The Sourdough Wars (2 page)

We stared at him.

“They’ll come running.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” said Rob. “I love that old sourdough stuff. I could write about it day and night.”

“Then when we get the money,” said Kruzick, “we’ll build this great new theater—and we’ll have guest artists and everything, plus our own company, in original plays by local playwrights.”

“You get to be the star of every play,” said Mickey. “Because it was your idea.” Like I said, we were on our second drink. So it went on that way for a while. We had a high old time planning rosy futures for Alan and Peter, but no one took it seriously. Chris and Peter hardly listened. They just kept touching each other whenever they made conversational points. If you ask me, they had only one thing on their minds.

“Chris, listen,” I said. “Forget this auction idea. The moon was full last night. You’re just feeling a little funny, that’s all. It’ll go away in a day or two.”

“Think about it, Rebecca. What’s wrong with it? Pick holes in it. Really try.”

I thought about it. I really tried. And I couldn’t come up with any objections. “I guess,” I said, “the worst that could happen is it might not work. I mean, maybe no one will want to bid.”

“Exactly! And what harm would that do? None. Listen, Peter wants us to set it up. He’s our client.”

“He doesn’t need a law firm. He needs a business manager or a financial consultant. Something like that.”

“He wants us.”

“He wants you.”

She patted her hair. “The things I do to get clients.”

“Oh, stop. He’s really serious about our setting it up?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to consult a consultant.” I picked up the phone and dialed a friend who was one and who owed me a favor. He told me exactly how to do it, and I told Chris. Then I called Rob to see if he still wanted to do the story. He said he’d get back to me, and he did, in five minutes.

“The city editor loves it,” he said. “Thinks it’s the greatest
Chronicle
yarn since sliced muffins.”

“Don’t you mean sliced bread?”

“Rebecca,” he said, “your brain’s going. Don’t you remember the sliced-muffin story?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

“It was in 1967.”

“I was a little young at the time. Possibly not even born. Refresh my memory.”

“There’s nothing worse than a sliced English muffin, you know what I mean? You’ve got to tear them apart, so you get a nice uneven surface with big craters for butter to drip into.”

“So?”

“So the local English-muffin makers started slicing the goods. We ran it on the front page for a week. In the end, they went back to the good old way. Hottest story since ‘A Great City Forced to Drink Swill!’ ”

I did remember that one—or at least I remembered hearing about it. I was a tyke at the time. The
Chronicle
had exposed the fact that city restaurants were serving terrible coffee. That was it—the whole story. It was the greatest little circulation booster of the decade. That was the kind of city San Francisco was and the kind of morning paper it had. So of course the city editor went bonkers for sourdough.

The story ran the next day, in a wiggly-rule box above the fold on page one. The box also contained a mouthwatering three-column picture of a sourdough loaf broken open so you could see the famous dark crust contrasting with the tempting chewy interior. I bet everyone in the city had sourdough for lunch that day, and those who didn’t had it for dinner. But then, that was about the way San Franciscans ate on an ordinary day. Sourdough with fresh salmon. Sourdough with cracked crab. Sourdough with shrimp Louie, chef’s salad, pasta, petrale sole. Burgers on sourdough rolls. My mind was wandering, and I mentally congratulated Mr. City Editor. This was bigger than sliced muffins. It might be the biggest thing since the earthquake.

Rob’s story made Peter sound very naive and charming. It outlined the history of the Martinelli Bakery, referred movingly to the tragic death of Mom and Dad Martinelli, and portrayed the youthful Peter as a sensitive child who never had any interest in business, much to the despair of his parents. He had been an artistic child from the first, and his teachers had recognized his talent, but the Martinellis had done their best to squash it and turn him into a baker. Peter had suffered enormous guilt when Mom and Dad died, but, as he put it, “that didn’t make me any smarter in business.” So he had pursued his acting career, and Rob mentioned three or four local triumphs and a couple of movies he’d been in. The story ended like so:

“I don’t know if anybody’d really be interested in buying a frozen batch of dough,” said Martinelli. “But I thought I’d give it a try. Unless some money comes in from somewhere, the Town Theater’s going to have to fold, and I like to
think
it’s been kind of a cultural enrichment to the city. So I just thought I’d try. If anybody wants to bid, they can contact my lawyer, Chris Nicholson. I don’t guess they will, but just in case.”

