Adam's Daughter (4 page)

The man smiled back. Adam walked away, thinking about the automobile. Ever since the new machines had begun appearing on the city’s streets when he was a boy, he had longed to own one. He had always envied the things money could buy but automobiles especially fired his imagination. He resolved he would someday own a machine as splendid as the Wills. And fine clothes. He was thinking now about the man’s clothes. Clothes had never really mattered to Adam. The tweed suit he was wearing had served his needs for years. But now, for the first time, Adam felt shabby, and he realized the old suit was far too small and out of fashion.

Adam went up to the bow, bending slightly in the wind. He gripped the rail and stared at the city spread before him.

San Francisco. Its waters marked with the crosscutting wakes of dozens of ferries. The approaching waterfront, the tower of the Ferry Building extending like a welcoming salute, and beyond the undulating sprawl of the city’s pale buildings.

Adam’s pulse quickened. He was by nature an emotionally reserved young man. But now he felt himself smiling, and, in a sudden, uncharacteristic burst of expectant joy, he threw back his head and laughed.

CHAPTER TWO

He was the first one off the ferry, and he went swiftly through the terminal, carrying his small suitcase. As he went up Market
Street, his head filled with a dizzying array of images. Everywhere he looked were people, of all means and descriptions, all intent on some purposeful venture. Men in fine lounge suits with flowers in their lapels. Day laborers in dirty overalls. Chinese in both Oriental and western dress.

And women
...splendid women in fur-trimmed coats, their pretty faces framed by cloche hats. Everywhere he looked, Adam saw another woman more beautiful than the last.

If there was one thing he coveted more than a new automobile it was a beautiful woman. With his good looks, he had never lacked for female companionship. But these women, so richly dressed and brimming with confidence, seemed like
modern goddesses. Each one ignored his smiles. No matter. Someday they would be smiling back.

At Union Square, Adam paused outside the entrance of a tall Gothic building and stared at the gilt letters above the door. THE SAN FRANCISCO TIMES. He glanced up at the large clock, which read nine-fourteen, and then quickly looked at his watch. He cursed under his breath. He was late after all.

He quickly found his way to the third-floor city room and was directed to the office of the city editor, George Ringman. Adam anxiously waited for Ringman to finish some business with another man. The pause gave Adam a chance to look around the city room.

It was
crowded with plain oak desks and slat-backed chairs. Gooseneck lamps poked out of the piles of paper on each desk top, and telephone cords snaked up into the ceiling. Men in loosened vests and ties, the sleeves of their white shirts rolled high, were bent over black typewriters or seated in silent clusters, their pencils moving like little whirligigs as they edited copy. A cloud of pale yellow cigarette smoke hovered near the ceiling.

A pang of disappointment went through Adam. The
San Francisco Times
city room looked just like the one in Oakland, just bigger.

Yes, bigger, Adam thought with satisfaction.

“Bryant? Come on in.”

Adam looked back to George Ringman, standing behind his desk. Adam shook Ringman’s hand and took the offered chair.

“Sorry I’m late, Mr. Ringman,” Adam began.

“Late? You’re early. And by the way, call me George.”

“But the clock outside—”

George Ringman laughed. “Jesus, that thing hasn’t worked since the Bickford family built this place in eighteen sixty-five. Just like half the stuff around here.”

“Well, I didn’t want to be late my first day.”

“Joe Davenport said you were that kind of guy. And that you were the best reporter he ever had.”

“Best one he trained,” Adam said with a smile.

George Ringman laughed.

“Mr. Ringman...George.” Adam paused. “We never discussed my exact salary. You said only that it would be generous.”

"I’m starting you at fifteen hundred dollars a year,” Ringman said. “That’s what all our young street men start at.”

Adam struggled to hide his disappointment. The figure was only a hundred dollars more than he had been making at the
Oakland Tribune
.

“When do I start?” Adam said.

“Right now. But first you have to go upstairs and meet the owner. Old man Bickford likes to meet every new man. He’s expecting you.”

As Adam rode the
elevator up to the tenth floor his disappointment over the salary hardened into anger. He was worth more than what Ringman was paying. It would not take long to prove that. But more important, it was the last time, he resolved, that anyone was going to take advantage of him.

Robert Bickford’s office was a mahogany-paneled fortress guarded by a ste
rn secretary. Bickford himself was not nearly as imposing as his surroundings. He was a short fat man, his red face straining above the crisp collar of his immaculate white shirt and finely tailored suit. He sat behind his desk, lobbing questions at Adam about his background.

“
So, you are from Oakland?” Bickford said.

“
I was born in San Francisco but after my parents died in the earthquake, I was sent to an orphanage in Oakland.”

