The Warlock's Curse (20 page)

They drove south along the Embarcadero, the piers a hive of activity even before dawn on a Sunday, making their way to Market Street and the financial district where, Will supposed, Jenny’s crooked lawyer was to be found. As they drove, Will saw evidence of the catastrophic earthquake and fire that had occurred just four years prior. But the city seemed determined to put the horrible memory behind itself as quickly as possible. Razed blocks sat side-by-side with fresh new construction.

Driving along Market Street was a novel challenge for Will. He’d never driven on such a busy thoroughfare. He had to contend not only with streetcars and horse-drawn carts, but also with barking traffic cops. He was relieved when Jenny directed him to turn off onto Fourth Street and park the machine in an alley.

The Emporium, one of San Francisco’s biggest department stores, was just around the corner on Market, and they had a whole bank of pay telephones. Jenny used one of these to call her crooked lawyer at home. Will leaned against the wooden telephone booth, listening as Jenny asked for a Mr. Sawtelle. She briskly assured him that it was a matter of extreme urgency, and that yes, she was aware that it was Sunday, and a day of rest, but that nonetheless, he must come down to his office and meet her immediately.

Hanging up the receiver, Jenny slid open the glass-and-mahogany door and stepped out of the booth. “Mr. Sawtelle wants to finish his breakfast,” she informed Will, “but I got him to agree to come down. He’ll be here in an hour.”

Will would have been happy to get some breakfast himself, but Jenny had other plans for their spare hour—plans involving a ride up the elevator to the second floor of the Emporium, where the ladies’ clothing department was housed. Will trailed after her, supremely superfluous, until Jenny parked him on a wooden bench next to a couple of other similarly superfluous husbands. Both men grunted a sympathetic greeting before returning to their conversation. Will stared. The store was already having a Christmas sale! And the store was packed with holiday shoppers apparently unaware of just how ridiculous this was.

“I just hope we can get down to the Presidio in time,” said one of the men. “The match gets underway at 2:30.”

The other man consulted his watch. “Pshaw. You got plenty of time.”

“Sure, if the rally doesn’t jam up all the traffic,” the first man fretted. “They’re expecting hundreds.”

“Church gets out at eleven,” the second man noted. “And you know those good church folk, they all want to get home for lunch. I’ll lay you a nickel they quickstep it through their speeches at the courthouse, burn their effigy or whatever it is they’re going to do, and clear out by one.”

“I sure wouldn’t mind hanging around and watching,” said the first man. “Apparently it’s going to be a big hoop-dee-doo!”

Will saw Jenny out of the corner of his eye, darting purposefully through the ladies’ department with two shopgirls in tow. Jenny moved with the calm assurance of thorough practice; she had merely to gesture to something and a shopgirl would pick it up and add it to the mounded pile she carried. Finally, she and the shopgirls disappeared into a fitting room. When they emerged, Jenny was wearing a very serious suit of dark grey wool with a black velvet collar that made her look years older than she actually was. But she had not entirely abandoned her commitment to remaining fashionable; the suit’s severe effect was softened by a lacy, ruffled shirtwaist of blush pink, and the skirt was of the up-to-the-minute “hobble” variety, with a wide band of black velvet near the hem that restricted her stride to a wibbling mince.

She had also obtained a new hat, even more excessively large than her last. It featured an entire bird’s wing in the front, rising up from the brim.

“How about it?” she said, doing a half-turn in front of him. “Do I look like a serious married woman?”

Will was opening his mouth to reply when one of the salesgirls, who had been following Jenny like a baby duckling, marched up and briskly handed him several neatly wrapped parcels (the clothes Jenny had changed out of) as well as an enormous hat-box containing the now clearly disgraced hat she’d worn in to the store. Laid atop the boxes was a neatly penned receipt. When Will saw it, all thoughts of replying to Jenny’s question vanished.

“Good lord!”

