Coyote (28 page)

I'd phoned earlier and booked paid appointments for Des and myself with professional archivists. That should automatically increase our search spread. The librarian at the information desk made a phone call then sent us out of the pueblo foyer through to a super-modern computer-filled room bustling with research staff.

Des and I met our librarians and paired off.

When I told my librarian that I was researching Hector Q. Kershaw he frowned, and then asked me to follow him. He led me up to the Kershaw Archives on the next floor.

I viewed it with disgust.

It was a high, wide room, richly panelled in oak. Two of the walls were lined with oak shelves filled with books and what looked like personal mementos preserved in glass cases. The third wall was a gallery hung with gold-framed photos and ink drawings. The Kershaw Archives was grand enough to tell everyone that it was the shrine to San Francisco's glorious hero.

But as I moved into the room I realised it was a little dusty and that everything was run down. Some of the books had broken spines, the glass cases around the mementos were chipped and the photo-gallery was faded.

The librarian recognised my reaction. He looked around apologetically. ‘I'm afraid no one's interested in Hector Kershaw these days …' He seemed embarrassed. ‘In fact, I was very surprised to have a client ready to pay for this kind of research any more …'

I frowned. ‘But Hector Kershaw is your field of expertise?'

The archivist blushed. ‘I'm sorry, but he's not really my field.' He saw my mounting antagonism and hurried to intervene. ‘Usually we'd send anyone interested in Hector Kershaw to speak with Professor Wauhope … his office was just over the plaza in South Hall.' He shrugged. ‘But, of course, that's now impossible.'

‘Professor Wauhope?' I said with despair. I'd watched the man die last week.

‘Do you want to cancel the session?' asked the archivist. ‘I may be able to help you anyway … What do you need to find out?'

Damn! But what other options did I really have?

‘Okay … I want an overview of the time Hector spent here, in San Francisco, up till when he disappeared. I want to know what he did, where he went …' I shot him a steely look. ‘But stick to the bare facts. Don't give me any of that heroics stuff.'

The archivist brought out a storage box full of primary sources — newspapers, letters, photos — and went through them with me.

It became very clear, very quickly, that Hector, in the few hours — and one and a half centuries —
since I'd last seen him, had been a very busy little psychopath indeed.

 

Hotel records showed that Hector Kershaw arrived in San Francisco in early September, 1867. He popped up a month later in the newspapers when he attended a reception to celebrate the coming out of Edwina Chapman, the only child of San Francisco's richest man. From the article, it was clear that Hector had been greeted with open arms by the hungry merchant world, who saw him as the walking embodiment of the Kershaw family bank vault.

I eyed the photo that went with the article in disbelief.

The photo showed Hector standing in the middle of an ornate ballroom, surrounded by men dressed in black evening wear and women with ugly hair wearing flouncy satin ball gowns …

But Hector was wearing Western clothes — jeans, a huge Stetson, an embossed leather vest and an obscenely ugly pair of snakeskin boots, which he was proudly displaying for the photographer.

The caption said ‘Hero of Dry Gulch captures San Francisco's attention'.

The hero of Dry Gulch?

I stared at the photo.

Hector wasn't slouching any more, like he had in Santa Fe. No longer a drooping daisy, this Hector had his leather vest-clad chest thrust out — like a cock ready to crow.

I curled my lip. So now he was a cowboy … His Western gear looked too new to be real. He must've just walked into the first store he could find and done a makeover. What a chameleon. I bet he'd even said ‘shucks' and ‘gol darn it'.

The next newspaper showed Hector had also captured Edwina the heiress' attention. She'd become Mrs Hector Q. Kershaw, Seymour's great-great-grandmother.

Their wedding photo showed she was a short blonde bosomy teenager who gazed at the camera with the excitement of a fisherman who's just caught a whale. Hector stood next to his teenage bride, still wearing that fake Western gear. From the calculating look to his eyes, I wondered who'd caught whom?

A month later, Hector appeared on the front page of the
San Francisco Star
, at the first public meeting of the Vigilance Committee, which he'd formed to try to clean up San Francisco's infamous underworld — the Barbary Coast. The headlines asked ‘Will Wild West law tame the Wild West Coast?'

I studied the photo of the new Vigilance Committee.

Hector posed in the middle of the front row, smugly virtuous to my jaundiced eyes, and still wearing his new cowboy costume. He had twin pearl-handled pistols strapped to his side and his stance was meant to be intimidating but dignified.

