LOUSTAU/The Complicity of Edward Dooley Ch. 3 - page 1
Chapter 3
Malcolm Doherty was a proud man. He liked to think himself an authority on many subjects, and began each day by reading the Call Bulletinfront to back in the drawing room of his stately Victorian, keen for stories that touchedon his Irish heritage. As a vested member of the Ancient Order of Hibernians,he faithfully followed Ireland’s quest for independence (even if his true allegiance was to the prosperity America made possible for him). He may not have run in the highest Irish-American circles – with the Floods, Phelans, and MacKays, for instance – but he was among the most prominent men of St. Paul’s Parish, a member of the Knights of Columbus, the Third Order of St. Francis, as well as the Chamber of Commerce. A successful Irish-American businessman, he was on the committee charged with sponsoring Eamon de Valera’s fundraising trip to San Francisco in July 1919,when the Irish republican was to dedicate a bronze statue to Irish patriot Robert Emmetin Golden Gate Park.
Dohertyhad worked his way into San Francisco’s business and political firmament over the yearsby being a tireless booster for the Hibernians, recruiting dozens of new members among his brethren in the construction trades. By the time war broke out in Europein 1914,he’d garnered a reputation as a stalwart officer andforward-thinking man who represented the organization well down at The Boxing Bar. He derived great satisfaction explaining the rationale behind the Marquess of Queensberry rules – no small feat where a fondness for brawlers, especially among the émigrés, was pronounced – arguing that a judicious expenditure of energy prolongedone’s longevity. He employed this axiom whenever hecounselednew members on buildingtheir businessestoensure the long-term security of their families.
A week ago, he was holding court on this very subject in the back room of The Boxing Bar,following the Hibernians’ monthly meeting. It was tight quarters with twenty men crammed around a conference table, the walls covered with framed photographs of famous pugilists, cigar smoke tucked up against the ceiling like spun wool. Doherty had just compared boxing to a waltz, when to his dismayone of hisprotégéssaid that he’d seen the “Fight of the Century” between Jeffries and Johnson in Renonine years earlier. Brendan Ahern was a hard-working pipefitterfrom Kilkenny who’d come to California by way of Prince Edward Island and Salt Lake City. He wasn’t one of the brash upstartswho rubbed the old guard the wrong way, and his remarkmight have washed over had it not been uttered in the presence of several powerful men, including the head of the Market Street Railway and the Chief of Police.
“We don’t talk about niggers here,”fire department captain Bern Driscoll said succinctly.
“Especially one running from the law,” Police Chief White added for good measure, referring to Jack Johnsonfleeing the country after a1913conviction for violating the Mann Act.
“I only mentioned it to say that his uppercut—”
“Now look, Brendan,” Dohertybroke in hastily, “That Willard fellow did everybody a favor when he took Johnson fellow apart in Havana a couple of years ago, so let’s move on…”
“There isn’t a day I don’t mourn the loss of John L. Sullivan,” Eugene Maloney intoned from the directors’ end of the table, covering over the young man’s gaffe. “Now there was a bare-knuckler who knew how to win at all costs.” Maloney was still fuming that in April the U.S. Supreme Court had dismissed his Market Street Railway’s suit against the City, clearing the way for a publicly-owned transit system. “Frankly,” he turned abruptly to the Police Chief, “that’s how you oughta treat those bums down on the docks. Striking for lighter loads, bigger work gangs, and a share of the ownership to boot! Who the hell do they think they are?”
“We’ve got our hands full these days, Gene,” the Chief acknowledged wearily. “I hear there’s guys on our waterfront who want to support the stevedores on strike up in Seattle – the one’s out proclaiming their solidarity with the Russian Revolution…”
Malcolm Doherty’s jaw dropped. “The goddamn Bolsheviks?”
The Chief nodded. “’Seems they refuse to handle the weapons Uncle Sam’s sending to help the White Guards, saying capitalists are out to crush the new workers’ state.”
“Jesus Christ, everything’s outta whack!” Maloney exploded. “Do you know they’re saying that twenty percent of the workforce in this goddamn country willwalk off the job this year in a push for higher wages, shorter days, workers’ rights and all that bullshit. We’ve just come out of a war, for Chrissakes – now’s not the time to be greedy!”
“’Oughta be grateful to havejobs at all,” Dohertyput in. “Now’s the time togear up for peacetime production, to retool factories, invest in roads and rail lines—”
“Damn right,” Maloneyagreed, prompting nods around the table.
“Now’s the time to harness our manufacturing capacity for what people really need,” Dohertycontinued, emboldened, “new homes and schools, modern appliances, automobiles,” he cast a cautious eye to Maloney, “more streetcars, too. It’s time to grow, not retract!”
“And I’ll tell you something else, Doherty,” the railway executive declared, “Now’s not the time for new regulations in the workplace!”
“That’s just what the union agitatorshave in mind,” Chief White observed coolly.
