RATHER THAN WALK the four blocks east along Broadway, Nick decided to make a bigger splash arriving by carriage at the Cuyamaca Club, where he had been summoned to meet with one of San Diego’s most prominent and powerful citizens. Strolling across the plaza, he approached one of the horse-drawn cabs parked in front of Horton House.
“You do know it’s just down there,” said the somewhat flabbergasted buggy driver when Nick announced where he wanted to be taken. You could actually see the club entrance from where they were standing.
“I’m quite aware of its location,” Nick snapped back. “Do you want my custom or not?”
With his surly passenger in the back, the driver did a U-turn and sauntered up Broadway. He made another U-turn and pulled up at the wooden boardwalk fronting the venerable club. Nick paid him the exact fare and not a penny more.
The building was nothing to write home about, a two-story clapboard structure that didn’t look all that much different from a large house, which is exactly what it had been until the current occupants assumed ownership. The inside is what counted. Or rather the idea of what lay beyond the front doors—the county’s first and thus far only private club for gentlemen, founded the year prior as a place of social intercourse between those with a vested interest in San Diego’s growth and development. Heavy emphasis on the latter, seeing as land developers comprised a good deal of the club’s initial membership.
Stepping inside, Nick found a lectern where visitors announced themselves upon arrival. As a bald-headed valet scanned the guest list, Nick looked past him into the main lounge with its silk drapes and bolstered leather armchairs. A thin veil of smoke hung across the room. And even at a distance, you could detect the aroma of fine Havanas, rather than the stogies that stank up lesser establishments. There was, of course, not a female in sight, and not a single person of color. Nor, Nick suspected, anyone lacking an Anglo-Saxon heritage and surname.
Nick was relieved to discover his name on the guest list. The valet requested he follow him, and they wove their way through the room to a table in the back, where Nick’s host awaited.
Fabian Kendall was a gregarious New Englander and one of the few serious rivals to Alonzo Horton’s stature as San Diego’s most powerful man. Kendall and his brothers had purchased the Rancho de la Nacional after the war and transformed the south bay hacienda into a budding agricultural oasis called National City. That alone would have made him eminent in local circles. But Kendall also brought the railroad to town, connecting San Diego with Los Angeles in 1885. And now he was on the verge of launching a political career, his eyes and considerable fortune cast firmly on the congressional seat held by Civil War hero William Vandever.
With his spade beard and mutton-cup whiskers, Kendall looked like a thousand other men one might see around town. The thing that set him apart—besides his hundred-dollar suits—were striking blue eyes framed by thick brows. The sort of eyes that radiate dominance, which is exactly what Kendall was doing as he rose to shake Nick’s hand.
“Welcome!” he said, looking his guest straight in the eye. “I hope I haven’t taken you away from anything important?”
“Not at all,” said Nick. “Slow news day.”
“Then will you join me in drink?”
“It would be an honor,” Nick answered, playing along with the protocol.
A month ago, they wouldn’t have let him in the front door at the Cuyamaca. But now here he was sitting with one of the town’s most important personages in the most exclusive club in all of Southern California. As much as he appreciated the recognition of men like Kendall, the irony did not escape him. Nick was no different than he’d been a few days prior. He looked the same, thought the same, talked the same, walked the same. But suddenly the world saw him with much different eyes. One of Clive Bennett’s journalistic credos was spinning other people’s misfortunes into golden opportunities for oneself. And here was tangible proof. Nick would not be hobnobbing at the Cuyamaca if Zeb Archer and Yankee Jim had not been murdered by dramatic and mysterious means.
A certain part of Nick craved the limelight, while another part of him shunned stepping out from the shadows in which he had dwelt for most of his life. Deep down inside, he was still the street kid, son of a woman who had sold her body to support them after her lighthouse keeper husband had perished in the war. He’d always thought of the rich and powerful as natural foes—hypocrites and carpetbaggers, rather than clubby drinking buddies. Was it possible to solicit their approval and utterly detest them in the same breath? He was about to find out.
“Name your poison,” Kendall demanded, a waiter hovering over their table.
Nick wasn’t quite sure what movers and shakers slid down their gullet. He tried to think of something sophisticated. And when he asked for sherry, his host exploded with a belly laugh.
“This isn’t the garden club,” Kendall chided.
“Then whatever you’re having,” Nick responded, awkwardly shifting in his chair. Not five minutes inside the inner sanctum, and he had already embarrassed himself.
Kendall told the waiter to bring “the usual” (whatever that might be) then turned his attention back to Nick. “Those are some stories you’ve been writing, about that Nemesis fellow.”
“Lucky break,” said Nick, feigning modesty, drawing the other man into even more effusive praise.
