The Gilded Age, a Time Travel (36 page)

8

A
Miraculous Cure at Dr. Mortimer’s Clinic

“To
Death,” Daniel toasts Mr. Schultz, “in marvelous Californ’.”

“
Mira
muerta, no seas inhumana, no vuelvas manana dejame vivir,
” croons the
singer through his grinning papier-mache skull mask. Ricardo, the one-eyed
guitarist, dreamily strums along.

“To
el Dia de los Muertos,” Schultz says, raising his shot glass. “
Sehr gut,
nicht wahr?
Speaking of
muertos
, Danny, got myself in a bit of a
fix.”

“A
matter of life or death?”

“You
might say.”

Daniel
pours two more shots from a dust-furred bottle of mescal, smiling at the
drowned worm at the bottom. Authentic, all right, this splendid rotgut with the
disconcerting effect of making everything appear as ominous and strange as a
nightmare. A more decadent drink than the Green Fairy, if such a thing is
possible. And, like absinthe, the taste is vile.

He
and Schultz lounge at a table in Luna’s, finishing their fifty-cent Suppers
Mexican. Frank Norris’s recommendation amply deserved. The restaurant is
quaint, with bright peasant pottery, dried gourds, silver trinkets, and red-and-white
checked tablecloths. The singer’s skull mask is quite a fright, though Daniel’s
dyspepsia is mostly caused by the Supper Mexican. Remains of their scorching
hot dinner lie scattered in the colorful crockery—spicy pork sausages,
tortillas, chiles rellenos, frijoles fritas, salsa, sweet tamales. Daniel could
never have dined on such a fine feast in Saint Louis. Or in Paris or London.
Only in marvelous Californ’.

Schultz
sighs and knocks the shot back, licking salt off the rim of his glass. “I’ve
been given the boot.”

“Things
crummy in Far East shipping?”

“Things
are bang-up in Far East shipping, just not so bang-up for me.” Schultz pours
himself another shot. Just a small one.

Daniel’s
tongue has become quite numb. “Why so, old man? You seem to have been doing
well enough. Plum position and all.”

“Can’t
control the drink, and that’s the truth of it. God knows I’ve tried. You and I,
we start in on the brandy at breakfast.”

“Don’t
I know it, sir,” Daniel says. “Not to mention Miss Malone and her accursed
champagne.”

“She’s
forever pouring me another and adding it to my bill.”

“Brushes
her teeth with the bubbly.”

“At
any rate,” Schultz says gloomily, “showed up corned at the office one time too
many. Not that the old man doesn’t do it himself. He just manages to hold his
liquor better, is all.”

“Plus
he’s the old man.”

“Guess
we’ve all got an old man somewhere.”

“By
blood or bad luck.”

They
laugh unhappily.

“Lousy
bit, Schultz.”

“At
any rate.” Schultz’s mustache stiffens. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any paying
work for hire, do you, Danny? Help out a pal? I’m not asking for a handout, you
know. I’m no beggar.”

“Wish
I did.”

“You
just sold that property of your
vater,
though, didn’t you?”

“It
was only a patch of worthless weeds way out on Geary Street. Nothing much going
on out there in the Western Addition, and I daresay that will be the fate of it
for some time. The other lot has got no takers, and the rest of the deadbeats
are giving me grief. That old fool Ekberg on Stockton Street has stalled me for
weeks. As for Mr. Harvey in Sausalito, the good gentleman sent thugs as his
answer to my request for payment. They followed me, Schultz, while I was taking
my stroll along the Cocktail Route and worried me up quite a bit.”

Daniel
would rather not confess that his mistress, costumed in coolie’s clothes, gave Harvey’s
thugs a run for their money while the thugs gave
him
a goose egg on the
noggin, sore kidneys, and a bad scare. Not to mention he’s spotted suspicious
characters skulking around the boardinghouse. He’s taken to sneaking in and out
of the tradesmen’s door rather than promenading out the front. It’s an unhappy
way to live. He’s been screwing up his courage for weeks to go and confront
that damnable Harvey himself.

“Perhaps
you need a manager.”

“A
bodyguard is more like it.”