Instead he looked like his balls were too big for his britches.

Hector, backed by the committee, was quoted as declaring that San Francisco's politicians were too weak to tackle the city's real problem: the leaders of the underworld — the Corsairs. But that the Vigilance Committee had vowed to put an end to their unbridled power.

‘And this,' explained the librarian, ‘is when the core legend of Hector Kershaw began to form. When he became the saviour of San Francisco.'

‘Just give me the facts,' I insisted. But now I was hooked by the story.

Hector'd snivelled his way through Santa Fe … But now he was taunting a cold-blooded, organised crime syndicate, that'd ruthlessly killed enough people to fill half a dozen cemeteries and ruled one of the most violent cities in the world?

What the hell was going on here?

 

‘Outraged at Hector Kershaw's challenge to their authority,' explained the librarian, ‘the Corsairs launched into a bloody reign of terror aimed at shattering their opponents' will.'

‘Well, you kinda had to see that coming,' I muttered.

‘Even so … it was only after the Corsairs set fire to the city block right next to the original town hall that the mayor agreed to take the demands of the Vigilance Committee seriously. Then the mayor claimed he'd attempted to negotiate with the Corsairs but they'd completely denied their culpability for the fire. While the mayor vacillated, Hector Kershaw, in a startling act of bravery, took the Corsairs on single-handed. He showed they could be beaten.'

‘Hector did what?' I spat out. ‘Is that a fact?' That couldn't be true!

‘Yes, it is.' He nodded vigorously. ‘Hector went into the Barbary Coast — by himself — and publicly shamed the leader of the Corsairs.'

This just wasn't making any sense. ‘Okay, go on.'

The librarian cleared his throat. ‘Inspired by Hector's example, the Vigilance Committee made plans to confront the Corsairs. But, at the last minute, the mayor intervened, promising he'd find a more lawful solution. Despite Hector's dire warnings, the
committee agreed to compromise …' The librarian paused for full dramatic effect. ‘And that,' he said, enjoying the moment, ‘was when the Corsairs committed their final and worst atrocity …'

I eyed him with regret. I wasn't sure I wanted to know what happened next.

‘The Corsairs dynamited the old town hall and blew up the mayor and all the councilmen …'

‘Wow, that's heavy duty — even for the Corsairs.'

‘But it backfired on them,' said the librarian smugly. ‘Led by Hector, the citizens of San Francisco stormed the gang's headquarters. The Corsairs were dragged out and died … continuing to scream their innocence … in the gutter.'

I blinked. It was hard to picture Hector leading an angry mob …

Or was it?

‘Hector Kershaw then took over as mayor,' said the librarian.

I frowned. ‘And when did he disappear?'

‘Unfortunately his term lasted less than a year. Mayor Kershaw disappeared on his way home to his pregnant wife in their mansion on Nob Hill. There's no proof, but it's believed that the surviving Corsairs ambushed him. Whatever happened,' the librarian shrugged, ‘Hector's body was never found — and San Francisco had to mourn the loss of its beloved saviour without even the comfort of a gravestone.'

That sudden disappearance worried me …

‘And that,' said the librarian, ‘is why Rodrigo de Vivar, Kershaw's business partner, had the Dry Gulch Memorial built to preserve the memory of his dear friend.'

‘Of course he did,' I muttered sarcastically. That was a nice little fairy tale but I knew it couldn't
possibly be close to the real story. But where to dive in and start unpacking the myth?

Before the librarian could wind himself up for another blast of Hector Kershaw's glorious past, I said bluntly, ‘I'm looking for Hector Q. Kershaw's personal diary. I know he kept one and that he brought it with him to old San Francisco … and I know it was precious to him so he would've kept it in a safe place.'

In none of the heroically posed photos of Hector had he carried his prized shoulder bag.

So where had he stashed his precious diary?

‘I also know that Hector Kershaw wanted to keep the contents of his diary private, so he would've kept it hidden. I need details of any secret hideaways he could've used.'

He frowned. ‘I'm not sure I can suggest anything.' The archivist was obviously embarrassed that he couldn't do his job and help me. ‘Er … there's only one suggestion I can make.'

‘Yes,' I said, disgruntled. ‘I need real help here.'

‘Well … there is Gideon Webb.'

‘Who?'

He left, only to return with a flyer.

