GRAND OPERA HOUSE
APRIL 17, 1906. 8:05 P.M.
Tommy stopped the Rolls Phaeton in front of the Opera House for the second time that night.
"Do you think he'll be angry that I'm late?" Kaitlin asked.
"You sit here yakking, you're gonna be even later. Why don't you climb down and get on in there?"
Tommy's brusqueness did nothing to ease Kaitlin's nerves. She gathered her strength and her gown and slid out of the Rolls.
Tommy screeched off, leaving her alone with her mounting fear. Nothing's going to happen. It's the opera. It's Enrico Caruso. This is why you came here. She took a step forward and then another, gaining momentum as the sound of the orchestra wafted through the open doors.
She barely made it into the lobby when the sight of it stopped her in her tracks. It was brimming with massive arrangements of orchids, narcissus, and roses. Elegant women in peacock displays of lace and satin, dappled with glittering diamonds and precious jewels of every color, hurried for their seats. She inhaled the fragrant air, her attention suddenly drawn to a massive three-tiered crystal chandelier that cast kaleidoscopic dots about the lobby.
"It's the largest cut-glass chandelier in the world."
She wheeled to find a smiling, cherub-faced usher in a black coat and striped trousers.
"Fifty-five feet in diameter. Weighs two tons. It was a gift from the Opera Society President, Mr. Rolf. May I help you find your seat?"
"Yes, uhh, Mr. Rolf is expecting me."
"He has a double box, C and D. Top of the stairs, third door to the left. Knock at C and someone will let you in."
"Is he a nice man?"
The usher hesitated. "I'm sure he is, ma'am. Enjoy the performance."
Kaitlin nodded politely and ascended the stairs, her knees wobbly beneath her. She knocked timidly on the door, waited an uncertain moment, and rapped a little harder. The door lurched open and a butler's face appeared.
"I'm sorry I'm late. I'm Kaitlin Staley. I believe . . ."
The flood of light brought a wave of well-coiffed heads turning in her direction. A short man with a bushy mustache rose from his seat and walked to greet her.
"You must be Kaitlin," Rolf said.
"Yes, sir."
She offered a gloved hand. Rolf clasped it firmly, staring up into fathomless blue eyes. Behind his smile was a cold, hungry look Kaitlin had seen in the carpetbaggers still working Douglas County.
"I'm Adam Rolf. I am glad you could join us."
She nodded and swallowed hard. Rolf took Kaitlin's arm and led her forward.
From the railing where I had been chatting with Alma de Bretteville, I spotted a beautiful young woman slipping into the seat next to Rolf—the one most often reserved for me. My spirits sank when I recognized her: Kaitlin spotted me and waved, relieved at the sight of a familiar face.
In the orchestra pit, a cymbal crashed, launching a torrent of strings and brass into Carmen's frenetic prelude. The melody swirled through the audience and sent heads bobbing, fingers fluttering, engulfing all in buoyant abandon. San Francisco faded and sensuous Seville exploded into the Opera House.
The prelude yielded to a jaunty "March of the Toreadors," heralding the arrival of Don Josè's rival, the dashing bullfighter Escamillo. The joyous motif crested, and then spiraled into an ominous phrase, finally dissolving to a plaintive oboe that prophesied the fate of tempestuous Carmen and troubled Don Josè.
I raised my beautiful opera glasses, panning across the exuberant faces in the expensive seats until I found the box belonging to Rudolph Spreckels. Spreckels and his very pregnant wife Eleanor sat next to Fremont and Cora Older. Behind them, in the shadows, Hunter gently mimed the conductor, his cheeks puffed slightly as he hummed the melody.
Hunter raised my battered old opera glasses and scanned the boxes, until he stared at me staring at him. He subtly mouthed, "I love you."
I lowered my binoculars and stole a glance behind me as Rolf slid his arm onto the back of Kaitlin's seat.
"The dress fits you perfectly," he whispered to her.
"Yes, sir. It fits just fine. Thank you, sir."
"We're an informal lot in San Francisco, Kaitlin. Call me Adam. All my friends call me Adam."
She nodded, tight-lipped, fighting the urge to lunge for the door. "Have you been to many operas?"
"This is my first, sir."
"Call me Adam."
"Adam. I had a Victor back home. I bought it with my sewing money. I listened to Caruso so much I wore out the recordings."
"And where's home?"
"Lawrence, Kansas. Where William Quantrill and Frank James gunned down all those people during the war. My Grandpa was one of them. One of them who was killed, I mean." Kaitlin turned her head to avoid Rolf's carnivorous grin and stared intently at the stage.
