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Hole Lotta Shakin’
A Tony Mandolin Short Story
By Robert Beers
Chapter 2
“Tony!”
Someone was shouting, but all I wanted was
to keep sleeping.
At least that nightmare had passed.
“Tony!
Wake up!”
That was Frankie.
What was he doing in my bedroom at this time
of day?
I opened one eye and growled, “Do you know
what time it is?”
He looked down at me.
What was he doing in his Private Investigator
get up, complete with the fedora—?
And then it hit me.
The quake—
“Frankie,” I said, sitting up, “The
sinkhole…”
And then I looked around.
I was sitting on cobblestones… and people
in costumes were looking at me…
I asked the big guy, “Where are we?”
He turned in a slow circle, saying, “I…
don’t…
know…”
“Clear off the bloody street!”
I heard hooves clopping and jumped, just as
a for real horse drawn cart went trundling
by.
Frankie said, “I don’t think we’re in
Kansas anymore, Tony.”
“Not funny big guy.”
“I wasn’t joking.
What was that tube he was shooting at us with
anyway, a transporter?”
He headed over to the sidewalk.
I noticed it was wooden.
I joined Frankie on the sidewalk.
The storefront next to us looked old-fashioned,
but it didn’t look old.
I wondered, could we have been taken and dumped
into a movie set?
One of the few remaining lots where they still
had entire town mock-ups?
I said to Frankie, keeping my voice down,
“Look around for cameras, or anything else
that looks out of place.”
An old touring car went chugging by, but again,
it didn’t look all that old.
I was getting a very strong feeling of being
out of place in more ways than one.
He murmured, “You mean, like us?”
I nodded, not feeling like arguing the point,
“Yeah, like us.”
“You fellas new in town?”
I looked up and found myself looking at a
man right out of history, a policeman, but
not of the era I knew.
He had a helmet on with a big brass star on
it, a high-necked deep blue woolen uniform
coat held closed by brass buttons, and a silver
multi-pointed star pinned to his left chest
pocket.
He had an old-fashioned police truncheon in
his right hand.
I stood and took off my fedora to show respect,
“Why, yes, we are, officer,” I replied.
Then I added, “I guess it kind of shows,
doesn’t it?”
He relaxed, sliding his truncheon into its
holder and then smiled, “Well, let me guess,
you’re trying to find one of the hostels
for newcomers and got lost, right?”
He glanced at Frankie and added, “Try the
Post House, they tend to be friendlier to
the Negroes, even the giants like your friend
there.”
I smiled back.
“Thanks,” I said, and then asked, “Uh,
which direction is it?”
He pointed west and then tipped his helmet,
“Stay out of trouble, now.”
And started walking east.
I said to Frankie, “We need to find a paper.”
He replied, “I don’t see any dispensers.”
“If what’s happened what I think has happened,
we won’t see anything like that, not for
about fifty years.
I think we’ve gone back in time.”
He was silent for a bit and then whispered,
“I think I need a drink.”
When you’ve had experiences like the big
guy and I have had, you’ll understand why
he reacted that way.
I started walking, noticing the old cable
car rail down the middle of the street.
“I'm with you on that big guy.
Let’s find this Post House.
I hear they’re real friendly with the Negroes.”
“Oh shut up.”
We got some stares as we both laughed out
loud.
The Post House was a white, three-story building
about a block off the wharf, which we could
both easily see from the street.
The end of the Wharf Market Building, what
Market Street was named after, jutted into
the picture just on the left side of our view.
From that point on we saw masts, rigging and
the figures of sailors clinging to some.
“This is weird, Tony,” Frankie muttered,
“Really, really weird.”
I replied, “I’m right there with you,
big guy, and you know something else?”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t think they take plastic.”
“Oh, my gawd…”
The foyer of the Post House looked, as with
everything else we’d seen like it had come
out of a historical record.
The furnishings, the wallpaper, everything
had that feel of a time long ago.
A man sat in one of the cloth-covered armchairs
reading a paper.
The masthead on the front page read The Chronicle.
His costume said Turn of the Century, as did
his haircut and mustache.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said.
He looked up at me, his expression showing
both confusion and curiosity.