“Don’t worry, I have an account here,” Jenny said. “The bills go to Dad.”

“How can anyone spend that much on a hat?” he wailed as he followed Jenny out of the department. The two men watched in sympathy as he went.

Emerging from the Emporium, they crossed Market Street, dodging drays and autos alike. Jenny led him about a half block down to O’Farrell, and came to a stop outside of a very grand structure—the Union Trust Building. It looked like a Greek Temple. Will, having expected something quite a bit seedier, was surprised.

“You wait out here,” said Jenny. “And keep a lookout.”

“Keep a lookout for what?” Will protested. “And what exactly am I supposed to do if whatever it is I’m supposed to be looking out for shows up? Hoot like a barn owl? Throw the hat box at them?”

“Fine, if you won’t let me be nice about it, I’ll be rude,” she said. “You look like a Sacramento Valley bumpkin and I’d be embarrassed to bring you into Mr. Sawtelle’s office.”

“Bumpkin!” Will would have thrown his hat to the sidewalk in outrage, but his hands were quite full. “Well, I like that! Won’t your Mr. Sawtelle want some proof that you have a husband?”

“This is all the proof I need,” Jenny said, half-drawing the marriage certificate out of her purse. “Signed and sealed by the county clerk in Stockton.” As she tucked the certificate back, Will noticed another envelope in Jenny’s purse—heavy, cream-colored, with a professional logo printed on it.

“So you expect me to just stand out here on the sidewalk?”

Jenny sighed. “For heaven’s sake, do I have to think of everything?” She pointed across the street to a coffee shop. “Go have a piece of pie. I’ll meet you there in a half-hour.”

Glad of the chance to lay down his burdens, Will hurried across the street. He was delighted to discover that what had looked to be just a regular old coffee shop was actually an automatic restaurant. He’d heard about these “automats” from his more citified friends at the Polytechnic—all the offerings were arrayed behind tiny glass doors and accessed by deposited nickels. With the loose change in his pocket, he bought not only a slice of pie, but also some coffee and a bowl of oxtail soup. He enjoyed figuring out how the automat worked, peering in through the little cubes to see the waitresses bustling in the kitchen beyond. He was disappointed to discover that the food was not delivered in some more clever way, via chutes or pneumatic tubes or something. He finally sat down and ate his pie, which was fine, but not much compared to his Ma’am’s.

He was just finishing the last bite when he became aware of a commotion in the street outside. At first it was hard to separate from the late-breakfast din of the café, but then he recognized the unmistakable sound of brass horns and drums. The jaunty march drew the attention of several of the automat’s patrons, and they went to the front window and peered down Market Street.

A parade was coming up the street—and though Will could only see the first few marchers from where he was standing, it seemed like it must be a large one. Traffic down Market Street was grinding to a halt and distant passersby were clogging the sidewalks to watch.

A small brass marching band came first; not any kind of a formal band in uniform, these men wore Sunday suits and hats. There were a few trumpets, a handful of trombones, even a couple of tubas. And one large drum. Instead of bringing up the rear, the drum was right up front, where the marching band conductor would usually be, clearing a path with its thunderous
thud
-
thud
-
thud
.

Will stepped out onto the sidewalk, joining dozens of others to get a better look. As the small band passed, Will could better see the hundreds of marchers following them. They were led by a half-dozen matronly ladies—full-figured, stalwart, clad in their best Sunday dresses and huge flowered hats—bearing a wide banner before themselves:

S
AN
F
RANCISCO
C
HURCHES
U
NITED
F
OR
M
ANDATORY
P
ANCHREST
I
MMUNIZATION

“They’re marching up to the U.S. Courthouse on Seventh,” someone in the crowd nearby said. “They’re coming from the revival at the new Scharfian Temple. Brother Phleger gave a sermon by Teslaphone this morning, and I hear it was a doozy!”

