discussing the club’s new grounds at Van Buren and Victoria avenues. There the club had temporarily leased two fine large lots, but they were having trouble financing a clubhouse and bleachers. Members argued about whether to raise money by charging higher dues or by expanding membership, which some of the club snobs like Portfield resisted.

Carla’s blue eyes sparkled as she brought Corbett his tea. She looked fresh and crisp in a skirt and blouse of white lawn. The blouse had a stiff high collar and a jabot embroidered with tiny orange blossoms. She’d abandoned her straw hat, her pleated summer cape, elbow-length gloves, and silk umbrella, all of them white too. White became her, flattering her sun-browned skin.

Mack worked his way toward his wife and his guest, pausing to smile and acknowledge compliments on the victory. Clive reached Carla and Corbett first. “Mr. Corbett, it is indeed an honor to have the world’s heavyweight champion witness one of our practice matches.”

Corbett looked uncomfortable with the fragile teacup. “I’m pleased that my friend Mack Chance invited me. But it’s
former
champion, remember.”

“Congratulations, darling,” Carla said to Mack. It was her brittle good cheer intended for others, not him.

“Thanks.” Mack squeezed Corbett’s sleeve to buck him up. It had been a sad and difficult weekend thus far. Corbett wasn’t the ebullient young man Mack remembered. He was depressed, withdrawn. Mack kept trying to find ways to get him to talk. “Tell us honestly, Jim. What did you think of what you saw?”

“I thought it was fine. You should have a match with a Bay Area team. There’s an excellent one at the Burlingame Country Club.”

“Is the club part of that new real estate development in the South Bay?” Carla asked.

“Yes, Burlingame Park. Mighty expensive place. Expensive and exclusive. The members brag that their polo field is better than the one in Newport. The team carries two or three paid players.”

“Surely none as good as our original Texas cowhand,” someone said, slapping Johnson’s back.

“Jim, it’s infernally hot in here,” Carla said. “Might we stroll while you tell me more about Burlingame?” She lifted the teacup from his hand, then curled her arm through his again.

Corbett wasn’t sophisticated, but he sensed the deep currents here, especially when he saw his host’s wife watching her husband with a smile so sweetly generous it approached a smirk. He stammered his answer.

“I think—maybe—I’d better see about a train. Don’t want to leave all the packing to Vera—”

“Oh, I’m disappointed. Can’t you spare me a few minutes? Of course you can. My father’s mentioned Burlingame, and a gentleman I know, Mr. Fairbanks, belongs to the club. I must ear everything…”

She swept Gentleman Jim out of the pavilion on her arm, teasing his cheek with her fingertips while she whispered something. The champion blushed.

Bunthorne’s wife, Mavis, a notorious gossip, rattled her cup on her saucer to attract the attention of the ladies around her. Mack overheard her say, “To whom is she married, my dears? Mack or Mr. Corbett? A stranger might wonder.”

“What a performance,” he said, livid. “You practically threw yourself at him.”

“I did not. You’re boorish to say I did.”

He’d drawn her away from the pavilion, down past the bleachers. The other players and spectators were moving to their buggies and coaches as swift gray clouds darkened the sun.

“I don’t care—I don’t like you flirting that way. Everyone saw it. At least they did once Mavis announced it in her megaphone voice. Jim was embarrassed.”

“He didn’t say so.”

“He’s too polite.” Corbett had left ten minutes earlier, driven to the Santa Fe depot by Johnson.

“You’ve been fretting about your friend’s state of mind all weekend,” Carla said. “I was only trying to cheer him up.”

“It looked like a lot more than that. Jim’s a married man. You don’t throw yourself at a married man. You were all over him, whispering and touching him—”

She laughed. Loose fluffy strands of her hair fluttered in the gusty wind. “You’re such a dreadful prude sometimes. I didn’t think you’d notice. You hardly notice me any other time.”

“Is that why you did it? To get back at me for some imaginary slight?”

“My. Such wounded innocence.”

“For God’s sake, Carla, stop this stupid game.”

“Who’s playing a game? You’re jealous. Jealous and nasty.”

Mack seized her wrist. “Carla—”

“Go to hell,” she said, tearing free and dashing past him along the chalked sideline. “Clive,” she called. “Clive dear, wait—I must speak to you.”

At half past ten that evening, Mack left his office. Villa Mediterranean was hushed, the electricity off for the night, the gas mantles trimmed low. At the polo field, while he rubbed down Jubilee and tended to his other ponies, Carla had persuaded Clive Henley to drive her home. She’d been absent for supper. Sleeping, her maid said.

Mack walked along the dim upstairs hall to the double doors of their suite. He took his hand from the pocket of his purple silk dressing gown and turned the knob.

The door wouldn’t open.

He tapped softly. “Carla?”

Silence.

He knocked again, louder. “Will you please unlock this? I was tired after the game. I lost my temper. I know it was just harmless flirtation. I want to apologize.”

Dresses, shoes, undergarments strewed the bed and the carpet. Trunks and portmanteaus, empty or half-packed, stood about the room. Carla sat on the bed watching the bolted door. Her hair hung in golden tangles, her bed gown of silk and lace pulled apart to show the heaviness of her thighs. With an unsteady hand she spilled more bourbon into her glass.

A little late, aren’t you? You’re always so damned wrapped up in yourself. In your polo ponies, your oil, your orange trees—every goddamned thing that touches your life but me. How can I get you to notice?

“A harmless flirtation, did you say?” She swallowed bourbon. Some of it ran down her chin, between her breasts. “Don’t be too sure, sweetheart.”

Her voice came through hoarse and thick. He felt sick; she was drinking again. He heard the bottle clink. “Don’t be too damn sure,” she repeated.

He grabbed the door handle and rattled it. “Carla, this is childish.”

For an answer he got another extended silence. It produced a rush of heat in his face. “I said open the door, damn it.” He didn’t knock this time; he pounded.

Huge silent tears washed the blacking off her eyelashes and it trickled down her face.
You bastard. Why can’t you love me? Am I so worthless? Is she so much better?

He pounded again. “You want me to kick it down?” Crying, she lunged up and flung the glass at the door. It burst so explosively that a tiny splinter flew all the way back to her cheek. She gasped and pressed her skin. A perfect jewel of blood formed between two fingers as the last pieces of glass tinkled on the floor and bourbon ran down the carved wood door.

At the sound of the glass breaking, he jumped back. Then he slammed his palms against the doors.
“Carla.”

Nothing.

He pressed his ear to the wood and heard what might have been a mutter or a muted sob. That and the broken glass defeated him, and putting his hands back in the pockets of his dressing gown, he walked away down the dark hall.

In his office, he lit the gas in the reading nook, a square alcove lined with ceiling-high bookshelves. It was his burrow, his lair, his retreat and place of inspiration.

Surrounding the large, deep chair were books of every kind, periodicals, all of the Los Angeles papers for the past four days, and copies of the
San Francisco Examiner
delivered by post twice a week.

In one corner he’d collected articles about steam yachts, descriptions of some of the greatest pleasure vessels in America. William Vanderbilt’s
Alva.
Morgan’s
Corsair II. Namouna
, the 227-foot beauty built and sailed by Gordon Bennett, the newspaper publisher. He had a whole file of engravings of
Namouna’s
period furniture, fireplaces, and elegant carvings and ornamentation; she was a mansion afloat. The descriptions and pictures were slowly shaping his own dream yacht. He’d made sketches and voluminous notes.