Blood and Oranges, James Goldsborough [spicy books to read txt] 📗

He thought of saying an ordained Presbyterian minister, but it occurred to him that Joseph Francis Sartori probably was not Presbyterian.

“What is your line of work, Mr. Mull?”

“Land. I want to develop land.”

Sartori pondered that for a moment. “There are certainly opportunities for land development in San Francisco. Have you been up there since the earthquake?”

“Oh yes. Terrible devastation still.”

“Of course, we have our own opportunities here. You’ve heard about the aqueduct, I’m sure. It’s probably what brought you to our city.”

Eddie liked the phrase “our city,” liked the civic spirit, liked the way they were feeling each other out, liked that in a man. Never rush, take the other man’s measure, weigh your comments carefully. It had been the same with Claus Spreckels.

“I sense there are opportunities here, yes sir, but it’s hard for a newcomer to get the feel for how things will, you know—turn out. Big risks involved.”

With canny, penetrating dark eyes, the banker stared at him for some time. “Certainly,” he said at length, “we always want to minimize risk.” Silence again, then: “Am I to understand that if you had a better understanding of the land opportunities here that you would be ready to transfer your Salinas bank account in its entirety to us?”

“I think that is very likely, yes, sir.”

Sartori put his hands together in front, forming a steeple, looking down through them almost as if praying. It took some time for him to answer.

“I can’t say that I have any inside information, Mr. Mull. But I think I can safely tell you that some of this bank’s most prominent clients seem to think that great prospects for development are to be found in the San Fernando Valley. We, of course, are here to help them in any way we can.”

It was the moment for a smile, but Joe Sartori was not a smiler.

♦ ♦ ♦

With twenty-five thousand others, Eddie Mull was there on the great day, November 5, 1913, the day the sluices were thrown. Watching the huge wave shoot down the mountain bringing its snow water from the peaks of the Sierra Nevadas three hundred miles away, he was dazzled. He saw himself tall on his skis, schussing down that water mountain, spreading out over the land, unstoppable, just like the water. Where there’d been nothing but dry and fallow land before, the city was ready to burst forth and prosper, just as he was. Willie still had his doubts, but Eddie had confidence enough for both of them.

The Times ran a front-page editorial the next day:

Go to the whole length and breadth of the San Fernando Valley these dry days. Shut your eyes and picture this same scene after a big river of water has been spread over every acre, after the whole expanse has been cut up into five-acre, and in some cases one-acre, plots—plots with a pretty cottage on each and with luxuriant fruit trees, shrubs and flowers in all the glory of perfect growth.

The Times had always been in on it, part of the San Fernando Land and Water Syndicate that had been buying up huge swaths of the Valley, which back to the Spaniards had been empty and good for nothing. At statehood in 1850, the entire Valley—all two hundred square miles of it—had been given free of charge to a Spaniard, who went bankrupt over the years trying to raise sheep. A half century later, the land and water syndicate had taken over, buying up the best land, inviting others to join in the party.

Neither the Times nor the syndicate could ever have imagined how many millions of people would follow the aqueduct to the Valley and spread out over the city. Thanks to the timely death of Eva Mull and with a little help from J. F. Sartori at Security Trust and Savings, Eddie and Willie Mull were there at the beginning.

Chapter 3

Mull Gardens was a little farther west in the Valley than Eddie would have liked, but the city’s growing trolley system, Pacific Electric, provided the link to downtown. People liked Mull Gardens because the homes were neat and modern and came fully furnished. You got off the train, found a job, maybe in the fledgling movie industry, bought a house and moved right in. Mull homes came with furniture, icebox, stove, everything down to linen and home delivery of milk and ice. Just make the down payment and bring your toothbrush.

Willie wasn’t interested in the Valley, which had no churches because it had no people. He preferred to preach downtown, where the sinners were. While Eddie drove the Valley paths looking for the land that would become Mull Gardens, Willie explored the city, finally renting an ex-Baptist church off Wilshire, a former grocery store with a steeple. The owner would have sold, but Eddie refused to cosign for his brother. “A grocery on Wilshire is no better than a saloon on Turk Street,” he said. “We can do better.”

For Willie, returning from China after Millie’s sad death had been traumatic. In San Francisco, he’d refused an assignment to the suburbs and left the Presbyterian Church, which had ordained him. He was an evangelist, a missionary, a healer, someone ready to hit the trails for Jesus, not a suburban preacher. He was also broke. He and little Calvin lived in the rear of a former saloon on Turk Street where the kegs were gone but not the smell. Beer cases covered in faded blue velvet made a preacher’s stand for sermons to the street people who dropped by, mostly for coffee and rolls. Mornings he walked Cal up Turk Street to an old woman who ran a crèche. Eddie paid the rent for him.

Willie believed that Millie’s death had made him stronger. It seemed a cruel thing to say, so he said it only in his prayers. His young wife had been trained as a nurse, was afraid of nothing and ready to go with him anywhere. When Calvin was born