It advertised something called the Wild West Club. The president was Gideon Webb. It showed his photo. He looked early thirties, with all the reassuring, clean-cut confidence of a toothpaste salesman.

‘The Wild West Club re-enacts historic events from San Francisco's dangerous past — especially the days when the Barbary Coast was the centre of San Francisco's underworld,' said the librarian. ‘Hector is famous for cleaning up the Barbary Coast, so Webb has made him one of his prime research topics. If anyone knows of Hector's secret hidey-
holes then,' he tapped the photo, ‘Mr Webb would know.'

He checked the flyer and pointed. There was a list of dates of public re-enactments at the bottom. ‘There's one on this afternoon.'

Pacific Avenue was blocked off between Kearny and Montgomery. At the Kearny end, I had to push my way through the crowd of onlookers gathered in front of the barricade. They were waiting for the high black curtain on the other side to part. It hid the cordoned-off section of Pacific Avenue from view.

Wisps of fog swirled around us like the hands of drowned dancers.

According to the Wild West Club flyer, Pacific Avenue had been the worst street in the Barbary Coast. So much for ‘Pacific' meaning ‘peaceful'.

Above us, the skyline had been transformed. The modern buildings were disguised with painted facades from the 1800s. Even the road, peeking out from beneath the black curtain, was now covered in a veneer matting of cobblestones. The attention to detail was startling. The librarian was right; Gideon Webb took his re-enactments very seriously.

Behind me, motorcycle cops forced a way through the crowd for a black limo. It was Balthazar Ruttle,
the mayor of San Francisco. He and his aides got out of the car, ducked under the barricade, and took their seats on a podium set up right in front of the high black curtain.

It seemed Webb was not the only one who took the re-enactments seriously.

Why was the mayor here? I scanned the flyer.

Today, they commemorated the anniversary of Hector Q. Kershaw's first confrontation with the Corsairs, the pirate gang who'd terrorised the Barbary Coast and ran the underworld of old San Francisco.

With the guest of honour the mayor present, the curtain parted.

The crowd around me gasped.

It was uncanny.

The street bulged with extras clad in nineteenth-century gear. But all were completely silent, completely still — frozen in place, like a slice out of time left in the frosty end of the cosmic refrigerator.

The wisps of fog made it disturbing.

Scar-faced toughs lounged in every doorway that lined the street. In the windows above them worn-down prostitutes displayed their wares like so many tarnished melons.

And in the middle was hell.

There were no women at street level, only men, and for good reason. The males all had that same predatory look — this was a war zone.

Real rats gnawed at bundles of ragged clothes lying in the filthy gutters. I looked closer — those were actually bodies …

Just in front of me and a little to my left, a bloodied old man was in the process of being kicked to death by two heavy-set teenage thugs. The attackers' faces were frozen masks of pugnacious
glee. Behind them a ragged little street urchin, its sex indecipherable, picked the pocket of a fresh-faced tourist. Next to them a wealthy gentleman perused the bordello windows above. His lined and puffy face was consumed with an ugly lust at the sight of a prepubescent girl hunched in a window … Tears rolled down her bruised white face.

It was so realistic it was hard to look at.

A deep booming sounded from somewhere above my head. It was a clock striking the hour.

Boom, boom, boom …

At the twelfth strike, the street erupted into noisy motion.

The pimps yelled about the merits of their seraglio displayed in the windows above them to the flock of drunks that staggered past, open bottles in hand. And what the girls were prepared to do for only a few pennies.

I flinched as the old man at my feet screamed for help once, then fell back, dead. His attackers gave him one last vicious kick to make sure, then swaggered away.

The ragged urchin, his mark's wallet well in hand, sprinted out of sight.

The wealthy gentleman entered the bordello; a moment later the crying little girl was wrenched from her window.

Around me the onlookers shifted uneasily. This was too close, too real. Where was the happy ending?

At the far end of Pacific Avenue, towards San Francisco Bay, a solid mass of sailors sauntered into the hard-sell zone. Several ships must have docked at once.

I knew San Francisco had become the most important West Coast port after the 1849 Gold Rush
and that the docks had been at the far end of Pacific Avenue. So the Barbary Coast must've sprung up to cater to the seamen's eager demands …

The horde of sailors moving up the street scanned each of the brothel windows as they passed, shouting out their opinions as they went. Most of them ended up milling around a black ornate, three-storey edifice. Unlike most of the other buildings draped in painted sheets, this building was the real thing, a genuine remnant of the 1800s … and perfectly restored to a dingy opulence. Blowsy prostitutes hung out of the second-floor windows, making promises it had to be physically impossible to keep.