To the sound of fifes and bugles, the chorus of street boys heralded the arrival of the Spanish relief guard. Kaitlin leaned forward, distancing herself from Rolf's advancing arm, losing herself in the spectacle.
"Kaitlin," Rolf said, his mood darkening. "Your father? He's a farmer? Or a rancher?"
"He's the sheriff in Douglas County."
The door opened and a man moved through the shadows, leaning over Rolf's shoulder. Rolf smiled and patted the man's hand.
"Kaitlin," Rolf said, "say hello to Mr. John Barrymore."
Kaitlin's head swiveled and her mouth dropped. She had fallen asleep many nights beneath photos of Caruso and Barrymore tacked on the roughhewn wall of her room. He grinned broadly, the profile unmistakable, his white teeth gleaming, his breath bathed in gin.
Rolf excused himself and walked to Tommy, who had just arrived to take his usual station near the door. "We have a little problem, Thomas. The girl Tessie Wall sent? Her father's that hick sheriff, the one playing bodyguard for Caruso."
Tommy looked over Rolf’s shoulder to where Barrymore now sat in his boss's seat, jabbering softly to a transfixed Kaitlin. "She's somethin' all right, boss. Could get downright nasty if daddy shows up at the party just as you're about to break the little filly in."
"Deviousness is your true talent, Thomas. Quietly make this disappear."
A ripple shot through the audience as Enrico Caruso, bedecked as Spanish Corporal Don Josè, entered the stage with his fellow soldiers. Caruso stopped near the cigarette factory as young women poured into the plaza for their lunch break, twirling their hips and shamelessly teasing the young men.
Don Josè watched with disdain as the seductive gypsy Carmen appeared, playing her castanets and singing her saucy Habañera, the lilting aria punctuated with stirring bursts from the chorus.
"L'amour est un oiseau rebelle."
Love is a rebellious bird, I scribbled as lumpy Olive Fremstad, in Carmen's ruffled skirt, fumbled through a graceless entry. Enticed by the sight of handsome Don Josè, she sauntered over, her ardor further piqued by his aloofness. She produced a flower from her ebony hair and handed it to him, declaring him the only man for her. As Don Josè inhaled its intoxicating fragrance, Carmen ambled away, casting an alluring look over her shoulder.
In Spreckels' box, Hunter reached into his jacket, produced the flower I had dropped to him from my tenement and inhaled its waning fragrance. I vowed him a kinder fate than Carmen would offer Don Josè.
Caruso began to sing, rejecting Carmen and swearing his allegiance to his fiancée, Michaela, the audience riveted by the astonishing voice that filled every corner of the house.
While Enrico Caruso kept us enraptured at the Grand Opera House, Francis Fagen spread a hand-drawn map of Nob Hill on the floor of room 434 of the Fairmont Hotel. Patrick, Max, and Carlo looked on.
"This can go easy," Francis said, "if everybody keeps their wits about them. Last thing we need is a gun fight inside Rolf's mansion." They all jumped as Christian burst through the door, his face a mass of purple bruises.
"Speakin' of the Devil," said Max.
Christian slipped next to Patrick and said nothing.
"All right," Francis resumed, "Rolf’s guests will be entering through the front gate on California. We need to watch the entire house so the informant can signal from anywhere inside."
"That would be Annalisa Passarelli," Christian added.
"Whoa," Max said. "That knock-kneed girl who used to live at the bottom of Filbert Street? The Society reporter? You tellin' me all this time the Lieutenant's informant is a damn woman?"
"That's what I'm saying," Christian answered.
"Now," Francis resumed, "the construction crews are going to be at it all night getting the Fairmont ready for opening tomorrow. Carlo, you and Max will linger in the lobby. I know the foreman, it's already arranged. Keep a sharp eye on the east side of the house, especially Rolf’s office—the three bay windows in the middle of the first floor."
Francis hesitated, the gravity and fatigue causing a moment's hesitation. "The Crockers across California Street hate Rolf. Patrick and I will take up station behind their wall and watch the front."
"Hunter wants me to stay up here and man this recording contraption in case another incriminating telephone call comes in," Christian said somberly. "Him and me can watch the second floor and livery out back."
"Tommy and Shanghai Kelly will die before they let us drag them out in handcuffs," Max said. "Especially if they think there's a noose waitin'."
"We can accommodate that," Christian said. "Remember what they did to my father when I wasn't there to watch over him."
It was the closest Christian had come to admitting wrong. His subdued and chastised nature took them all aback.
The howling of the neighborhood dogs, sporadic all night, reached an unnerving crescendo.
"M-m-m-maybe th-th-they j-just hate opera." Carlo's joke did little to ease the tension.