“If you say so.” He waves his hand around the room. “In any case, these fellows came all the way from Ethiopia to dig gold. They’re just waiting for spring to get sprung. I figure this is the one place in town we can talk privately, because a spy would stick out like a snowball in summer.”
The shop’s owner brings us two bowls of food, which is a stew with flatbread. The spices are unfamiliar, and I’m a little afraid to eat it. But I don’t want Jim to know that.
I wave at the proprietor. “Some silverware, please?”
Jim shakes his head. “Like this,” he says. “You break off bread to scoop up the stew. No, use your right hand only. You don’t want to be rude.”
I follow his example. The bread is spongy, like a pancake, but it has a sour tang.
Jim laughs at my expression. “You get used to it.” He scoops more stew and pushes the bread into his mouth. After he swallows, he says, “Tell me what you saw this morning.”
So I tell him what I’ve been thinking: the people of San Francisco work hard, improve property, build better lives for themselves.
“What I saw,” Jim says, “are a whole bunch of folks not protected by the law.”
I open my mouth to argue. Close it. Take another bite of food.
“You saw how Hampton’s not protected by the law, right? Well, neither am I, nor any other Negro man or woman,” he says. “Same goes for the Chinese, the Indians, and all the other immigrants. The Mexicans did all right at first, but that’s changing, and it will change even more when California’s statehood becomes official.”
“I see your point,” I say, thinking of the family being forced out of their home by Hardwick’s men.
“So Hardwick owns land in every neighborhood we walked through today. He doesn’t sell it outright. People jump at the opportunity to rent from him when they first arrive, expecting to pick up gold on every corner. They make outrageous payments, figuring the next month, the month after, they’ll be rich beyond their wildest dreams. Instead, they go broke, and Hardwick rents the land to some other newcomer with a nest egg.”
“And that’s how Hardwick made his fortune?”
Jim shakes his head. “We’re just getting started. Sometimes he sells property on an installment plan. A fellow with a lot of optimism buys a house lot for twelve thousand dollars. Only he doesn’t have twelve thousand dollars, so Hardwick promises to sell it to him for just a thousand dollars a month, plus interest and some handling fees. The man signs the contract, but the interest and fees bring the payment closer to fifteen hundred a month, and meanwhile he’s not getting rich like he planned. After a few months of hard work, during which he’s been improving the property, he’s broke. He can’t make payments. So Hardwick’s men kick him out.”
“That family sitting in the street . . . they’d been evicted.”
He nods approval. “Hardwick’s men reclaim the property—now worth more—and he resells it for a higher rate as improved land.”
“And not everyone lives long enough to go broke,” I say, thinking of that huge cemetery. “California is a dangerous place.”
“Exactly. Most people left their loved ones behind. They come alone, and they die alone. There’s no effort made to contact a family back in France or Australia or China.”
“Or even back east.”
“Or even back east. The property goes into probate, which means it goes to the court. Hardwick owns the court, so the property reverts to the previous owner, which is him, and he starts the process all over again.”
I take a bite, chew thoughtfully. This sour bread isn’t so bad. “So Hardwick is selling the same land over and over again.”
“Exactly.”
“You know, a while back I met a pickpocket. Sonia. She told me San Francisco was full of thieves. Real thieves. The kind who take everything from you, even the clothes off your back.”
Jim nods. “A lot of folks are on the streets these days because Hardwick put them there. It’s gotten worse in the past month or so, since that Frank Dilley showed up. When I found you and Jefferson at the law offices that day, it sounded like you all knew each other.”
“Wish we didn’t. He was master of our wagon train on the way out, once the Major got hurt. Left us to die in the desert, seemed disappointed when we didn’t. Ended up working for my uncle Hiram.”
Jim pauses midchew. “So Hiram did make it out to California,” he says around a mouthful of food.
“Yes, and I need to talk to you about Uncle Hiram when we’re done here. But Jim—be careful of Dilley. He’s . . . an unsavory fellow.”
“The world’s got plenty of those,” Jim says.
“Yeah, but Frank Dilley’s a special sort. He likes to hurt people, especially anyone different from him.”
“The world’s got plenty of those, too. There was an overseer who . . .” Something awful flits across his face, but it’s gone before I can put a name to it. “Well, I was lucky to buy my way out when I did.”
The proprietor brings two cups of the strongest coffee I’ve ever smelled. I look up to thank him, but he won’t make eye contact with me.
Jim continues, “Anyway, most of the land we saw today has been sold, and resold, four or five or six times, just in the past year.”
I give a low whistle. “Why do people keep doing business with Hardwick?”
Jim shrugs. “What other choice do they have? A couple years ago this was a town with a few hundred people. Now there are thirty thousand. Most of them spent everything they had to get here. They can’t exactly turn around and leave.”
The Hoffman family gave up and went back home after arriving in California. But they had a golden candlestick and a witchy friend to help them pay for return passage. If not for that, they would have been stuck here like everyone else.
“And the whole city almost burned to the ground just two months ago,” Jim continues. “Hardwick profited from that too—folks lost everything and couldn’t afford to rebuild, so he bought their land out from under them and then rented it back at twice the price.”
I’ve lost most of my appetite, but I force myself to sip the coffee. It’s sharp and bitter enough to penetrate the constant buzz of gold, which I appreciate. I take another sip and say, “If he’s investing all this money, how come he has so much of it locked up in banks?”
“You remember my general store, back home in Dahlonega?”
“I’ll never forget it.”
“When I wanted to buy supplies, I had to buy them with cash up front. Nobody would extend credit to a Negro. That’s not the deal Hardwick has.”
“Huh?” I clutch the coffee mug close; maybe I’m seeking comfort.
“Hardwick owns everything on paper, but that doesn’t mean he paid for it all. The banks extend him credit. So he takes the title on the property, and collects rents, and he gives everyone else their cut. He pays his gang more than they could make doing carpentry work or prospecting. He pays the sheriff to look the other way, and I guess the politicians and judges, too. Maybe even the bank. In the end, he has a nice chunk of money left over. And he never had to buy anything up front in order to get it.”
I think back, trying to remember if I saw Mr. Keys count out a portion of coins to the bank manager, but I wasn’t paying close enough attention.