Most of the marchers waved small American flags, but a few dozen carried neatly lettered signs. Most of these bore the official slogan of the movement—“Immunization Now!”—but a few other variations had been interspersed for variety’s sake. Several signs read “Keep America’s Children Safe,” with America’s children (as a class) represented by a picture of “Little Sanctity Snow,” the cherubic, white-ringleted musical prodigy whose divinely inspired stylings on the electrical organ accompanied all of Brother Phleger’s Teslaphone jeremiads.

Some marchers had the special job of handing out literature to those gathered along the curb to watch. A pamphlet was shoved hastily into Will’s hands. It bore the now familiar photo of Little Sanctity Snow, and a coy headline that read “Stamp out the Allergy—
for Good
.” Will noticed it also bore the logo of Sanitas Pharmaceutics—the manufacturers of the Panchrest—at the bottom. He shoved the pamphlet into his pocket.

A distinctly different group—younger and more boisterous—followed the first contingent of marchers. At the vanguard of this group walked a handful of sharp-looking young men in business suits, carrying a banner of their own:

L
EVEL
THE
P
LAYING
F
IELD
—F
AIR IS
F
AIR
!

The signs carried by the young men in this group were much different than the ones which had preceded them. There were no pictures of angelic (and presumably endangered) children. Instead, their signs were painted with cartoons of rich fat old men, lifting magical charms aloft with self-satisfied arrogance. Little stars and swirls around their heads graphically signified their use of magic. Each sign bore the exact same words: “Bust the Magical Trust!”

So these were the representatives of the Malmantic Generation’s business class, thought Will. The professional men under the age of thirty who keenly resented the magical advantages—charms and potions to enhance attention, boost financial acumen, extend vitality, charm the tongue for keener negotiations—which were still available to members of an earlier generation. As it was the city’s financial district that they were marching through, these young men attracted the crowd’s most enthusiastic cheers and whistles.

The young businessmen were followed, at some length, by two very large men, dressed in matching shirts of bright red satin decorated with silver spangles. They were broadly mugging for the crowds, and the other marchers had clearly given them a wide berth so they might command the greatest amount of attention. Between them they carried an effigy of a well-fed man dressed in a politician’s suit, swinging from its neck by a noose. Pinned to its shirtfront was a placard: “Argus Edwards, California’s
Traitor
to the People.”

Will put a hand over his mouth, not sure if he was stifling a gasp of horror or a belly laugh. Criminy, it looked just like Argus! So
that’s
what he and Uncle Royce had been sweating their brains over at Thanksgiving. Oh gosh, what he wouldn’t give to see his brother’s face right now!

“Will!” Someone seized his arm, startling him—but it was just Jenny, her cheeks pink with excitement. Her blue eyes sparkled. “I got the money! Can you believe it, I got it!” Reaching inside her purse, she pulled out a crisp new envelope. She was just opening it to show him the contents when a loud call came from a ways down the sidewalk:

“Jenny?”

Jenny and Will turned at the same time—and at the same time, they gasped.

Standing on the corner at the far end of the block were Argus and Mr. Hansen.

Argus, surrounded by a large number of his political cronies, was clearly taking his responsibility to look stern and disapproving very seriously, so he gave Will little more than a quick glance. But Mr. Hansen’s brow furrowed in confusion and he began walking toward them, pushing his way through the dense crowd.

“Jenny?” he called again. “Will?”

“Dad!” squeaked Jenny. “Oh no, how could he—quick, William! We have to get to the car! If he catches us—”

Her words were cut off as Will took Jenny’s arm and began pulling her along the sidewalk in the opposite direction.

“William!” she cried, stumbling. The stupid, fashionable hobble skirt made it impossible for her to move any faster than a mincing trot.

Will swore under his breath. Glancing back, he saw that Mr. Hansen had escaped the press of the sidewalk and was running along the curb of Market Street, knowing he’d be able to move faster. Will slowed. He didn’t want to run away from Mr. Hansen. It just seemed so ... low.