“Can’t
help you there. No good with a pistol or fisticuffs, I fear.” An ugly look of
envy curdles Schultz’s large, puglike features. “Still, you’ve got some scratch
anyway. Me, I haven’t got one thin dime. And I still can’t quit the drink.” He
knocks back the shot, toys with the bottle. “I’m weary to my bones of it. What
I need is a cure.”

A
cure.

They
both contemplate that possibility as the singer launches into another
melancholy ballad, “
Esta alegre calavera hoy invita a los mortales para ir a
visitar las regions infernales.
”

Daniel
knows no Spanish, but the meaning leaps right out at him--
we invite you
mortals to visit hell.
Mescal, by God—now he is comprehending Spanish. He
doesn’t know Schultz quite well enough to confide his darkest secrets, but
Daniel is no fool. He knows exactly what Schultz is talking about. A cure. He
knows he behaves like an ass when he’s stinking. Look at how he treats his
mistress—his ugly words, his uglier actions. Shoving her about. Having his way
with her whenever they’re alone without asking her if she wants it. He hasn’t
struck her—not yet—but he cannot promise himself that will never happen. Not
when he’s stinking.

He’s
not sure where his cruelty comes from. Even less sure why she allows him to get
away with it when she has amply demonstrated she’s no whore or dimwit. Indeed,
he would venture to say—only to himself, of course—that Zhu possesses more
intelligence than ten gentlemen strolling along the Cocktail Route. Oh, she has
her peculiarities. She claims she’s from the far future like a creature out of
Mr. Wells’s novel, which only makes him angrier with her when he’s stinking.
Then she goes temperance on him.
Drinking’s going to kill you
, she says,
tears lingering on her lashes.
Lunatic,
he shouts at her.
Off to the
loony bin with you.

He
awakens after every binge feeling soiled, stupid, and contrite.

He’s
been binging every day. Brandy with breakfast, sir, to start.

But
those are his scruples. What about his physical constitution? His vibrant health,
which he’s always taken for granted, is no longer so vibrant. He suffers
frequent nosebleeds and a sore throat. Paunch has started thickening his
middle, and his gut is frequently on the blink. His hands, of all things,
tremble. And the headaches. His head aches something fierce when he awakens.
Relief only comes when he’s got his morning brandy under his belt.

But it
isn’t only his scruples and his physical constitution. He is plagued by odd
feelings. Melancholy and guilt. Strange memories of his father and mother
intrude on his peace of mind. And so on and et cetera till he cannot abide this
anymore. Weary to his bones, indeed. There must be something he can do.

“Know
of a cure, then?” Daniel says cautiously.

“Well,
sir, I heard a fellow talking about it at the Bank Exchange. Dr. Mortimer’s
Miraculous Cure for dipsomania. Guaranteed, money back and all. There’s the
trick for me—money. The cure costs an arm and a leg, but is well worth it. Or
so the fellow said.”

Daniel
tries to overlook the unfortunate fact that this hot tip was imparted in one of
the busiest bars along the Cocktail Route. “This Dr. Mortimer, he’s in San
Francisco?” He apportions the last finger in the bottle between himself and the
worm. “To the handmaiden of Death,” he toasts the worm.

“
Ja
,
Dr. Mortimer’s got his clinic in the Monkey Block,” says Schultz, succumbing after
a short struggle to the last drops of mescal. He seizes the bottle and empties
the remnants, worm and all, into his mouth. Suddenly he looks green and dashes
out of Luna’s to the gutter where he noisily airs his paunch. The scowling
maitre d’ and a scullery maid dash outside with buckets of hot salt water and
vigorously splash the pavement clean. Mr. Schultz’s antics are a terrible
reflection on their fine establishment.

Daniel
picks up the tab—a dollar for two splendid Suppers Mexican. A dollar fifty for
the terrific rotgut. A penny each for the maitre d’, the waitress, the singer,
and the guitarist. He reluctantly counts out coins. He’s not exactly flush,
himself. He strides out past Schultz on his hands and knees, heaving. What
won’t a drunk do, Daniel wonders, to stiff his pal for the bill?

