A-Splendid-Ruin(46)

“Is he an opera singer?”

“He’s a fisherman. You can hear him sing every evening when he’s cleaning his nets. Along with most of the other fisherman. Now Anna—Verina—would tell you in a minute that I’m no one important. A fisherman’s son. Up to my elbows in fish guts. You’d never convince her I was anything more than that. You’d never convince anyone.” He was direct; there was no hint of self-deprecation.

“She’ll be surprised to see you tonight, then,” I said.

“She won’t see me, and even if she did, she’d never acknowledge me. It would ruin the history she’s written for herself.” He took in my gown. “Pretty. City of Paris or Emporium?”

“Emporium.”

“No Worth gown imported from Paris for you, I see.”

“Well, I—”

“But she’s wearing one, isn’t she?” He nodded toward my cousin, who laughed and flirted with Jerome Belden.

“You have a very good eye.”

“It’s my job to figure out where everyone stands,” he said. “Belden’s father is in silver, but his mother is a gadabout. She’s in London right now. Over there is Robert Krieg. Railroads. A bit of a drunk. There, Mrs. Martin Rolfe. A fortune from the gasworks, but her mother was a chorus girl. So Verina’s got her foot on the next rung of the ladder, but she’s not at the top yet. This is second best. Maybe third. Verina’ll be disappointed. Expect her to throw a champagne bottle at some point this evening when she realizes it.”

“Second or third best?” I was surprised.

“Do you see Mrs. Hoffman? Or Mrs. McKay? Oelrichs is here somewhere, but he’s just slumming.”

Sets and rungs. Now I understood as I hadn’t before, the true worth of Goldie’s engagement to Stephen Oelrichs. “Who belongs to the Cotillion Club?”

“The Conservatives. The Ultras. Some of them, anyway. The Fashionables looking for husbands or wives.” A studied glance. “I’m still trying to figure out where you belong.”

“What is there to wonder about? I’m one of the Sporting set. You said it yourself.”

“They say you’re the fast one.”

“What?”

“I would have thought it by the bathing costume. You looked nice in it, by the way. But there’s something about you—I don’t know. I find you puzzling.”

I frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning.”

“No, I suppose not. How well do you know Farge?” He glanced about the ballroom. He paused, caught by something, and murmured to himself as if to remember it. It reminded me that he was a reporter.

“Is my answer going to be in the Bulletin?”

“Not if you don’t wish it.”

“I told you already. My uncle hired him to design a building.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“That’s my answer, however. It’s really none of your business, is it?”

That got his attention. A faint smile touched his full lips. “Verina won’t sing for an hour yet. Not until she’s done being feted. Come with me. Let’s get some champagne.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you wonder why I’m asking. There’s a waiter over there. Grab two glasses, won’t you? I don’t want to call attention to myself. Hiding in plain sight, you know.”

I did, and handed him one as we went into the hall, which became a gallery hung with portraits down its length. Very classic, very moneyed. The talk and the music from the ballroom were loud, and it wasn’t as if we were alone; people drifted in and out, laughing, smoking, mingling.

LaRosa gestured with his champagne to one of the paintings—an unsmilingly earnest man of impressive girth. “Ten to one none of these is any relation to the Andersons.”

“There’s something familiar about that one. The nose, maybe.” I sipped at my drink.

“And the stomach too,” he said. “So maybe him. I’ll bet the rest all came from Gump’s. There, they’ve pedigrees for sale—for the right price.”

Goldie had pointed out the exclusive store, where society shopped for their statues and paintings. “That’s a bit cruel.”

“Is it? You know where the Anderson money came from?”

I shook my head.

“Real estate speculation.”

“They’re no different than half of San Francisco.”

“And corruption.”

I wandered down the length of the gallery, taking in the bewigged and powdered women, the bearded, courtly men.

“You don’t seem surprised,” said LaRosa, following.

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“Jeffers Anderson is on the city board of supervisors. As was Edward Dennehy. You might know him better as the late husband of your uncle’s mistress. Now, of course, your uncle’s on the board too.”

“What has that to do with anything?”

He stopped to consider one of the portraits as he drank his champagne. “You know Abe Ruef, I take it?”

The name was mentioned so often by my uncle that I could not forget the dark, curly-haired man with the receding hairline I’d seen months ago at the Palace.