chapter twenty-seven

Upon my return to the library, I find a note by a man named Alfred Finnila. “I was walking on the catwalk and I slipped my watch into my pocket. It was a gold pocket watch. I missed my pocket, and the watch went down my pants leg and kept going all the way down into the water. It gave me a funny feeling.”

I understand how he felt.

Another man, Peanuts Coble, noted, “Ed Reed was a full-blooded Indian who boxed professionally on weekends. I was boarding with him at an old widow lady’s place in Sausalito. Ed was sometimes a bit short on manners. We were eating with the widow and her kids at the table, when she said to Ed, ‘Don’t you feel proud that someday your son or daughter will look up at that bridge from a cruise ship and say, “My father helped build that”?’ With a mouthful of food and without missing a beat, Ed responded, ‘Just so the little bastards don’t say I fell off of it.’”

When I laugh aloud, Gwen, the librarian, wanders over to find out what is so funny. She reads the account and her smile lingers. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Thank you,” I say, but my frustration must show, because no sooner have the words come out than she continues to probe.

“Are you sure I can’t help you find something?”

I’ll take all the help I can get. “Gwen,” I say, “I’m looking for information about a man named Patrick O’Riley who worked on the bridge. I was hoping to find something here, but no luck. Any ideas?”

“Did you check the electronic index?”

“Yes—nothing.”

“And you’ve checked some of the better histories written about the bridge?”

“Yes, and again nothing.”

She lists a few more ideas, but none that I haven’t tried.

“We do have some material out on loan to two or three other universities. I can check the log to see what turns up. Did you say the name was O’Riley?”

“Patrick O’Riley.”

I thank her kindly, but my chances are slim. Thousands of men worked on the bridge, thousands made their contribution, put in their years, and then filtered out into the vastness of America. I am hoping for the impossible.

As Gwen wanders away, I continue to read stories of struggle, lessons of triumph. I find words of sorrow in the histories, but also words of accomplishment. I read about the men’s lives and I wonder about their families and how their wives and children left at home must have worried. Did these men have their own Annas?

The information is captivating, but the lights dim and the library will soon close for the day—and I have yet to see the name of Patrick O’Riley. It appears he arrived out of nowhere, dedicated a good five years or more of his life to the bridge, and then dropped off the face of the earth.

• • •

I call the professor early and tell him that I’ll be at home working on the project. I don’t dare tell him that means I’m obsessed with learning more about Patrick and Anna.

I came up empty at the library, but bumps in the road are expected. I begin today by calling the Golden Gate Bridge Highway and Transportation District, the agency that was formed to finance and construct the bridge. They were slated to disband once the bridge was complete and the construction bonds were repaid, but, like most government agencies, they proved harder to dispatch than to organize. While they once managed construction of the bridge, today they oversee all transit in the Golden Gate corridor. I talk with three people before confirming what I already suspect—there are no employee records that cover the building of the bridge. I’m reminded that they only oversaw the work of hired private companies.

Next, I attempt to track down records from the contractors themselves. There were ten prime contractors and various subcontractors selected to work on the structure. To my dismay, none are still in business.

The room’s air is beginning to smother me—it’s time to take a walk. I open the journal and scribble down the address Patrick has written on the inside cover. It is in Parkside, a good five miles from where I live. I change into my jogging shorts, lace up my running shoes, and head out the door.

I picture finding an old apartment building, historic but well kept, a place where a friendly elderly gentleman in the office talks about the workers they once housed during the construction of the bridge. He’ll speak of being but a small boy, perhaps five or six, when his father or grandfather owned the building, and he’ll still remember the men. He’ll confirm that of course they have all their records from over eighty years ago—that they are kept in an old wooden filing cabinet upstairs in the attic. He’ll tell me to help myself, and to lock the door on my way out. Or even better, he’ll tell me that though he was just a lad, he recalls a charming Irish gentleman in particular.

It’s a good vision that keeps me running. But when I arrive at the address, I find a supermarket. I contemplate jogging back home, but I flag down a cab instead.

My wall is getting taller, wider, and deeper. In research, you climb over, you dig under, you find a hole. It’s a matter of time, persistence, and patience.

Where is the weakness in my wall?

Ellen reclined in her deep leather chair, her feet squarely on the desk. It was a position she seldom took. Her stare was at unseen objects out the window, past the city skyline.

“Damn him!” she mumbled to herself. “How could he just get up and walk out like that?” With no one by Ellen’s side to bob their head along with hers and agree that she was right, she cursed again for good measure, just to feel better. The woman wasn’t through ranting. “Dave knew how important this account was. How could he do it?”

It wasn’t easy being the boss, especially of a company where her father had once been in charge. Ellen wished she could be sympathetic, but she had a business to run. Dozens of people depended on her for their paychecks, not just Dave Riley.

“And to not wait until the meeting was over,” she continued, “to leave right in the middle with the client sitting there in shock.” It was unacceptable. There was a line of common sense, of decency, of professional demeanor. Dave Riley hadn’t just stepped over it, he’d taken a running long jump.

The familiar beep of the intercom startled her. She pulled her feet in and sat up straight in her chair.

“Ms. Brewer?” It was her secretary, Kathy.

“Yes, Kathy?”

“There is a call for you on line seven. It’s Mr. Jim Wiesenberger.”

“Wiesenberger . . . Wiesenberger.” Ellen repeated the name. It sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “Kathy, do you know who he’s with?”

Kathy’s tone echoed surprise, since usually her astute boss recognized the names of such important men. “Yes, ma’am. It’s Mr. Jim Wiesenberger, the CEO of BikeHouse Customized Motorcycles. He’s calling from Wisconsin. He needs to speak with you right away. He says it’s urgent.”