Second Generation (15 page)

"Did she say what she wanted to do?"

"Only that she won't go back to college. She said something about going abroad for a few years, but who knows? She's been through a profound emotional experience, and it's going to take her time to get her balance, back. By the way, Jean called me from Boston. First time I've spoken to her in years. She'll be back in San Francisco on Wednesday. I think you ought to stay over and talk to her."

"Why?"

"Because your daughter's a part of both of you. And what about Tom? He's coming back with her. Don't you want to see him?"

"I'm not sure that I do."

Goldberg shook his head. "All right. We won't talk about that. We'll talk about you and May Ling and Joe."

They talked for almost an hour. For Dan, it was a process of reliving a life he had literally wiped out of existence. Sam Goldberg had drawn up the papers when he bought his first ship, the
Oregon Queen,
and then Goldberg had walked with him every step of the way through twenty incredible years, the building of an empire and the destruction of an empire—through the divorce proceedings that put an end to that section of Dan's life. It was a long time since they had seen each other, and there was a great deal to put together. When Dan finally went into his notion of starting a small boatbuilding business in San Pedro or Wilmington, Goldberg simply spread his hands and said,

"No problem. I'll give you the money."

Dan shook his head. "That won't work. You're in a position where you have to say that. I don't want your money."

"Then whose money? I'm sixty-six years old, overweight, a rotten heart—as my doctor so cheerfully informs me every time I see him—no wife, no children, and rich. Principally as the result of having you and Mark as clients for twenty years. Do you know what you paid me over that time?"

"I never thought much about it," Dan said.

"Did you ever collect a nickel of money you put out— as personal loans?"

"Not that I can remember. But what the hell difference does that make?"

"Look, Danny, either you go to a bank and mortgage your soul, or what is worse, May Ling's house, or you find investors. All right. I'm an investor. I'll put up twenty thousand, and we'll be partners in the deal."

"You're crazy."

"Like a fox, Danny. You're no businessman, but you're something else. There's no word that fits it, and the time for it is over, anyway—except maybe for a few men like you. God damn, you opened Hawaii and made it a competitor of Florida. You and Mark established the first great department store on this coast. You opened the first commercial airline in California, and starting with nothing, you built one of the biggest steamship lines in the country. Now you spend your days fishing for mackerel. Why, I don't know. What in the name of God are you afraid of?"

"Myself."

"That's great. That's really beautiful. You sound like one of those psychoanalysts that this city is being plagued with."

"Nevertheless, it's true."

"True or not, I don't buy it. Now look, I'm a lot more hardheaded than you are. I'm offering you a partnership. You do the work, and we split the profits. There's only one condition."

"I'm listening."

"You stay away from the books. You create it. You manage it. Build your boats, ships—any damn thing you want to build. But leave the financial end of it to Feng Wo."

"My father-in-law? You're out of your mind."

"Why? For years, he was the best damn comptroller you ever had."

"No, no, Sam, it wouldn't work. He's an old man. He translates from the Chinese and he grows roses. I can't involve him in this."

"How old is he?"

"Almost sixty."

"Then you damn well can ask him. I swear, I just don't understand you, not one bit."

Dan sighed. "All right, Sam. If I ever understand myself, I'll lay it all out for you."

"Are we in business?"

"Let me think about it."

At dinner that night at Sam Goldberg's house on Green Street, a thoughtful, subdued Barbara asked her father quietly, "What do you think I am, daddy? Am I a fraud? Is that all I am—a fraud?"

Goldberg watched both of them with interest, this huge, dark-eyed man and the slender, bright-eyed young woman, with her clear skin and honey-colored hair, who by the wonders of genetics was his daughter. The combination of their alikeness and their unalikeness fascinated him. Both were incurable romantics; both lived their lives with zest and endless curiosity, and both of them were filled with doubts and guilts and quixotic passions. Like Dan, Goldberg had been born in California, a place he was fervently dedicated to and that he often felt was the only place on earth where a Jew was not a Jew but simply another immigrant in a world of immigrants. And these two, Dan Lavette and his daughter, were unique products of California.

The three of them sat at a round, club-legged Victorian table in a fussy little Victorian dining room, untouched and unchanged since his wife had died. Dan had agreed to remain with him overnight, and Barbara had returned from the funeral late that afternoon, still in the mood of what she had experienced.

Dan took a while before he answered. "Well," he said at last, "we all are, you know. Frauds. I don't suppose we want it to be that way, but who the devil are we? If there's no way to find out, you invent your own answer." He looked at Goldberg, who shrugged.

"I'm an aging, overweight lawyer, Danny."

"I'm very rich," Barbara said suddenly. "I mean, someday I will be."

"I suppose so," her father agreed.

"How rich?"

"Don't you know?"

"Not really. I' ve never thought much about it."

"Well, it depends on a lot of things. According to the terms of your grandfather's will, you and Tom were left three hundred and eighty-two thousand shares in the Seldon Bank, to be divided equally between you in nineteen forty. That will give you a hundred and ninety-one thousand shares. The stock is privately held, so there is no market price. What would you guess, Sam?"

"Hard to say. Twenty-five, thirty dollars a share. It's hard to say."

"About five million dollars. Of course, what the price will be six years from now, no one can say."

"Most likely higher."

"Then I am very rich," Barbara said.

"Comfortably so," Goldberg agreed.

"Do I have to accept it?"

"What?"

"The money, daddy."