*  
*   *

Daniel
hurries down Columbus to where the avenue intersects Montgomery Street and
veers south into the financial district. Two roughnecks in fishermen’s togs,
caps pulled low over their coarse faces, fall in step behind him. He sprints
like a schoolboy for half a block till he reaches his destination and ducks
inside the four-story monstrosity—the Montgomery Block. Affectionately known as
the Monkey Block.

He
stands hidden just inside the door, watching, as the roughnecks stride by,
disappointment plain on their faces, sniffing about like bloodhounds. Hah. From
Mr. Harvey again? This has gone too far. He fingers his Remington pistol.
Perhaps he should employ Schultz after all, just for show. Then he reconsiders.
Perhaps he should have his mistress dress as a coolie and accompany him to
Harvey’s as his manservant. He hates to admit it, but the little lady can fight
with her bare hands.

He
takes a deep breath. The dose of fear has cleared his head like a whiff of
smelling salts. He feels dizzy, though, and slightly ill. By God, he could use
a drink. He looks around the cavernous lobby, inhales the scent of mold. He’s
heard plenty of tales about the place, sipping Pisco Punch at the Bank Exchange
or dining on chicken Portola at Coppa’s Restaurant, both establishments right
across from him on the other side of the lobby. Halleck’s Folly--that’s what they
called it when the hulk was built--was once the largest commercial building on
the West Coast and a prestige address, though no one knew if the hundred
offices would ever be fully leased. Up and down went the fortunes of the Monkey
Block as commerce and fashion went their fickle ways. It’s quite cheering, he
thinks, the contemplation of history. To know that other men of means, wit, and
dynamism lost their fortunes to the whim of chance makes Daniel feel like less
of a dunce. Perhaps bankruptcy isn’t such a sin, after all.

The
law firms, stockbrokers, and mining companies that once filled the spacious
suites have all departed for the fancy new skyscrapers on Market Street. Now
the Monkey Block has become a hotbed of bohemians. In a massive effort of will,
Daniel declines a visit to the Bank Exchange for a quick one and climbs the
white marble stairs. His footsteps echo off high ceilings, and sunlight
cascades through enormous windows at the end of each hall. Painters, musicians,
and writers appreciate the spaciousness and light of these old rooms. Good
history here, too. The great Robert Louis Stevenson visited the place in 1888
before setting off for the South Seas.

He
peers in an open door. A man poses a woman draped in white muslin before
another sun-drenched window. Daniel gawks. Is she in her birthday suit? The artist’s
model laughs at his startled expression. “Come on in, sir,” calls the painter.
“Do you collect art?”

“I
do, but it will have to wait for another time.”

He
climbs the stairs again and walks past billboards depicting palms, staring
eyes, mystic triangles, astrological signs. Ah, this must be the hall of
fortune-tellers. Then calligraphy on gilt and red signs, drawings depicting the
weird little legs of the ginseng root. He glances in the door and spies a
Chinese herbalist bending over huge straw baskets of roots and barks and sticks
and God knows what. A wicker tray offers lizards, serpents, and other
unidentifiable reptiles split open and dried like beef jerky. Down the hall, a
billboard of a man’s body, his internal organs and nerves and blood vessels on
display and lines and arrows drawn all over him purporting to show the currents
of the body’s energy. Myriad needles are poised at certain junctures.
Acupuncture. Daniel believes that’s what they call this strange science. Brr,
needles. Not for him.

Then
there are tailors with their bolts of cloth and dead-faced mannequins, and
dealers in goods too old to be new and too new to be antiques. He finds another
open door yielding to a spectacular room. The floor on the next story has been
torn out so that the ceiling is a full two stories high—thirty or forty feet! A
cast-iron staircase winds up to that ceiling, and the room is entirely lined,
floor to ceiling, with books. Books, books, and more books—some crumbling and
dirty-looking, quite a few more finely bound in leather with gold and silver
leaf glinting on their spines. Daniel has never seen so many books.

“What
is this place?” he whispers to a bespectacled clerk who passes by with an
armful of books.

“Why,
this is Mayor Sutro’s private library,” the clerk whispers back. “He’ll have a
million books before long.” He shoos Daniel out and shuts the door.