Bickford sobered. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “
Yes...April eighteenth, 1906, a black day.” He paused, his eyes drifting to the window. “My father ran the
Times
in those days,” he said. “We couldn’t publish, you know. We lost the house on Nob Hill and had to move my family over to Oakland. We lived over there for almost eight months while we rebuilt.”

His eyes came back to Adam, lingered for a moment then he picked up Adam’s resume. “H
ow did you come to be in the newspaper business? I don’t see anything here before your job with the
Oakland Tribune
.”

“I left the orphanage when I was fourteen and worked at a bunch of odd jobs
-– street cleaner, caulker’s assistant in the shipyards,” Adam said. “When I went to apply as a printer at the
Tribune
I got off on the wrong floor. The first person I met was Joe Davenport. We started talking and he asked me what I really wanted to do for a living.”

Adam paused
. The memory of that day was still vivid -- the smell and bustle of the newsroom. “I told him I wanted to be a reporter,” he said. “Joe offered me a job as a copy boy. I worked my way up from there.”

“So why did you want to leave Oakland?” Bickford asked.

Adam could recall the exact day he had asked himself that very question. It was five years ago, January 16. Prohibition had just become law and Adam was assigned to cover how it was creating economic chaos in the wine country and in San Francisco. It was his first trip to the city, and it instantly ignited his imagination and all his latent ambitions. Suddenly, his happy existence at the
Oakland Tribune
seemed too small. Or maybe the rest of the world was too alluringly big. Adam became obsessed with the idea of moving back across the bay.

“Why did I leave Oakland?”
Adam smiled. “You lived there for a while, sir. Why did you want to leave?”

Bickford stared at Adam. The impasse was interrupted by the door opening. Adam smelled the woman’s perfume before he saw her. She
moved across the suite to Bickford and kissed his balding head.

“Hello, Daddy,” she said.

“Lilith, I’ve told you to knock,” Bickford said. “I’m busy.”

The woman looked over at Adam. “Oh, sorry,” she said with a smile. She was in her early twenties, tall and slim, with dark eyes. Two curlicues of black hair wound out of her green hat onto her white cheeks, and her lips were painted bright red. She wore a bottle-green suit, trimmed in mink. “I’m Lilith Bickford,” she said, extending her hand to Adam.

He took it and introduced himself.

“Adam’s our new street man,” Bickford said. “Just starting today.”

“Well, the
Times
can use some new blood,” Lilith said. “Why did you decide to come work for my father, Mr. Bryant?”

Adam considered the question before replying. The truth was, he wanted to work for San Francisco’s other newspaper, the
Journal
. It was bigger and far superior to the
Times.
But he hadn’t been able to land a job there.

“I came here because this is an excellent newspaper,” Adam said
.

Lilith Bickford stared at him then slowly smiled. “Oh yes, the
Times
is, indeed, an excellent newspaper.”

Adam
realized Bickford was oblivious to her sarcasm.

“Well, Mr. Bryant,” Lilith
said, “I hope you do better than those washed-up lushes down there.” Bickford shot his daughter an angry look, which she ignored.

“I intend to, Miss Bickford,” Adam said. “Within a year, I guarantee that I’ll be the
Times’
top reporter.”

She arched her penciled eyebrow
then turned to her father. “Daddy, we have to talk.”

Adam took the cue and rose. He shook Bickford’s hand and said his good-byes to Lilith Bickford.

He lingered outside the open door just long enough to hear Bickford say, “Arrogant chap.”

And his dau
ghter’s reply, “And much too handsome for his own good.”

CHAPTER THREE

Within a year, Adam made good on his promise, rising quickly among the
Times’
lackluster reporters. He was indefatigable and relentless in his pursuit of stories. When a carpenters’ strike erupted into violence, the city’s readers found the best accounts in the
Times.
After a small earthquake, it was Adam Bryant’s colorful reporting everyone quoted over breakfast the next morning. The rival
Journal
repeatedly tried to lure him away, but he turned the offers down. He had studied the inner workings of the
Times
carefully and decided that it was an arena in which he could make his mark quickly.

A
dam became Bickford’s favorite reporter —- and the object of Lilith Bickford’s attention. He wanted to be editor in chief of the
Times
someday, and he considered that Lilith could be a conduit to his goal but he wanted to make it on his own merits.

Then, one afternoon, Bickford came down to the city room to see Adam. They chatted about the day’s news, but then the conversation sputtered to a stop. Bickford pulled a cigar out of his breast pocket and clipped off the end.

“Say, Adam,” he said, “I’d like you to come to dinner tomorrow.”

“We have city elections tomorrow, sir,”
Adam said. “I really should be here for the late results.”

“It’s Lilith’s birthday,” Bickford said. “I know she’d be pleased if you came.” He paused. “So would I.”