I didn’t really approve. From what I’d seen of Peter Martinelli, he wasn’t really an “aw, shucks” type of guy, and I didn’t like it when actors played roles in real life. But tears came to Chris’s eyes when she read the story. “Rob really got him,” she said. “I can hear him saying that. He’s got so much going for him, and yet he’s so modest and unassuming. He doesn’t seem to believe things could really go right for once.”

“He could have fooled me.”

“You saw him after a performance, when he was on a high. He’s really a very sweet, rather insecure person.”

“That’s what Mickey says about Kruzick.”

Chris touched her long nose with an equally long finger, a sure sign she was getting upset. “Listen, you don’t have to—”

“I’m sorry. I liked the guy. Really. I just thought he laid it on a little thick in the interview.”

“You don’t know him.” She went into her own office. I didn’t know if he was Mr. Right, but I could see she was in deep.

* * *

Rob did a few more stories about the auction over the next few days, and we got four bidders. We set “The Great Sourdough Starter Auction,” as
Chronicle
readers had come to know it, for noon the following Tuesday, at the modest offices of Nicholson and Schwartz. Monday night Peter had Chris and Rob and me over for dinner.

He had a two-room apartment in one of those shabby buildings that San Francisco is full of, the kind you hate going to because the hallway carpet stinks and no one ever seems to vacuum the stairs. Peter’s had high ceilings and a fresh coat of high-gloss avocado-colored paint. His furniture was Cost Plus wicker, but he’d painted it aubergine and had had paisley cushions made for it. He’d ripped up the smelly carpet that probably came with the apartment, buffed the floor, and scattered tan and white cotton throw rugs about. A few nicely framed charcoal drawings hung on the walls.

It was a very eccentric, very elegant place, and it had obviously cost hardly anything. If I were starting to see Peter as a very resourceful young man, dinner persuaded me further. He served us homemade fettuccine with homemade pesto, a salad of Belgian endive and watercress, and pineapple sorbet he’d made himself.

I thought maybe Chris was on to a good thing. The two of them had been together every spare minute since they’d met, so I guess she thought so, too.

The bidders had agreed to Rob’s presence at the auction, and he was hoping to interview them afterward, but he wanted a little background information about them. That was the ostensible purpose of the dinner—to fill him in.

Rob got down to business after dinner. “So,” he said, whipping out his notebook, “Who
are
the bidders?”

Chris spoke before Peter had a chance. “Everybody who’s anybody.”

“Meaning?”

“Robert Tosi,” said Peter.

“Of the Tosi Bakery? Wow.” Rob was impressed for good reason. When the Martinelli company folded, the Tosi loaf had become the sourdough of choice. Most of the old restaurants served Tosi bread, though some of the newer, more chic ones bought their bread from one of the new chic bakeries.

“Who else?” asked Rob.

“Tony Tosi.”

“I don’t get it. Are there two Tosi bakeries?”

“In a manner of speaking. Tony runs the Palermo Bakery.” This was the oldest and best established of the new sourdough emporia.

“Are Tony and Bob related?”

“Brothers.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“It’s an even better story than you think. They’re bitter rivals. Barely speak to each other.”

“You know them?”

“I grew up with them. Their dad worked for my dad before he left to start his own bakery.”

“This is great stuff.”

“It gets better. The next bidder is a guy named Clayton Thompson. He was sent here from New York by none other than Conglomerate Foods—the frozen cake and pie folks. They want to market frozen sourdough.”

“I’ve died and gone to heaven. The two local biggies, brother against brother, and a giant, man-eating, New York-based corporation.”

If Chris could have looked like a cat or a cow, she would have. She had to make do with looking like what she was—a very contented Virginia aristocrat. Peter looked like a kid with a new bicycle.

“The fourth one’s not so exciting,” I said. “Some lady from Sonoma.”

“Ah, a provincial upstart—and a lady, too. I hope she’s photogenic.”

Peter shrugged. “She’s okay if you like short blondes.” Chris has the delicate skin of a blonde, but her hair is a rich light brown, and she’s six feet tall. So that was a tactful thing to say, and Peter reached for her hand as he said it.

