The Immigrants (10 page)

“You’d do that for me?” Dan asked softly.

“For us,” Sarah said.

“No. It’s a gift. You’re out of your mind. This store is your life.”

“I hate this store,” Sarah said.

“You put up your store and building—what do I put up?”

“You.”

“What do you mean, me?”

t H e I m m I g r a n t s

7 3

“I can’t do it,” Mark said. “It scares the hell out of me, the thought of running a ship. I can sell the cargo space, I think, but I can’t operate a ship. I’m not built that way.”

“What makes you think I can?”

“I know you can. I watched you operate your fishing boats.”

“That’s different.”

“Not so different. And Danny, there’s a fortune in it. You know that, and I know it.”

“No. No, I can’t take it from you. I never took gifts from anyone in my life. I can’t.”

“All right,” Mark said, after a long moment. “Throw your boats into the deal. We’ll become partners right down the line.”

“The boats are mortgaged. You know that.”

“There’s still an equity. Just think about it, Danny. You got something, we got something. We put it to gether.”

Minutes passed. Dan sat in silence, staring at the ta ble. Sarah finished peeling the potatoes and put them on the stove to boil. “You want a beer, Danny, or cof fee?”

“Just coffee.”

“Black?”

He nodded, and, almost woefully, he asked, “Why are you doing this for me? I don’t understand.”

“Maybe we love you,” Sarah said, smiling and put ting down the coffee in front of him. “You want a piece of cake, Danny?”

He shook his head.

“Well?” Mark asked him.

“I don’t know. There’s maybe ten thousand dollars of equity in the fishing boats. That gives you eighty per cent of the deal.”

“Fifty-fifty or nothing.”

“I don’t know how to work out something like this. We’d need lawyers.”

“Tony knows how, and he’s got lawyers.”

7 4

H o w a r d F a s t

“My shack’s worth five thousand. That has to be thrown into the pot.”

“Then it’s a deal?” Mark asked.

“It’s a deal,” Dan said. They shook hands.

“Get a bottle of wine,” Mark cried. “We got to drink to this.”

Sarah opened a bottle of wine and filled three glasses. Raising his glass, Mark said, “My dear wife, my dear friend, Danny, this is a historic occasion. I offer this toast to Lavette and Levy, shipowners!”

“No,” Dan said. “Levy and Lavette. That sounds better. Jesus God, Mark, I’m twenty-one years old, and I’m scared.”

“So am I. Levy and Lavette if you want it that way. Bottoms up!”

At the age of thirty-six, Anthony Cassala had shed his youth.

He would still awaken at night, covered with sweat, caught in the nightmare of being a penniless, hungry, ragged urchin in the slums of Naples. The fact that he had lived through the transition that had turned him into a banker did little to dispel the unreality of the situation. He had experienced not a single day of schooling; he had taught himself to read and write, first in Italian and then in English.

He had learned arithme tic under the tutelage of his son, Stephan, who was now fifteen, and still he pored avidly over Stephan’s books to comprehend the mysteries of percentages and frac tions. He arose each morning at six o’clock, and before breakfast he read the
Chronicle
from cover to cover, as well as the
Wall Street Journal
, four days late, but still to be studied and treasured, and all of this before he touched food. He would then shave, shine his own black shoes, put on his carefully pressed striped pants and a black frock coat, and then on foot and by cable car go to his office at the Bank of Sonoma on Montgomery Street.

He always paused outside of the bank to read the gold-leaf letters

t H e I m m I g r a n t s

7 5

on the plate-glass window, just as he paused at the door to his office, where small black let ters, outlined in gold, bore the legend: Anthony Cassala, President. For all of his wit and intelligence, he was essentially a simple man. When someone flattered him for hard work and its rewards, he shook his head uneasily. He knew what hard work was, recalling all the years he had worked as a laborer and a mason; this was luck and the grace of God. He was a deeply religious man, and at confession he always dwelt on his guilt.

Who was he to deserve this? What had he done to make him any different from any other Italian laborer?

Now, for a whole hour, he had been sitting behind his desk questioning Dan Lavette and Mark Levy. “It is not the money,” he said again and again. “The money is nothing. If I had to empty my pockets, I would find the money for Danny, and such a loan you ask, it’s well secured. But you are boys.”

“I’m thirty,” Mark said. “That’s not a boy, no, sir.”