Dan laughed. "Well, I'll be damned!" He "turned to Goldberg. "There's one for you, Sam."

"Right now, Barbara," Sam Goldberg said, "you have no rights in the matter. For one thing, you're still a minor. The stock is held in trust for you. Your mother's the trustee, and she has the right to dispose of the income as she sees fit. In nineteen forty, according to the terms of the will, as I understand it, you accept the bequest. What you do with the stock after that is up to you."

"Then like it or not, I am very rich and I remain so."

"Do you find it uncomfortable?" Dan asked her.

"Yes, I do."

"Poverty can be more uncomfortable," Goldberg assured her.

"I think I know that. But I can earn my own living. No one gave anything to daddy."

"That's not really to the point," Dan said. "You've got six years to think about it. Meanwhile, I think you should go back to school."

Barbara didn't have to think about that. "No, I won't go back. That's over."

"Don't close all the doors," Goldberg said.

"I'm trying to open some."

"What will you do?" Dan asked.

"I don't know. I don't know what mother will say. I can't stay here with Mr. Goldberg. I have to think about it."

"Come back to Los Angeles with me," Dan said slowly. "We'll both sit down with Jean tomorrow or the next day. I'll talk to her. Then come back with me—if you want to."

"I think—I'd like that," Barbara said.

But it was not until three days later that Jean returned to San Francisco and Dan was able to reach her. It was the first time in almost five years that he had spoken to her, and when he heard her voice the space of time became meaningless. He found himself thinking, Only yesterday. Everything is like that, only yesterday.

"This is Dan," he said, almost casually. "I'm in San Francisco, and Barbara is with me."

"Yes, Dan. I thought you might call."

"Could we sit down together, you, myself, Barbara, and Tom, and hash some things out?"

"I'd like to talk to you alone," she countered.

"No, that wouldn't be a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because I want to talk about Barbara, and I want her there when we do."

"And if you will forgive me, I don't think that's the best idea in the world. Let's not pick up where we left off, Dan. I think we're both older and wiser."

"All right. Where shall I meet you?"

"Tomorrow? Lunch at the Fairmont?"

"At twelve-thirty," Dan agreed.

Dan was already at the table when Jean walked into the dining room, and he rose and stared at her unbashedly. She wore a Chanel suit of pale pink wool over a rose silk blouse, a shell pink felt cloche, and around her neck a double strand of pearls. His were not the only eyes that turned toward her; he could remember only too well this shift toward her that made her the center of attraction in any room she entered. It was not simply that she was a beautiful woman; she carried her beauty without self-consciousness, with an easy, erect certainty; and now, as always, Dan could not look at her without desire, without feeling that familiar longing for something that once was his yet never his.

She saw him, walked to his table, and gave him her hand, looking at him, measuring him,' a slight smile and the slightest twinkle in her fine blue eyes. "Danny," she said, "you look splendid, ten years younger, thirty pounds lighter, healthy, happy—oh, I envy you." She always made the rules, specified the ground for any conversation.

"Shall I return the compliment?" he asked, moving the chair for her to be seated.

"Please."

"I have never seen you look more beautiful."

"Thank you." Her eyes took in his brown tweed suit, the white shirt and the cheap tie, without appearing to do so; but he was sensitive to her every gesture, and he said pointedly,

"The suit is eighteen dollars, Jean. I'm hard to fit, but then, I had no notion that we'd be lunching at the Fairmont."

"The suit is fine," she said with a touch of annoyance, "and I also happen to know that you don't give a damn what it cost. You never did. What have you been doing, Danny? You look as if you've been taking a miraculous health cure at some European spa, but that's hardly likely." She pulled off her white kid gloves, reached across the table, and took his hand in both of hers, smiling as she ran her fingers over his palm. "No, hardly a European

spa. I do love your hands, always have. I do not like soft

hands on a man."

"I'm a fisherman, Jean. I work for Pete Lomas, down in San Pedro. You remember Pete Lomas. He was fleet captain on my crabbing boats. I think you met him that first day on the wharf—back in nineteen ten. I average thirty dollars a week."

"Stop it, Danny," she said, laughing. "It's bad taste to be so damned ostentatious about your poverty."

"Then I'm right back in form."

"No, you're not, and it's much too late to play the hard-boiled kid from the Tenderloin. Anyway, you look splendid, very healthy, very content with yourself, and I have no intention of feeling sorry for you."

"Good. We're on even ground. I have no intention of feeling sorry for you."

"I'm not sure I like that," she said slowly.

He had not intended to mention it, to speak of it at all, and then it came out. "Jesus Christ, Jean, why the hell did you marry him?"

Her face tightened. "Shall I ask why you married your Chinese mistress?"

"That wasn't called for," he said unhappily. "It's the same damn thing, Jean. Why does it always happen as soon as we start to talk? Why does it always go to pieces? When I saw you come into the room over there, I looked at you and I said to myself, Danny boy, you are wrong about most things, but not about women. This is one hell of a woman. Do you know why I married May Ling, why I love her? Because from the first moment I saw her, she made me feel that I was a man, that I was human, that I was something of value and not misplaced dirt from the Embarcadero."

For a long moment, Jean stared at him, then she shook her head. "I'm sorry, Danny, very sorry. It's always too late, isn't it. I want a drink. Will you order a martini for me? And then we'll talk about Barbara and Tom."

He ordered the drinks. They sat in silence for a while, Jean watching him thoughtfully.