“Lucky my ass!” Kendall spat back. “That’s what I call good old-fashioned journalism. Of the sort we don’t see enough of in these parts.” And Kendall would know. Because in addition to being the primary force behind the railroad coming to San Diego—and one of those who had expedited the demise of Old Town and the subsequent rise of Horton’s New Town along the bay—Kendall had also helped establish the San Diego Union, the only serious rival to the Times amongst the town’s half-dozen daily and weekly newspapers.
Much like the club in which they now sat, the Union supported the local establishment. Although it pretended to be independent and speak for all the citizenry, its editorial line and underlying journalistic thrust was readily apparent—anything good for the local business barons and big developers was good for San Diego. The Times, on the other hand, had always been the upstart. The paper of the working class, the downtrodden, and recent immigrants. A journal that wasn’t afraid to poke fun at the rich and powerful, including Fabian Kendall.
The waiter reappeared with a pair of crystal tumblers and a bottle of something called Laphroaig. The two men clinked glasses and downed their amber nectar in a single swig. Kendall snatched the bottle and quickly poured another round. “Whattaya think?” he asked.
Nick held up his glass. “Best bourbon I’ve ever tasted.”
“That’s because it’s not bourbon. It’s a Scottish single malt. I keep my own case behind the bar for special occasions.” Assuming, quite rightly, that Nick had no idea how to say the name, Kendall now pronounced it in slow motion. “La froyg—that’s how one should say it. The perfect drink for San Diego.”
“How’s that?” asked Nick, taking the bait.
“In the language of my Gaelic forefathers, the name means ‘beautiful hollow by the broad bay.’ A perfect description of our fair city, don’t you think?” But the man didn’t give Nick time to answer. Kendall had not summoned him to engage in idle banter. There had to be an underlying motive, and moments later it emerged. “Like I was saying before, lucky or not, it’s quite a caper you’ve came across.”
“Much obliged.” Nick wondered where this was heading.
“Between you and me,” said Kendall, lowering his voice, “you know who this Nemesis fellow is, correct?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Nick answered. Had the man not read his stories?
Kendall seemed befuddled. “How can that be?”
“Because he’s never revealed it—to me or anyone else that I’m aware of. As was said in the articles that ran alongside the letters, the first was delivered by regular post and the second left at the scene of the crime. In both cases, the author did not offer any indication of who he really is.”
“Honest to God?” Kendall genuinely seemed to think Nick privy to the killer’s true self.
“Trust me, Mr. Kendall, if we knew the identity of the killer, we would have published his name in the Times as both a public service and news coup.”
“Not necessarily.”
Now it was Nick’s turned to look mystified. “What possible reason could we have for concealing his name?”
“Several come to mind,” Kendall declared. “Being a newspaperman myself, I can envision a circumstance in which one withholds certain facts in order to—how shall I say?—sprinkle them through future stories.”
“What are you suggesting?” asked Nick.
“That Clive Bennett knows full well, perhaps even better than the buffoon who edits my own rag, how to finagle a story for all it’s worth.”
“I assure you that Mr. Bennett would never do such a thing.” Although Nick had to admit it wasn’t a half bad idea.
“And why would we do that?”
The railroad tycoon shrugged. “Maybe the killer is a friend, acquaintance, or even a family member. Maybe you agree with his motives for dispatching Archer and Ingraham.”
Nick sat up straight in his chair. “Mr. Kendall, please. How can you even suggest such a thing?”
“History, my dear fellow,” Kendall retorted. “Your paper, your editor, and even yourself have never been especially gracious to the powers that be in this town. I seem to recall that you took Archer to task several years ago for what you termed ‘profiteering’ on lumber sales. And the Times adamantly campaigned for Yankee Jim’s conviction in that Moosa Canyon flap.”
“That doesn’t mean we would sanction their murders or conceal their killer. First and foremost, it just wouldn’t be right. But more importantly—and I’m sure you can understand this as a businessman—it would in no way profit myself or the Times. As a matter of fact, we’d sell far more papers if we actually could publish the killer’s name.”
“So you’re telling the God’s honest truth? You have no idea who penned those letters and presumably murdered Archer and Ingraham?”
“Not in the faintest,” Nick said bluntly.
Having settled that point, at least for now, Kendall steered their conversation onto other popular topics of the day. Not surprisingly, the man was an ardent Republican and had much to say about his party’s upcoming National Convention, scheduled for three weeks hence in Chicago. Kendall would be attending himself, traveling back by train, his first venture into the political limelight and perhaps not his last, according to the local grapevine. Kendall’s candidate of choice amongst the fourteen men vying for a chance to reach the White House was Senator Sherman of Ohio. “Although Harrison will give him a good run for his money,” he surmised.