“Danny’s a boy.”

“To you, maybe,” Dan said. “Tony, we know what we’re doing.”

“You need organization, office, books, insurance. This Chinese you hire, Danny, he got a head on his shoulders?”

“Feng Wo’s smarter than I am. He can do anything.”

“That’s good, fine. You come back tomorrow, ten o’clock, I’ll have Sam Goldberg here. He’s my lawyer, from Goldberg and Benchly—honest man. He draws up the partnership, and you sign the papers.”

They shook hands then with great formality. Cassala brought out a bottle of brandy and glasses, poured the brandy, and said,
“Buona
salute, buona vita, buona fortuna e compassione.”

They drank, and then they shook hands again and left. Out on the street, Mark asked Dan what the toast meant. “Good health, good life, good fortune—and I think he said we should have compassion for each other.
Compassione
.” Dan said.

7 6

H o w a r d F a s t

“That’s peculiar.”

“Well, that’s Tony. But we got the money, Mark, and we’ll have the ship. How do you feel?”

“Good.”

“Not nervous?”

“A little nervous.”

“I tell you how I feel,” Dan said. “I feel like we got the whole world in our hands. God damn it, Mark, the whole fuckin’

world—right here!” Holding out his two hands and staring at them, and then bursting into laugh ter. “Levy and Lavette. How does that sound?”

“Good. Sounds good.”

“Marcus, old buddy,” Dan said, “you and me—I got a notion we were made for this partnership. You are sane and sober, I go off half cocked given the slightest chance. But we both of us got brains, and that’s what counts. A year ago I would have rushed out and gotten myself laid to celebrate. Now I’m in love. Maybe. I think I am.”

Mark grinned. “It’s a long haul, Danny.”

“We got all the time in the world. Let’s get drunk.”

“Sarah’ll peel my hide off.”

“Hell, it’ll grow back.”

They went to Maguire’s Bar and matched each other with rye shots and beer chasers. Mark was not a good drinker, and when they left the place, Dan’s arm kept him on his feet. Dan guided them down to the wharf. It was late afternoon, the boats in, the catch disposed of.

“Let’s sail,” Dan said. “Clear our heads and calm our souls.”

“No. Danny, you can’t handle those boats alone. Any way, you’re drunk.”

“You’re drunk, buddy boy. Don’t worry. That blue water’s my mama and papa. I was raised up on that bay. Shit, I could sail the
Oregon Queen
alone if I had to. I can sail any goddamn thing

t H e I m m I g r a n t s

7 7

that floats. Now you just set yourself in there and I’ll take care of things.”

Nodding his head trustingly, Mark climbed into the boat. Dan untied the ropes and kicked off from the dock. Sprawled out in the hold, Mark was vaguely aware of the strong odor of fish. Dan turned over the engine, and as it caught, he took the wheel and guided the boat out into the bay.

The water was soft, smooth, and glistening gold in the light of the setting sun, and above them the hills of the city glistened like jeweled tiaras. Except for an old lumber scow in the distance, the bay was empty, a slow, gentle tide running toward the Golden Gate. Already, the eastern slopes of Marin County had turned a somber black, and a thousand swooping gulls screeched fare well to the day.

Dan set the throttle low and strapped the wheel, and then he sprawled out alongside of Mark. They were moving out away from the city, holding it in clear view.

“Up there—right up there to the top of Nob Hill, that’s where we’re going, old buddy, because it’s our city, and they are going to know it. They sure as hell are.”

Since the first guest had arrived, Jean Seldon had not taken her eyes off the entrance to the room, waiting for him. Her mother watched her. Did her mother know? That would come later in the evening, when her mother would demand to know who had invited him.

“I did,” she would say.

“Why?”

“Because I wanted him here.”

“And you knew I did not want him here?”

7 8

H o w a r d F a s t

“But I did.”

Or perhaps not precisely in those terms. Her mother never screamed or lost her temper; her weapons were silence, cold fury, scorn; and all of these were weapons Jean understood and could use in kind. Her father would simply accept it. She had the feeling that he re garded Dan Lavette with amused respect, and if he dared challenge her, she would point out that if he could have Mayor McCarthy and Police Chief Martin as guests in his house, she could certainly invite Dan Lavette.

