GOLD FEVER Part Two. Ken Salter
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You can’t do that. That’s my cab. I was here first,” the now livid business man yelled. I just waved goodbye and the cabbie roared with laughter as he deftly maneuvered his nag around the corner of Clay Street and avoided a dray cart loaded with lumber and a matronly woman trying to protect her layers of petticoats as she herded a young boy in knickerbockers, school coat and cap across the street and around piles of horse dung.
The cabbie must have thought it was a matter of life and death as we whipped down Kearny Street on the way to North Beach. I just held fast to the grips beside my seat and marveled at the cabbie’s skill in avoiding obstacles and near misses as he honked a horn by his seat and yelled to make way. When we arrived at the entrance to the hospital, I tipped my hat in appreciation of his skill and arranged for him to wait for me to return.
The duty nurse passed me off to a gangly, acne-faced orderly in his twenties who led me down a long hallway and pointed to a door on the right. “You’ll find him in there with the rest of the patients with broken bones who can’t walk,” he said and retreated back the way we’d come.
The large room looked like a school dormitory with metal beds lined against both walls at three feet intervals with a center isle wide enough that two wheelchairs could pass. Most beds had a metal A-frame attachment with ropes and pulleys to elevate broken limbs. Pierre-Louis spotted me before I saw him. “Thank god you’ve found me Pierre,” he shouted from a bed near the far wall.
Both his legs were bound in casts to his hip and slightly elevated on the iron triangle over his bed. I scrounged a beat-up wooden chair nearby and dragged it alongside his bed. “Thank God you’re alive,” I said softly with my back to his nosy neighbor who had craned his neck like an alert, big-eared jack rabbit at my approach.
“Just barely,” replied Pierre-Louis. “If I understand the bloody doctors, my legs are broken in several places and it’s going to be a bitch to heal them. They’re not even sure I’ll be able to walk with a cane for several months. Thank God for the laudanum. The pain’s been a killer. But the worst thing is being trussed up like a living mummy in this infernal room with a bunch of noisy, obnoxious buffoons. Snoring, wheezing, coughing and yelling all night. You’ve got to get me out of here pronto, mon ami. They’ll kill me with their lousy food, weak coffee and ignorance. If I’m going to be trussed up like this, I need good food, alcohol, the newspapers and good cigars,” he pleaded.
I laughed, looked around me to assure no attendants could see and poured a large measure of cognac from my pocket flask into Pierre-Louis’ empty water glass. Pierre-Louis seized the glass, put his nose to savor the aroma and quaffed it in a go. “Ah, mon dieu, but that’s good. I’ve been dreaming of good wines, our cheeses and cigars in that order. It’s incredible what the Americans serve you to eat here. I ate better as a poor private in military service in France,” he said holding his glass out for a refill.
I shook my head, no. “Not all at once, my friend. I’ll leave you the flask, but you’ll have to go slow. I’ve been told that laudanum and alcohol don’t mix. It’s dangerous to take too much of either; together they could kill you if the dose is too much.” He took the flask greedily and stuffed it inside his blanket.
“How did it happen?”
“Stupidly, of course. I was late for an appointment, rushing down the stairs, not looking at the steps and missed the bottom ones. I fell hard on both legs at a bad angle trying to avoid hitting my head. Just like that I become a cripple in this infirmary. Worse than a prison where you can buy liquor and cigars and newspapers to read. You must get me out of here, Pierre.”
“Where do you want to go? You need full-time nursing care and medical supervision. You’re going to be trussed up like this for a long time according to what you’ve been told.”
“Find me a French nurse and a ground level apartment. I’ve money to pay whatever is necessary. My legs are in plaster of Paris casts, so I can’t move and no doctor can help until it’s time to remove them.”
“We can do that, but what about the restaurant and your employees? The baker said your cook was distraught.”
“I’ve had nothing else to think about since they parked me here. I’ve been contemplating a change for some time. You know I’ve groused about how I hate to provide a cheap fixed-price meal for the miserly new arrivals, who are too cheap to order a carafe of wine to wash it down. It sends the wrong message to my regular customers. The place needs a new look and better clientele. Obviously I can’t do it, especially in my condition. Do you think Manon would take it on?”
“Wow, that’s a big order. She’s always wanted to run a restaurant of her own. I’m not sure she’d want to run one that wasn’t hers. Plus she’s five months pregnant with twins due near the end of the year. What sort of arrangement did you have in mind? I’ll ask her, of course.”
“I thought you and Manon could buy the restaurant. We could arrange favorable terms so you make payments from profits. I think the Americans call the arrangement a lease with option to buy.”
“How would it work and what would be your role in the business?” My interest was now peaked.
“We could do a long-term lease and agree on a monthly lease payment that would be credited to the purchase price. I have enough savings to live comfortably and frankly, it’s time I eased up. That’s what the doctor told me. Said I’ve also got a problem with my ticker. Said if I’m not careful and don’t cut back on my drinking, I’m at risk to stroke out any time. So, you see, I need to make arrangements now while I’m not incapacitated. If I don’t, I’ll return to premises full of squatters and have to start from scratch. I’m too old for that.”
“So, we’d buy the restaurant business and the entire building including the apartment, right?”
“Yes, with these crippled legs I’m not going to risk those treacherous stairs again. I need to be at ground level both for my legs and heart. That’s what the doctor said.”
My mind was racing at the possibilities. Manon would have her cherished restaurant and I could use the large room at the top of the stairs as my office. We could use the apartment as a residence. We’d both be close to the business and not have to traverse dangerous streets at night when we closed the restaurant.
“How soon would we need to reopen the restaurant?” He really had my interest now.
“As soon as you possibly can so we don’t lose our suppliers or regular customers. I’m sure my cook, Henri Royat, would be happy to work for Manon. He loves his job and the restaurant.”
“But, he’s never worked for a boss who’s a woman. Manon’s very independent and will insist to run the restaurant her way; that’s why she came to San Francisco.”
“It’s true French chefs are all male. Henri’s a good cook, but he has always taken orders from me and I determine the menus. I think he’d like to see a more lively operation and the kind of glamour only a woman can bring, especially in this town starved for women.”
“Well, I have to talk it over with Manon. It’s going to be difficult to run two businesses with her pregnancy.”
“I’ve worked up some figures for how I think it could work,” he said and handed me some sheaves of notebook paper filled with figures and the address of his cook. “And mon ami, next time you come, bring me a refill for the flask and a couple of dry sausages from my cellar. I’m dying for some real food.”
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