GOLD FEVER Part Two. Ken Salter
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afternoon. “What took you so long, Big Boy? Your Manon slaves away in the kitchen while you eat Italian goodies and drink lots of red wine, yes?” She said, waving her big wooden spoon at my blushed nose and rosy cheeks and gave me that “naughty boy” look of hers. I hid Salterini’s bag of salamis and other foods behind my back and threw her my best “boys will be boys” sheepish look. We both laughed.
“What are you hiding behind your back, eh? Better be something special for Manon.” She said as she slowly and seductively loosened and discarded her cook’s apron and released the pins in her hair. She gave me a wistful smile as she let her lustrous black tresses tumble down her shoulders and back, then crooked her finger for me to approach. As I reached out to take her in my arms, she raised her finger to say “wait.” Then she pointed to her belly which now showed the presence of our child. She did a pirouette so I could embrace her from behind. I massaged her belly and whispered in her ear, “Je t’aime.”
“And what about your baby?” She said nuzzling my cheek with her head.
“I’ll love him too, when he gets here,” I whispered.
“And what if your baby is a girl, huh?”
“I’ll be a jealous Papa. If she’s as beautiful as you, I’ll have to keep all her suitors at bay even while she’s a kid. She’ll be our pride and joy.”
“You promise?” She said turning to kiss me.
“Yes. And if she’s got your character and spunk, she’ll probably be able to handle the boys on her own. So we’ll just have to wait and see what we get, won’t we?”
“The doctor said maybe we gonna get two babies. Lots of twins in my family. So what do you say to that, Big Boy?”
I gave her a long, lingering kiss before replying. “You really are full of surprises. How could he know so early?”
“He doesn’t know. He just said it’s a big possibility because of my family history,” she said looking me in the eye.
“You know what the Americans say, ‘two for the price of one is a better deal,’ so we should consider ourselves lucky if blessed with twins.”
“Our kid or kids were made with love and passion in Valparaiso and they have loving parents, and that’s probably more than most kids could hope for.”
Manon looked at me with tears in her eyes. “Since you gonna be such a good papa, maybe we should have triplets, non?” We both laughed.
“We can try to add another tonight, if Manon is not too tired, non?” I said mimicking her, tongue-in-cheek.
“Well let’s see what’s in that bag you been hiding. If Manon likes what you bring her, then maybe Big Boy earns a reward with his pregnant wife, non?”
I handed her the satchel full of Italian goodies and the two bottles of Tuscan red wine and recounted my meeting with Luigi Salterini.
“So, he wants to trade for shellfish and other food, yes?”
“I am sure he does. His eyes got bigger than yours at the mention of fresh clams, baby squid, mussels, scallops and shrimps. He was licking his lips at the thought of calamari fritti, pasta con frutti di mare and all the other dishes he could prepare with shellfish. He’s obviously tired of eating and preparing dishes with oysters which every cook can obtain easily. He can get some shellfish with Italian fishermen, but they’ll be quite expensive. So, I think he’ll be pleased to work with us on a wholesale trade basis.”
I told her of my plan to meet and interview Salterini’s nephew for a position as my assistant. With Georges gone for several months I needed help with the letter concession and someone who could be my guide to the French mining camps in the southern placers.
Manon gave me her most devilish look. “So you gonna abandon your very pregnant wife again and gallivant around the mining camps with a young Italian Lothario, yes?”
“Your Pierre will have no time to chase the señoritas. He has a family to feed and if Manon’s doctor is right, he’ll soon have a nursery full of hungry mouths hollering for food. Let’s try the salami with a glass of Italian red wine and see if your Pierre has earned his reward.”
After helping Giselle and Teri set up our stands to sell Manon’s soup, slices of fresh brioche, pâté of wild venison and duck sandwiches and our wines and spirits by the glass, I headed to my makeshift office at the back of a pharmacy to pick up my messages. As the morning fog over the city had not yet dissipated and had left everything clingy-damp, I bought all the daily newspapers and headed through the Clay Street side of Portsmouth Square to take refuge in Pierre-Louis’ restaurant, Les Bons Amis. I could always count on Pierre-Louis for the latest tidbits of gossip he picked up from early morning clients, police, firemen, and merchants, some of whom were members of the notorious Committee of Vigilance.
As usual, I took a rear table where I could see all who entered. Pierre-Louis brought me a strong coffee during a lull in business.
“So, what’s the latest with the Committee?” I asked.
He sat down, added water to his pastis and took a sip of the cloudy colored mixture before replying. “Well, one of the Committee members had coffee this morning and said there’s conflicting evidence in the trial in Marysville whether the guy calling himself “Berdue” is really James Stuart. Evidently, two of the members of the court testified the Berdue character was not Stuart. They claimed he was two inches shorter and eyes were a different color.”
“Does that mean he’ll walk free?”
“Dunno. The prosecution claims it’s got to be Stuart based on physical evidence. They say Stuart had a finger tattoo, a stiff middle finger and a scar on the right side of the jaw. All of which this “Berdue” character has. So it’s pretty sure they’ll convict and hang him.”
“So, they think they got the right guy who killed the sheriff?”
“Dunno for sure.” Pierre-Louis took a long slug from his glass before replying. “The guy’s a Duck and that’s enough for me to see him hang given what they’ve done to our town. Hanging a bunch of ‘em quickly is the only message they understand. They didn’t pull up stakes when they hung Jenkins, so maybe if the Committee hangs enough of them fast this time, they’ll clear out for good.”
While I didn’t like the idea of vigilante justice, I understood Pierre-Louis’ position and hatred of the Sydney Ducks and all the other hooligans that preyed the city’s citizens and merchants. Manon and I were with him during both the recent arson fires and saw how close he had come both times to losing his business and life’s savings. I told Pierre-Louis that I was meeting a potential employee for lunch and asked him to prepare a special shellfish lunch for us. I ordered a carafe of white wine and settled in to read the papers and enjoy a good cigar.
All the newspapers featured the sensational story about the hanging of a Mexican beauty in Downieville, a rough mining town high up on the north fork of the Yuba River in the northern placers. According to the papers, the young Mexican señorita was twenty-three, slender, with striking black hair worn in two braids and was “well set-up,” according to one journalist who claimed to be present at her trial. According to all accounts, though she was vivacious and quick-tempered, she was not a whore. She lived in a cabin with her beau, a Mexican gambler.
A Scotsman named Cannon (nick-named “Loose Cannon” by one wag) got drunk and gambled at Juanita’s boyfriend’s table and lost. Angry, he went to the gambler’s house, intruded and made a drunken scene. According to the Scotsman’s confidants, he returned to the gambler’s cabin the next day “to apologize” for is drunken behavior of the previous evening. According to Juanita and the boyfriend, Cannon used the word puta referring to Juanita and she grabbed a knife, stabbed him in the heart, killing him.
After the stabbing, she and her boyfriend both