Yet she was nervous, sufficiently so for her mother to say to her, “Jean, what on earth is wrong with you? The Brockers said you ignored them. You’re not ill?”

“I’m just fine, Mother.”

Mary Seldon could not pursue it. There were fifty guests expected, in what was more or less a tribute to the new mayor, Patrick Henry McCar thy, who had been swept into office by the Union La bor Party, and here he was already to meet the kings and the pashas and the nabobs, his sworn enemies during the campaign and now the convivial recipients of his charming Irish brogue, the Brockers and the Whittiers and the Callans and all the others who ruled the city and so much of the state; and Mary Seldon was totally preoccupied with the business of being a hostess. As for Jean, she turned a deaf ear to the three or four young men who had been asked as her friends, in particular Alan Brocker, who had courted her for the past two years. When he complained that she had not given him two minutes of her attention, Jean, who never minced words, informed him that two minutes were sufficient to bore her to tears.

Her nervousness was due in part to the fact that she was by no means certain that Dan Lavette would ap pear. She had told him that it would be a formal affair and that he would be expected to wear a tuxedo. He had none. He had never worn one. But now, watching the door and listening to the chatter of her friend Marcy

t H e I m m I g r a n t s

7 9

Callan, she saw him come through the wide double doors, tuxedo and all, wearing his dinner jacket as if it had been molded to his enormous body, looking for her over the heads of the others.

“Who is he?” Marcy Callan asked her. “Oh, no, he’s not your fisherman?”

“He is. And if you go near him, I’ll claw your eyes out.” Then she went to him, quickly, avoiding the eyes of her mother, who had also seen him, and took his arm. “Oh, Danny, you were so brave to come.”

“You are goddamn right,” he whispered to her. “What in hell am I doing here?”

“Being handsome and charming and witty and bril liant—which is exactly what one would expect from the man who intends to marry Thomas Seldon’s one and only child.” She took his arm.

“Come, let me introduce you to the royalty.”

Looking at her, Dan would have allowed her to introduce him to the devil himself. She wore a gown of peach-colored crêpe de Chine, and her honey-colored hair was piled like a crown on her head. On her high heels, she was only a few inches shorter than he, and the two of them together became the target for every eye in the room. She felt the keen edge of her triumph; her mother and father could do nothing now but be as pleasant and engaging as host and hostess should. The whispers began, Jean’s fisherman, the Tenderloin braw ler—she’s been seeing him for ages, but who can blame her? Smiling serenely, she introduced him to James Brocker.

“This is Daniel Lavette, my friend.” She whis pered to Dan, “The other bank. He and Daddy have all the money in the world.”

Whittier shook hands with him coldly. “Bought your ship yet?”

“Just about.”

Joe Callan, a heavy mountain of a man, studied him thoughtfully.

“So you’re Seldon’s fisherman,” he said. Marcy, his daughter, clung to his arm.

8 0

H o w a r d F a s t

“I’m nobody’s fisherman, Mr. Callan,” Dan replied. “Not even yours.”

Jean ignored Marcy and steered Dan away. “You’ve just insulted the richest man in California. Do you know who he is?”

“The hell with him.”

“I adore you. And this is our new mayor. Mayor McCarthy, this is Dan Lavette.”

They shook hands. McCarthy’s blue eyes twinkled. “Ah, lad,” he said, “you got the prize of the evening.”

“I have.”

“And I hear you’re a plain man, like myself.” He leaned toward Dan. “’Tis a den of thieves that we’re in. Watch your step, laddie.”

“What did he say?” Jean wanted to know.

“That I’m in a den of thieves.”

“Delicious.” She faced her mother, who nodded coldly to Dan.

“Mr. Lavette.”

“Thank you for asking me to come here,” Dan said.

“Yes.” Mother and daughter exchanged looks, and Jean steered Dan away.

“What was that all about?”

“Nothing. Here’s Daddy. Be very nice.”

He shook hands with Seldon. “Glad to see you,” Seldon said.

“We’ll find time for a chat later.”

The introductions went on: heavy-jowled men who smelled of power and success, stout bejeweled women who smelled of fine French perfume. Names Dan had heard about, names that were in the newspapers; he nodded, smiled, took hands that were offered to him, and then breathed a sigh of relief when Jean drew him out of the crowd into the solarium. There, sheltered by the palms and ferns, Jean said, “You don’t like us very much, do you?”