Mahoney pounded the table with his fist. “We’ve got the strongest goddamn economy in the worldwe don’t need to go shooting ourselves in the foot!” Looking across to Doherty, he spoke emphatically. “I’m all for fairness and the Queensberry Rules, Malcolm, but it doesn’t mean you go soft. You take this newboxer, Dempsey, for instance – he plays by the rules, but he’s as ferocious as any of the ol’ bare-knucklers…”
“’Made short work of Freddie Fulton last year,” Dohertyagreed, nodding knowingly to young Ahernacross from him.
“The son-of-a-bitch is constantly on the attack,” Maloneywent on, licking his lips,before turning to the Chief of Police. “That’s how you need to take it to those bastards down on the waterfront!” he said, pounding the table again.
Malcolm Doherty’sSunday morning ritual, after mass at St. Paul’s, was to peruse several newspapers in the privacy of his drawing room, while enjoying the finest Brazilian coffee from the ornate silver service set out for him. Today’s papers included more speculation – aboutwhether a waterfront strike could be averted,and how many rounds Jack Dempsey would need to take the heavyweight title from Jess Willard that summer. Nothing thrilled Malcolm Doherty more, however, than coming across his company’s advertisement. Per usual, hestood to pour himself another cup of coffee and look out the bay window to the steamships jamming the waterfront in the distance, evidence of the city’s progress of which he felt an integral part.
He and his brother Hector had come to San Francisco from Chicago in 1888, with two distinct advantages. The first was Malcolm’s experience at the Sheboygan Union Iron and Steel Foundry, where two years earlier enamel had been applied to a cast-iron horse troughfor the first time – heralding the modern bath tub and other sanitary ware that would soon make water closets, urinals, and drinking fountains de rigueur in multi-story buildings going up all across America. The second was that as a shipping managerwith the Union Pacific Railroad, Hector had developed contacts with manufacturers and suppliers which enabledthe Dohertys to all but corner the market on supplying the latest porcelain fixtures tobooming San Francisco.
Well before the Gold Rushfour decades earlier, a Dubliner named Jasper O’Farrellcharged with plotting the city had laid an invisible grid over the hills and valleysof the seven-foot-wide peninsula, allowing for neighborhoods to fill in as the population grew. The Mission District, named for the mission originally established by Franciscan Friars in 1776, had a century later become the destination of choice for Irish immigrants whose fortunes had improved enough to escape the bowery south of Market Street.
In the last decade of the century, the proliferation of stick-built houses and flats in San Francisco belied the rising prosperity of themerchant classes. Adobe walls and tile roofsin the Mission District gave way to thisdistinctly American vernacular – dubbed Victorian to connote Old World charm – running cheek-to-jowlon the city’s grid, decked out with steep pediments and bay windows, turned-wood columns, egg-and-dart moldingand other whimsical flourishes –all courtesy of the Sears & Roebuck homebuilders’ catalogue. The higher up the hill, the more expansive and elaborate the décor, the intricate color schemes of the facades proclaiming the individuality of the inhabitants.
If among the more established San Francisco families – those of the Protestant persuasion who lived in masonry mansions in loftier districts like Nob Hill and Pacific Heights – the sudden plethora of Victorians was considered outré and vulgar, this mattered little to Malcolm Doherty. Old money might look down their noses at the ‘painted ladies’ but he could rest assured that snobs would always need his services. Things were changing fast enough, he figured, that in another generation or two,old snobs would be replaced by new snobs anyway.
Such were the thoughts running through Malcolm Doherty’smind that Sunday morning when he became cross suddenly, reminded of the hard talk he still needed to have with his son. Morgan had been home four months and had yet to fully engage in the family business,and Mr. Doherty worried that his son’s exposure to life in the east might have corrupted him. His wartime service had been precisely the opposite of his peers: rather than enduringdeprivation and devastation, Morgan apparently hadbeen enjoying the high life. When not sitting behind a desk at Army Headquarters in Washington, he always seemed to be off to parties and fine restaurants,or away on weekend trips up to the big cities.
Mr. Doherty might have blamed his wife for these bad habits – she’d persuaded her husband to reach out to some highly-placed politicos in order to keep their son out of harm’s way – but in truth, he felt theresponsibility was ultimately his to bear. He’d always wanted nothing but the best for his son, andhad been curious to see just what kind of pull he really had. He was chagrined, however, to see what his son was becoming, and when Morgan sauntered into the drawing room late that morning,looking washed out and cradling some sort of tomato-juice concoction, Mr. Dohertycouldbarely contain his exasperation.
“Good of you to make an appearance,” he said, peering over the top of hisnewspaper.
“How’s that?”
“I say it’s about time you got up.”
“Oh, right. Good morning, Father,”Morgansaid, seating himself gingerly on the couch. Everything about the room – the light from the high windows, the sound of his father’s voice, even the smell of the lilies on the mantelpiece – seemed amplified to such an excruciating degree thathe winced as if in pain.
“In another ten minutes you can wish me a good afternoon,” Mr. Doherty offered dryly as he straightened up in his armchair. “Any sign of your sister?”