“Yes?”
He asked.
I pointed at the paper.
“Are there other copies of that available?”
He nodded and pointed at the reception desk,
“On the counter,” he replied.
The place was full, which wasn’t surprising.
If I remembered my history, one of the few
subjects I was actually interested in during
school, pre-quake San Francisco had a booming
population of over 300,000 souls, making it
one of the top ten most heavily populated
cities in early twentieth century America.
Immigration was way up there, especially among
the folks of my background, the Italians.
I made my way across the room and grabbed
one of the papers.
The clerk didn’t object, but that may have
been because Frankie and I were almost twice
the size of anyone else.
I’d forgotten about that.
It was going to be kind of like walking among
Hobbits.
Most of the population was closer to five
foot in height instead of six.
I wondered what they were thinking about Frankie.
The city was a lot more inclusive when it
came to blacks than the rest of the country,
but he still had to look like something out
of fantasy to them.
I grabbed a chair and sat down.
Whoever had planned the hostel had thought
ahead, there was plenty of places to sit.
I also smelled food, which got me thinking
about my rather empty stomach.
Frankie took the chair next to me.
We were still getting a lot of looks, which
could be for any number of reasons.
Unfolding the paper, I found the date, March
4th, 1906.
These people, no, correct that, we had just
about six weeks before everything changed.
“Oh, look,” Frankie said, leaning over
and pointing at a story on the back of the
paper, reading…“ that wild tribe of the
Philippines whose ruling passion is the cutting
off of human heads…have established a village
after the manner of their native habitations
at Central Park, on Market Street.”
He looked closer and said, “The writer’s
E.M. Swift-Hook… hmm, now why does that
name sound familiar?”
I looked over the top of the paper at him,
“Yeah, the Igorots.
That park was around 8th Street if I remember.
Right up Market.
The civic Plaza’s there now.
The old City Hall didn’t survive the quake.”
He looked at me and said, “Tony, I’m getting
hungry.”
I nodded, “Like I said, they don’t take
plastic and I doubt they’d recognize the
bill I do have.”
“We could try,” he said, mournfully.
I pulled out my wallet and removed a twenty
dollar bill.
Then I said, “Wait here.
I’ve got an idea.”
There was another bit of obscure San Francisco
history I’d remembered.
He shrugged, “Olay.”
The clerk was a young man with flaming red
hair and muttonchops.
I almost asked him if he knew how to play
Whipping Post by the Allman Brothers.
He could have been Duane’s size, a bit shorter
than me but rail thin.
I showed him the twenty and asked, “Can
you break this?”
He stared at the bill.
And then took it, “What’s this?”
He asked back, “Are they changing the money
again?”
I just looked at him and shrugged, “Seems
to be mostly with tens, but I hear a few of
the others are getting it too, like this twenty.”
“Don’t you know it,” He said, “I’ve
got about four or five different kinds in
the cash box.
The bank doesn't care, they take ‘em all.
Never seen a twenty like this, though.”
I thought, “Kid, you have no idea.”
Then I said, “Yep.
Tell you what, if you can give me ten dollars
in coins, I’ll let you keep the extra ten
from that when you turn in the money to the
bank.”
He shook his head, “I don’t know… that’s
an awful lot of money.
I’d feel like I cheated you.”
I smiled, “Don’t worry about it.
I’m most interested in the convenience and
don’t have time to go to the bank myself.”
I leaned forward and whispered, “I’m an
inventor and I’ve got a lot more where that
came from.”
Well, the last part wasn’t a blatant lie.
Reaching into my coat, I pulled out the cheap
ballpoint pen I carried and held it out to
him.
“Is that a pen?”
He asked.
“How does it work?
I don’t see a nib or a plunger.”
“See that button on the end?”
I said, pointing, “Press that once and start
writing.”
After clicking the pen he started writing
and said, “Wow!
It’s so smooth…”
“No dipping, no mess, no ink on your clothes
or hands,” I said.
“So, what about that ten dollars?”
Frankie looked up as I approached him.
His eyes widened as I dropped five silver
dollars into his hand.
“What did you do?
You didn’t rob—“
I cut him off, “No, and keep your voice
down.