Across the entryway into the old edifice was emblazoned ‘The Hue & Cry'. A carving of a two-masted ship, a black brigantine cresting a wave, hung next to the sign.

On the top floor of The Hue & Cry the door to the large balcony burst open. Five men dressed as pirates, armed with pistols and cutlasses, sauntered into view. They arrogantly surveyed the street, patting their hardware if any of the sailors below dared to look up and catch their eyes. One of them had a ship's telescope which he used to scan up and down the street.

A hugely corpulent but muscular man, dressed as a pirate captain in black leggings, coat and a tricorn hat, made a menacing entrance. He glared down at the tourists … several of them stepped backwards. Gideon Webb had picked his actors well.

The pirate captain barked an order, ‘Bring her out!'

One of his men dragged a tall woman, her skin a warm shade of brown, out the door by her long black hair. She fought him every inch of the way and there
were sufficient bruises on her beautiful face to show this wasn't their first bout.

The captain took over, hurling her onto a bench. She hunched there, glaring daggers out of her dark eyes. The woman wore a beaded buckskin tunic and knee-high moccasin boots.

A Native American maiden … trapped.

The captain ignored her to lean on the railing. ‘Well, Bosun?'

‘No sign of that new lawman, Captain,' boomed the pirate, still using the telescope to peruse the crowd. ‘And it's past noon.'

‘Ha, didn't think he'd show. Even a stupid boy like him would know better than to challenge the Corsairs in their own town.' The captain chuckled. ‘He's probably already halfway home to Boston.'

‘With his tail between his legs,' contributed the bosun. He stared over at the seething woman. ‘What are you going to do with Prairie Rose?'

My eyebrows hit my hairline. I knew that name.

‘I'll keep her … she'll cool down.' But the pirate captain eyed her uneasily. ‘She's the star of The Hue & Cry. Men come from miles away to see my Prairie Rose perform.'

An image flashed into my mind. The Big Swede showing Hector his porno cards in the Hen's Coop Saloon. Prairie Rose was on one of the cards. The Big Swede'd said she was an Indian princess …

‘But, Captain, holding Prairie Rose's little sister prisoner was the only way you kept her in line. Now that the girl's dead …'

‘Shut your trap, Bosun! I'll make sure our Rose doesn't run if I have to put her in leg irons for the rest of her life. She'll get over it.'

From Prairie Rose's fierce scowl, it wasn't likely
she was going to get over anything except the balcony railing. Which she was eyeing with steely intent.

The bosun lifted his telescope to his eye. ‘Captain, look! It's Kershaw.'

We all followed his eye-line. Around me the crowd responded with clapping, as though to say, ‘Finally, here comes the hero!' A tall man in Western gear with twin pistols hanging at his side boldly strode towards The Hue & Cry. He had his eyes firmly fixed on the leader of the Corsairs.

His eyes were like Siberia … that gaze could've stunted tree-growth.

I frowned. This guy was a pretty good actor; his expression actually reminded me of Hector. But how could he know how cold the real Hector's gaze had been?

I glanced down at the flyer — this actor had to be Gideon Webb, the man I'd come to find. He didn't look a lot like his publicity picture, though you could still tell it was him. Webb didn't look much like Hector either; he was older, and too heavily built for any real similarity. But, by God, Webb did a good job of capturing the ruthless side of Hector.

The gangs of sailors parted before him as though he was a warship about to do battle.

Webb came within eyeballing range of the Corsairs' balcony and stopped. His taut, muscular hands flexed over his twin pistols. It wasn't melodramatic; he looked like he actually knew how to use them.

‘Get down here, Shaker! And face me like a man!' bellowed Webb.

The pirate captain glowered down at the intruder into his territory and cursed.

Prairie Rose peered down with keen interest, poised to take advantage of the situation.

‘Get him,' ordered Captain Shaker to his henchmen.

The Corsairs swarmed back inside and down and out the front door of The Hue & Cry.

Hector climbed the drainpipe up to the balcony, wedged the door shut with a bench and confronted the captain.

They struggled. But before Webb could triumph, the captain's men broke down the barricaded door.

Prairie Rose bashed Captain Shaker over the head with the telescope. He dropped.