Morgan shook his head andtentatively sipped his drink. Sensing his father’s disapproval, he explained, “’Hair o’ the dog,’Dad – rather stressful evening, you know.”
“So your mother tells me,” Mr. Dohertysaid with a sigh. “Let’s hear your version.”
“Oh, God, it was simply awful,” Morganbegan, eying the cigarette case on the coffee table, then thinking better of it. “I’m afraid the poor dear was in for the shock of her life…carried away by all the pageantry one minute, in the trenches the next…”
“Brutal business,” Mr. Dohertymuttered,before eying his son sharply. “And where the devil were you, Morgan? You shouldbe looking out for her – you know how sensitive she is.”
Morgan grimaced, lookeddown at his slippers. “Well, Edward and I, we left her for just a minute while she chatted with another girl, and…anyhow, I suppose we stood out, literally the only ones standing there amongall the vets in wheelchairs…” He pronounced it ‘litrally,’ one of many upper-class affectations he’d acquired at college that made his father cringe.
“Ridiculous,” Mr. Doherty said irritably,“She should never have been left unattended.” His elbows on the arms of his chair, he brought his folded hands to his chin. “You’ve got to behave more responsibly, Morgan.”
He wasn’t sure it was intended as disrespect, but his son’s insouciant gaze bothered him. He stood and began to pace the room while Morgan nursed his hangover remedy. When it was evident his son had nothing to say, Mr. Doherty stopped abruptly and turned around.
“And so we’re agreed, Morgan, you’ll start this week?” Morgan looked up. “I want you to familiarize yourselfwith the accounting and scheduling departments first, is that clear?”
Sorry to hear this tiresome refrain,Morgan placed his glass on a coaster. He knew he’d done a poor job concealing his dread at the prospect of wasting his life behind a desk. The truth washe was restless. Smart, organized, and well-spoken, he’d acquitted himself well in the army; though the toll the war had takenappalled him, he did feel a certain pride having been part of aheroic cause. How ironic, he thought, to have ‘come of age’ like so many of his peers – boys to men in two short years – but in altogether different ways. He’d met some interesting, important people, and got a sense of how far his wit and charm could take him.
“Yes, Father,” he replied obediently, wiping the condensation from the glass onto his robe. “I’ll be there – to familiarize myself, as you say – but I do hope we can abbreviate the orientation phase. I’d be of much more use to you traveling and drumming up business.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Mr. Doherty impatiently turned to the window and clasped his hands behind his back. Though short of stature, he was always impeccably turned out, and, in Morgan’s view, a man of quintessential managerial bearing. “But we currently have a good man in that area,” his fatherwas saying, “—perhaps when Dobbs retires we can revisit the subject.”
“He’ll die before he retires, Father…He looks nearly dead now.”
Mr. Doherty turned and looked down at his son. “He’s been loyal to us from the start and I hope you’ll learn the value of this. For now, you need to know the ins and outs of the business.” Moving past his son, he touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Remember that sales is your Uncle Hector’s domain, Morgan – you’ve got to prove yourself in the home office first.”
Morgan rolled his eyes at the thought of ‘Humorless Hector’ who never trusted anyone, even the most obsequious. “I hope I can count on you to put in a good word for me…”
Malcolm smacked his lips. He tolerated his son’s cheekiness only because the boy had the smarts to keep the business going after he retired; he couldn’t risk alienating him altogether.
“Oh, Morgan, dear, what a pleasant shock!” his mother said gaily as she came into the drawing room from the foyer. “Are you well? I hope you haven’t slept poorly, dear.” She chortled under her breath, knowing just how to pluck her husband’s aggravations.
“He’s made himself a medicinal tonic, Clarice,” Mr. Doherty explained. “Better than coffee, apparently” he added with asarcasticglance at their son,who laughed.
Morgan strained to look over his shoulder and catch his mother’s eye. “How’s our Little Darling, Mother? Any sound yet?”
“As a matter of fact, she’s just beginning to stir.”
Standing beside her son, Mrs. Dohertyran her fingers over the satin upholstery of the couch. Slim, with delicate features and auburn hair cut short, shewas always arrayed in understated elegance, a coral crepe de chine for this unseasonably warm Sunday. Ten years younger than her husband, the daughter of a prosperous fruit grower on the peninsula; she was raised in San Francisco. She had attended the Convent of the Blessed Sacrament, and had come to know Malcolm twenty-five years earlier, ashe did business with the sisters and a number of prominent families in Pacific Heights.
He’d beena dashing blond with piercing blue eyes, always smartly dressed, the very picture of success. Hewould call on her family down in Menlo Park while outfittingsummer homes in the area for wealthy clients. Careful to cultivate her parents’ approval before trying to win the heart of their daughter, Malcolm Doherty would always arrive in a handsome carriage, bearing fresh cut flowers for her mother and imported cigars or liqueurs for her father. In time, impressed by the young man’s vitality and solicitous nature, her father was duly convincedthis up-and-comer could give his daughter a good life.