The day we ran into Hardwick, his entourage included the fellow whom Henry has taken to calling “Mr. Keys,” real name unknown. All we do know about Mr. Keys is that he’s a small man with a narrow face and no chin, and—most importantly—he sticks close to Hardwick, carrying a large ring of keys and a heavy leather bag full of gold.
It’s a sure bet some of Hardwick’s money is at that bank. But it’s a surer bet that not all of it is. And if anyone is in charge of Hardwick’s money, it’s Mr. Keys.
Jefferson took off before dawn to make inquiries about Hardwick’s main business office and hopefully put an eye on the little fellow.
In the meantime, before the bank opens, Becky and I camp out in the parlor of a hotel kitty-corner to the Custom House building. We find two large armchairs and drag them from the fireplace to one of the windows. The window is dirty but large, and it gives us an unobstructed view of the bank. This is one of the establishments where miners, flush with gold, stay up all night to gamble, and are then late abed, so we have the downstairs mostly to ourselves.
Their gold sings to me, though. Several coin purses’ worth, mostly upstairs, but a larger stash hides away in the downstairs office.
The air is especially chilly. Nothing close to a frost, but still the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes you ache for a warm kitchen and bread right out the oven; even a chunk of half-burned, half-doughy bread from Becky’s restaurant would be just the thing. A light rain falls, so the plaza feels sleepier than usual. The men who come to open the bank have hunched shoulders and dripping hats. They pause beneath the veranda to kick mud off their boots before unlocking the doors.
For the next hour or so, a handful of brave but unfamiliar souls, similarly inured to the cold and wet, are the only ones to enter and leave.
“Excuse me, ladies?”
I’d been so intent on watching the bank that I hadn’t noticed anyone approach. The proprietor of the hotel, wearing a green velvet vest and an air of self-importance, looks down his blunt nose at us.
I’m not sure what to say, but Becky doesn’t hesitate.
“My dear sir,” she says smoothly. The baby kept her up half the night, and it’s a wonder she’s not dozing in her chair. “How may we be of service?”
“That’s just it,” he says, hooking his thumbs into his vest pockets. “You can’t.”
“I’m afraid we don’t understand your implication,” Becky says.
“That is, what I’m trying to say is, this is not the sort of establishment where we welcome women who provide services.”
My head whips back around. “What?”
Becky reaches out and taps her fingers on his hand. “Oh, sir, that’s such a relief to hear. You’ve put my heart at ease.”
“I have?” he says, thrown off-balance.
I’m torn. I need to watch the bank, but I’m equally captivated by Becky—I have no idea what she plans to say next. It never occurred to me that we’d be a problem sitting in a public parlor on a cold day.
“You have,” she says. “You see . . .” She whispers the last phrase conspiratorially, leaning forward. The proprietor bends down to listen closely.
“My dear, beloved husband,” she says, “brought our gold into San Francisco to invest it, but I’m very much afraid he’s been spending it instead. It’s one thing if he gambles a bit of it. Why, that’s natural, and any man might do the same, whether for entertainment or in hopes of increasing his stake. But if he’s been spending it elsewise . . .”
She lets the last sentence trail off like an unspoken threat. Taking notice of my attention, she jerks her head to the window, and I oblige by turning my head around again to watch the bank, trusting her to take care of the proprietor.
“And you’re certain he’s a resident of our establishment?” he says.
“Not at all,” Becky says. “But he didn’t come home last night, and one of his usual companions said he was last seen in your gambling parlor, around midnight. So I’ve come to check. You say there are no women here who might keep the gentlemen company?”
“Ah,” the proprietor says.
In his silence, I hear a different story: that any such women here are discreet enough to avoid being seen in the front parlor in the morning.
“Perhaps he had a bit too much to drink and decided to sleep it off before coming home,” Becky suggests.
“That’s entirely possible,” admits the proprietor. “If you would like to give me a name, I could check our guest ledger.”
“Absolutely not!” Becky says. “If my suspicions are unfounded, I would certainly not wish to sully the reputation of our good name.”
A short man carrying something heavy walks toward the bank. I rub a circle clean on the window with my sleeve, then realize that Becky and the proprietor are both staring. I suppose that using my sleeve to clean a window is probably ill-mannered. “I apologize,” I say, hiding my sleeve under my arm. “I thought I saw . . . him.” Him being Mr. Keys, not Becky’s imaginary husband. “But I was mistaken.”
“Have all of your guests come downstairs yet this morning?” Becky asks the proprietor.
“No, ma’am,” he says. “No, they haven’t.”
“Then we’ll just wait here until they do. Thank you for allowing us to do that. Your thoughtfulness means everything.”
I take another glimpse, just to see his jaw working, trying to figure out how he ended up giving us permission. Finally he snaps it shut and takes a moment to gather himself. “I guess that will be satisfactory,” he says thoughtfully, perhaps considering how he can sneak upstairs and warn his customers that someone’s angry wife is lying in ambush in the parlor. He turns to go, saying, “If there will be nothing else, then?”
“Oh, thank you kindly for offering,” Becky says. “It’s so dreadfully cold out. A cup of tea would be perfect. Do you want a cup of tea, dear?”
I realize she’s talking to me. “Coffee, please.”
“And sugar,” Becky says. “Lots of sugar.”
We pass the morning supplied with a side table, and restored at regular intervals with fresh tea and coffee. Becky pretends to watch the lobby, deflecting conversations with the proprietor and anyone else who comes along. I keep an eye on the bank.
Gold from last night’s winnings pokes at my mind from the rooms above our head. After the proprietor leaves to make his rounds, I feel some of it moving out of the rooms and away, disappearing without coming down the front staircase.
By early afternoon, the rain has let up. We enjoy fresh sandwiches from the kitchen, while Becky pretends to enjoy the company of the hotel’s cook. Across the street, the bank’s clerks leave in small groups for lunch, and then return. It takes hours, but eventually even Becky’s mighty composure crumbles into fidgeting as she becomes bored and restless, ready to call it quits.
But my daddy taught me how to hunt with that Hawken rifle Jim returned to me. He showed me how to hole up in a blind and wait for my quarry to come along, even if it meant staying for hours in the cold and snow. Days, if we were desperate enough.