Together with Webb, Prairie Rose swarmed up the drainpipe and onto the roof of The Hue & Cry. From there Hector bellowed to the captain, ‘I'll be back for you later!'

As the Corsairs took aim to shoot, to the tourists' joy the faux Hector and Prairie Rose ran across the roofline and, hands clasped, jumped to freedom on the next building.

That gap had to be at least six feet.

The crowd cheered …

The pair hiked over the next two buildings and shimmied down to the street. The scene ended with Hector pulling Prairie Rose up onto the back of his horse and with one rousing ‘
yippee-kai-yay'
, Hector galloped off to freedom.

The mayor and the crowd burst into loud cheers and applause.

So this must've been what the librarian was talking about … the way that Hector showed the Corsairs could be beaten. That was a pretty definite humiliation, taking Prairie Rose out from under their noses.

 

The cast assembled to take a bow, then moved aside to allow the hero of the piece, Gideon Webb, to take his solitary bow. As the applause died away, with a wave of his hand Webb commanded his troops to disperse. He climbed the podium to be personally congratulated by the mayor and the cast ducked under the barricade to greet the enthused crowd and hand out more flyers.

‘Good job, Gideon. It's good to see San Francisco so proud of its history,' gushed the mayor, slapping Gideon Webb on the back.

I slipped under the barricade and made for the podium.

Out of nowhere, a figure streaked into my path, jolting me to a stop. Prairie Rose now blocked my way. She was solid enough to do it too.

‘No one is allowed past the barricade!' she barked.

The body language said I'd better retrace my steps before I really pissed her off. In this version of reality it seemed Prairie Rose protected Hector rather than the other way around.

The actress was tall, as tall as me, and built like a stripper who liked working out. Close up you could see she wasn't Native American. She was wearing tan make-up and I was betting her hair was brown under that black dye. From her erect and aggressive stance it looked like she was more used to a military parade ground rather than a stage. And from the way she'd climbed that building I'd have put real money on it. She was no simple actress hired for a part.

Her menacing attitude raised my hackles. ‘I want to talk to Gideon Webb,' I said with icy precision.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘You and every slut in this crowd.'

This woman was driving a truckload of resentment and just looking for somewhere to unload. I could smell the fear underneath her anger. She was mated with Webb but didn't trust him …

This damned smellovision was going into overdrive.

I started past her.

She grabbed my arm. ‘Don't you dare try —'

‘It's all right, Gilda.' Webb stood at her shoulder; the mayor was getting into his car. ‘You can go and get ready for the next show.' It was more of an order than a suggestion.

Gilda gave me a threatening look that could've halted a runaway train.

I smiled back, showing all my teeth.

Gilda lunged at me.

Webb caught her and shoved her away. ‘Get control of yourself!'

Gilda gave me a final menacing grimace and stalked off.

‘Seems like Gilda has more in common with Prairie Rose than you'd expect from an actress,' I muttered. I was guessing they both settled grievances the old-fashioned way.

Webb didn't comment, just swung a look at the Amazon's retreating back then returned to give me an overly thorough perusal. The interest wasn't professional. ‘She's a Navy SEAL, or used to be … How can I help you?' His tone indicated he already had a specific kind of aid scheme in mind … one that involved me being on my back.

I curbed my natural impulse to snap. Webb must get all kinds of interest after his bravo performance.

I flashed my Time Investigator's licence. ‘I'm looking into matters to do with Hector Q. Kershaw
and …' I ran my eyes over his costume. ‘I believe you might be able to shed some light on it.'

‘A Time Investigator?' Webb's eyes gleamed with interest. ‘Just what are you investigating?'

I studied him. ‘I'm not at liberty to discuss the case in too much detail but I'm looking into matters that may not have reached the standard history books … aspects of Hector Kershaw's personal life.' I paused. ‘His very personal life.'

Now Webb was intrigued. ‘Like what?'

‘I'm looking for a personal object that Hector would've kept hidden …' River had already announced its existence to the press. ‘His diary.'

‘Hector Kershaw's diary?' Webb raised an eyebrow. ‘Isn't that what that guy from Berkeley was talking about last week?' He shrugged. ‘I don't believe it myself … I've never come across any reference to a diary.' Webb shot me a sharp glance. ‘Have you got proof one actually exists?' I could see dollar signs flickering across his carefully made-up features. ‘Do you know where it is?' He was way too interested.