I made a trade, a new twenty for these old
coins.”
“Tony…”
Frankie murmured, “What if we change the
future without knowing it?
Those new twenties have stuff even the 1960’s
didn’t know about.
I remember this story about the butterfly
effect, and I’ve seen the movies.
They didn’t end well…”
“Frankie,” I replied, “Do you want to
eat, or not?”
A good portion of the San Francisco waterfront
before the ought-six quake was relatively
unchanged from its Barbary Coast days.
Saloons and restaurant and dance halls dotted
the landscape.
And, just like the modern day, a good portion
of the crowds could be a bit on the rough
side.
Unlike the modern day, just as on Market Street
and on our way to the hostel, Frankie and
I out-massed most of the crowds by about a
hundred pounds or more.
A lot more where the big guy was concerned.
Mostly we just got stared at, but at the first
place we stepped into, Frankie’s skin tone
almost got us mobbed.
“Get that trash outta here!”
“We don’t serve junglebunnies!”
Frankie growled, “Who said that?”
I looked around.
The bar was crowded, as all of the ones we’d
passed had been.
You could hear the slap of the waves, gulls
crying and a few sea lions yelping from the
bay just out the back door.
Most of the patrons had the look of sailors
and dockworkers, short, with heavy shoulders,
knit caps, and thick woolen coats.
A lot of them had knives strapped to their
legs, and I saw several hilts sticking up
out of boots and stockings.
A few of them had blades in their hands and
we were not getting friendly stares.
“Not now, big guy,” I whispered, “Changing
the future, remember?”
“But they said…”
I grabbed his arm, “We can’t take any
chances.
Come on.
Let’s try a place not so close to the docks.”
We did and didn’t get any more success than
the first one.
As we were walking past a boozer with raucous
piano music coming out of it, a guy in a cowboy
hat and wearing a duster plowed right into
Frankie.
“Damnit!”
He swore and backed up.
He was tall for this time, about my height.
He stared at Frankie, “What in the hell
are you?”
Frankie said, “I’m new in town.
Sorry if I got in your way.”
I noticed the gun strapped to the cowboy’s
hip.
It was a pretty fancy rig, built for fast
draw.
“Oh God,” I thought, “a gunfighter.”
The fellow’s eyes narrowed and he stepped
back a little further, “I hate darkies,
especially ones who can’t keep out of a
man’s way.”
I was picturing the big guy in the street
with a hole in his chest when one of the city’s
finest interrupted the coming tragedy.
“What’s going on here?”
The gunslinger glared at Frankie, “This
ain’t over,” he growled and turned to
stalk off.
The cop looked at us and said, “This isn’t
a part of town where you want to be wandering
around, especially with your friend there.
I’d suggest going that way a couple of blocks.”
He pointed west.
After saying thanks for the advice, we headed
back toward the intersection of Market and
the Wharf District.
“That was a real gunfighter,” Frankie
murmured.
I nodded, “I know.”
“I wonder if I could take him,” Frankie
mused.
“What?”
I blurted, “Are you out of your mind?
This is not a video game, Frankie!”
He nodded back, saying, “Oh, I know that
Tony.
But remember when we had that Castro Theater
revival of Annie Get Your Gun?
I played the quick draw character?
Well, I had to practice and I got pretty good.
Some said I was almost as fast as Bob Munden.”
He paused, “Even if I really don’t like
them.”
That was true.
When we were working, the big guy preferred
to use his nightstick or his hands.
I didn’t have an answer for that one.
The last thing I needed was for the big guy
to get a reputation in pre-quake Frisco as
a gunslinger.
We hoofed it back up to Market Street and
Frankie pointed, “That’s where I want
to go!”
He said it so enthusiastically I had to see
what he was pointing at.
The image was unmistakable.
Towering over its neighbors like a dolled
up matron, the old Palace Hotel was the biggest
and gaudiest thing around.
Over nine stories high in a city where three
was the norm, the Palace was something I should
have thought of from the beginning.
If information was needed, I’d more than
likely find it there.
And besides that, with its cosmopolitan atmosphere
even Frankie and I, dressed like a certain
PI who wouldn’t show up for another thirty
years or more might just fit in.