Kendall thought a moment, pulling at his dark brown goatee. “May I be so bold as to suggest something radical?” he suggested.
“And what might that be?” Nick figured it must be something to do with free trade, protectionism, or one of the other ongoing Republican themes.
“What would you think about coming to work for me?”
Nick just about choked on his single malt. “Did I hear you right?”
“Dump that rag you work for and write for the only real paper in San Diego. I’ll double the pittance Bennett is paying you. And to sweeten the pot, I’ll throw in this.” Kendall raised his hands to signify the Cuyamaca Club. “One word from me, and this plunder is yours.”
“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Kendall.” Nick really didn’t, astonished by the offer and its implication. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine his meeting with Kendall would pan out in such a way.
Kendall’s lips curled into a wily smile. “Say yes. That’s all I need to hear.”
“Because of the Nemesis stories?” Nick asked incredulously.
“You’re now a household name. And household names sell papers no matter what they write. Frankly speaking, you working for me translates into more money in my pocket. And that’s what it’s all about.”
Nick wasn’t naïve enough to think his decisions were merely a matter of dollars and cents—and membership in the Cuyamaca Club. He knew enough people at the Union to know how things went down behind the scenes. Kendall had a well-honed repute for meddling in the newsroom, getting his editor and writers to angle stories to his own financial and political advantage. That’s not to say that Clive Bennett didn’t have his own agenda. Nick’s current boss most certainly did. But power and wealth weren’t Clive’s primary motivations. After thirty-odd years in the newspaper business, Clive actually relished the process of collecting and disseminating news. He loved the rush you got from a hot story. And he truly did view the Fourth Estate as a pillar of society, something to be nurtured for the benefit of mankind, rather than milked for all it was worth. Clive had instilled these same values in Nick. And although it was mightily tempting—an opportunity that would perhaps never come his way again—there was no way that Nick would compromise his values for a duplicitous codfish like Kendall.
But how to tell the man such without insulting him? That was the challenge. Burning bridges never got you anywhere. At some point in future, Nick might change his mind, decide that helping the rich get richer was his true calling in life, rather than trying to save the world.
“Mr. Kendall, I’ve been at the Times an awful long time….”
“And your loyalty is most commendable,” Kendall responded. “Something I value in my own employees. But there comes a time when a man must think of his future, break his ties with the past, and march onto a new field of battle. Where would my brothers and I be today if we’d stayed in the New Hampshire hamlet where we grew up? If I had not persuaded Eastern banks to finance construction of my railroad? I beg of you to think along those same lines.”
“Sir, I just don’t know …” Nick couldn’t help but think there was another, clandestine motive for Kendall’s offer. He had never hidden his feelings about the owner of their biggest journalistic rival. Everyone knew that Nick detested the railroad tycoon. Why would he want someone like that on his staff? It had to be more than profit. And there remained only one other thing that would interest a man like Kendall—power. In this case, controlling the flow of information to your advantage.
“Sir, can I ask you something?”
“I’m an open book,” Kendall answered, failing to grasp the irony.
“If I was to come work for you, how would we handle the Nemesis case?”
“As you know, we are a more serious publication than the Times.”
“Yes, but what exactly does that mean in terms of how the story gets covered?”
Kendall didn’t beat around the bush. “I don’t believe in idolizing a wanton killer.”
“That’s what you think we’ve been doing?”
“To a certain extent, yes. Christening him with a name from Greek mythology and such. Deplorable sensationalism.”
Nick was quick with his response. “But that’s what sells more papers. And isn’t that your motive for recruiting me?”
Kendall didn’t have a quick comeback this time. “There are other considerations,” he said cryptically, without elaborating on what any of those considerations might be. He flashed a chilly smile, those blue eyes bearing down on Nick. “There is certainly no need to decide on my offer post haste. Mull it over for a couple of days. And discuss with that lovely wife of yours. In the meantime, have another drink on me.”
Pushing back from the table, Kendall stood. “Take your time. As much as I would love to linger, other business awaits.”
Nick stood to shake hands and watched as Kendall made his way across the room, stopping here and there to greet other luminaries before disappearing out the front door.
Sinking back into his seat, Nick told himself that he should cherish the moment, soak it up now, because he probably wouldn’t be drinking again at the Cuyamaca Club for quite some time. No way was he going to jump ship. Much like today’s news, he was no more than a fleeting curiosity to someone like Kendall, who would move on to the next sideshow as soon as Nick was no longer of any value to him. Pity really … to be saddled with morals, ethics, and a narrow purpose rather than continually grasping for all you could take. But that was his lot in life, one he would gladly accept without complaints. After one more drink.
“I’ll have another one of these froggy things,” Nick told the waiter. “On Mr. Kendall’s tab.”