“What’s her name?” asked Rob.

“Sally Devereaux. Of the Plaza Bakery.”

“Never heard of it. Anybody know anything about it?”

“The bread,” said Peter, “is incredibly good.”

“
Incredibly
good?”

“Fantastic.”

“So what does she need the starter for?”

“Beats me. Why do any of them need it? I’ve never gotten the hang of any of this.” He got up and came back with a tray of brandy snifters and a bottle of cognac. “I’ve been saving this,” he said, and was handing drinks around when the doorbell rang.

He stopped what he was doing, walked over to the intercom, and asked who was there.

“Sally Devereaux,” said the intercom. Peter pushed a button. He came back and finished pouring the drinks. “I guess,” he said, “we can ask her right now why she wants the starter.”

Sally Devereaux was not only blond; she was very pale. She was wearing jeans and a pink sweater that must have been an extra-large. It fit her snugly.

She was short, as Peter had said, rather plump, and rather top-heavy. Her hair was short and curly. A soft, fluffy kind of woman. And at the moment a very frightened one.

Tears started down her face when she saw Peter had company. “Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—”

“It’s all right.” Awkwardly, he rubbed the back of her sweater. “It’s okay.” He made a gesture to Chris, and she poured Sally a brandy. “Sit down.”

Sally did, and Peter made introductions. By that time Sally had a better hold on herself. “You’re all here about the auction?”

We nodded.

“I just had a threatening phone call. Someone called and told me not to bid.”

Rob leaned forward in his chair. Sometimes I thought he had a funny way of looking at people—as if they were all characters in one of his stories and not real at all. It worried me. “A man or a woman?” he said.

Sally shuddered. “One of those whispery voices. Peter, I can’t do it, I can’t do it. I just can’t.” Her voice rose on each “can’t.”

“It’s okay,” said Chris. She waved at Sally’s glass. “I think the brandy might help.” Sally sipped it, but she was still very pale.

Rob asked, “What did the voice say?”

“It said, ‘You know who this is. Drop out or you might get hurt.’ And then it hung up. I mean
he
hung up.”

Rob was leaning even closer. “You know who it was, then?”

“Of course.” She looked at Peter. “It’s them. It’s got to be. God knows what they’d do. They’re used to it. They were raised that way.”

“Who?” asked Rob, but Peter waved him quiet.

“Sally,” he said softly. “You’re being ridiculous. I hope you’ll reconsider about the auction.” He stood up, signaling her to leave.

She stood, too, and took a step closer to Peter. “But—” He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure it’s just some nut. I hope to see you tomorrow.”

He saw her to the door and patted her back as she left. The whole thing seemed fishily perfunctory. If Peter were really as good a guy as Chris thought, I figured he knew something about Sally that the rest of us didn’t.

He came back looking embarrassed. “This came up when she called about the auction,” he said. “She’s got some crazy idea about the—excuse me, I’d better get that.”

Peter picked up the phone. “Mr. Thompson, how are you?” He listened for a moment, spoke reassuringly, and hung up. “Clayton Thompson got a call, too. He thinks it’s the mob.”

“Is that what Sally thought?” asked Rob.

“Not exactly. Sally’s fears are a little more specific. I guess I’d better tell you. She thinks if you’re Italian, you’re automatically some kind of criminal.” He shrugged. “It’s crazy.”

“You mean,” Rob said, “she thinks it’s one of the Tosis.”

“It’s nuts.” Peter was getting very upset. “I grew up with them. They’re honest business people.”

Chris spoke. “Peter, some nut might call one person, but two got calls. Somebody is trying to stop the auction.” He shrugged again, looking frustrated.

Chris spoke slowly, as if she were afraid to: “It must be Anita.”

Rob zeroed in: “Who’s Anita?”

“My sister,” Peter said. “The one who didn’t inherit the starter.”

Rob’s face showed he didn’t get it.

“She wanted it,” said Peter. “And I wanted the house. But our parents didn’t see it that way. She never gave up the idea of starting up the Martinelli Bakery again.”

“And,” said Chris, “she’s been begging him to call off the auction.”

“What difference does it make?” Peter was practically shouting. “Anita’s not going to hurt anybody. And neither are the Tosis. Everyone’s getting hysterical for no reason.”