Trolley cars, drawn by horses competed on
the street with a wide assortment of early
cars and trucks along with horn drawn wagons,
buggies, and bicycles.
It looked like either side of the trolley
rails could be where the lanes were, but not
based on what I saw.
It seemed to be more like, pick an opening
and go for it was the name of the game.
I was pretty sure there was no such thing
as a DMV in existence.
I remembered seeing an old silent movie clip
of Market in 1900, but seeing it, in reality,
was something else altogether.
About a half block from the hotel we were
stopped again by a member of the city’s
finest.
This cop was a bit bigger than the last one,
and something about his face looked familiar.
He was another redhead, with bright blue eyes.
I was betting he was Irish, as they tended
to either head into law enforcement or law
breaking back then.
“Now where’s a couple-a fine strappin’
lads like you going, eh?”
Bingo!
Nailed it.
About as Irish as they come.
I decided to try the truth, well… as much
as I could afford, “From the dock area,
officer.
We’re new in town and thought we’d try
the Palace.”
He looked at us, nodded as if running the
story through his BS detector and then said,
“Sounds good, but tell me this, what do
you do for work?
We can’t have flim-flam buggers adding to
the crowds, y’know.”
I pulled out my license and flipped it open,
“Well, officer, if you must know, we’re
on a case for a client, and if I don’t miss
my guess, we’ll learn a fair amount just
by listening to the talk in the bar.”
He peered at the license, and then muttered,
“Well don’t that beat all.
They’re licensing you fellows now?”
He leaned back and looked at me and then at
Frankie.
“Pinkertons?”
I caught on and said, “No, private contractors.
There’s less of a chance of having to deal
with corruption upstairs if you catch my meaning.”
The officer nodded, “Aye that I do.
I like that.
Good man.”
He whacked me on the side of the arm.
“Good man.
So, this Anthony Mandolin I see on the card.
Any relation to old man Mandolin up on the
wharf?”
My heart almost stopped.
I’d forgotten about that.
My great grandfather had started up near the
area now called Fisherman’s Wharf.
He ran a stall and owned his own small fishing
and crabbing business.
I’d never met him, but my father had told
me hundreds of stories about him and his steadfast
and unbending integrity, even in the face
of what became Frisco’s own version of the
Mafia.
I said, working to keep my voice steady, “Sort
of, from what I hear.
And you are… officer…”
He held out a hand and replied, “Monahan,
Officer Patrick Monahan, at your service.”
I was going to need the paddles if this kept
up.
I shook his hand and said, “Nice to meet
you officer Monahan.
I’m Tony and the big guy here is Frankie.”
He looked up at Frankie, who tipped his hat,
saying, “Officer,” in his best Michael
Clark Duncan bass, and shook his head.
“I don’t imagine you get too many who
try to fight, do you?”
I chuckled, “Not too often.”
Officer Monahan tapped his helmet with the
tip of his truncheon and walked off, whistling.
Frankie grabbed my arm and squealed, “Toneee,
do you know who that could be?”
I nodded, “Yes, I know exactly who that
was.
Pat’s named after his grandfather, an Irish
copper who came over from the old country,
and it looks like his grandfather knew my
great grandfather, whom I’m named after.
And before you say anything, no, we are not
going visiting.”
“But—“
I turned and said as carefully as I could,
“I’d rather not take the chance of not
being born, get it?”
I mimicked butterfly wings.
“Ohhh… gottcha.”
We walked into the Palace Hotel.
Hole Lotta Shakin' is a short story by Robert
Lee Beers, author of The Tony Mandolin Mysteries,
the best unknown supernatural mystery series
on the planet.
The Tony Mandolin Mysteries take place in
and around today's San Francisco, and in style
are a mash-up of Nero Wolf, Harry Dresden
and the Vimes novels of the immortal Sir Terry
Pratchett.
There are seven finished novels in the series,
an 8th in the works and several short stories
offered for free on Kindle Unlimited.
If you go to http://asmbeers.wixsite.com/robertleebeers
everything is there and more.
So that's chapter two!
Just 5 more episodes to go.
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