Three San Francisco Homicides
Belle Cora's Revenge -- Act 1: The Killing
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Belle Cora's Revenge
Act 1 — The Killing
Tales abound of how the famous Arabella Ryan -- the most beautiful woman in California -- came to call herself Belle Cora. But here's the truth, and it's worth noting from the start.
It was the summer of 1850 and Belle -- the nickname that she'd used from childhood -- was working from a combination gambling house and brothel up in Marysville, in partnership with Charles Cora and another gambler. Charlie had convinced her to come out with him from New Orleans when news of gold first hit the States.
Belle was a tremendous draw and was enormously resourceful. Young though she was, she quickly brought up other girls to shovel in the treasures of the northern mines. Then, with the action drifting south, she launched another brothel in Sonora. Men rode vast mountain distances to gaze upon her fabled face and figure. Belle was coaxing girls from New Orleans, and even independent French whores up from San Francisco, and so the quality of both her operations much belied their mining town environments. She was getting very rich. But so was Charlie Cora, a gambler who'd seen much success with poker back in Dixie when that game was just becoming big.
One day at The New World, the Maryville resort, Belle overheard a man refer to Charlie as "Belle's Cora." This unsettled her. She didn't like that Charlie should be treated as a creature of herself, or the implication he might be dependent on her beauty or her business as a prostitute and madam. She began to call herself "Belle Cora" to flip these most unsavory suggestions on their heads. At this point, Belle was not implying she was somehow married to her confidant, her partner and protector. She was merely acknowledging her pride in Charlie Cora and her debt to him in making her successes possible.
But the change of name was striking and it stuck. When she and Charlie later moved to San Francisco where Belle commenced her grand career, she never used another. The persistence of the Cora name on Belle's own lips led people to conclude that she had formally declared herself, at least in some respects, the wife of that Italian sport. Charlie slowly came to an acceptance of this strange assertion because he knew Belle's only thought was for his dignity. As marriage was anathema to all the gambling profession, his acquiescence in this novel and implicit union reflected only pride that Belle would publicly declare a rare exclusive loyalty. After all, she slept with many different men in her profession, and Charlie slept with many of her girls. This was a different kind of loyalty.
* * *
By late 1854 it was apparent that the placers couldn't last forever. Though gold production still ran high, all sensed a subtle ebbing of the flood. A business panic started brewing, and by the start of '55, banks were failing all around. One bank in particular, Adams and Company, shuttered only hours after its cashier persuaded his depositors their funds were safe.
That cashier, James King of William, had once been well respected in The City. Reaching California quickly after gold was found , he started up a bank in San Francisco and evolved into a business leader. He even brought his wife and daughters out from Washington, a most unusual decision in those pioneering days. The family lived in an expensive home and rode in carriages. But banking was a risky trade and King of William's luck went sour. He was forced to sell his assets out to Adams, his competitor, in exchange for managing that business for a salary. When he reassured its customers he was believed, and many former friends now blamed him for their catastrophic losses.
The family man and banker was desperately out of work and business prospects. His savings soon ran low and the family moved to cheaper quarters. This distressed him even more than it might have someone else because he was acutely proud and sensitive. As a young boy in the nation's capital he'd dreamt up his pretentious and peculiar name solely to distinguish him from other youngsters also named James King. (William was his father.) Now he seethed in fury, determined to find new success and settle scores, because he came to passionately believe that his misfortunes were the product of a moral and political depravity in Gold Rush San Francisco.
With the little money he had left, James King of William reappeared as editor-in-chief of the new Daily Evening Bulletin. The town already had more papers than it needed, but the Bulletin promised something very different. The editor had read the public mood as corresponding to his own, and postured as a grand provocateur, half-Robespierre, half-Hebrew prophet. San Francisco, he declared, was Sodom and Gomorrah, and he would tear the lid off of the maggots nest, exposing every foulness and condemning every reprobate to public pillory. Within weeks, the Bulletin surpassed the circulations of the most established papers, and every afternoon's edition was anticipated, feared and feasted on by all of San Francisco. From his very first edition, King of William turned his fire on David Broderick, the greatest San Francisco politician, and his alliance with a banking firm whose continuing success the former banker savagely resented.
* * *
In November of 1855, about a month into its publication, the Evening Bulletin ran a seeming minor notice that set in motion a great sequence of events.
A correspondent tells us that the wife of General Richardson, our United States Marshal, hosted a soiree in the couple's home last night, to which all our most important people were invited. Two hours into the event, it was clear that very few of the invitees would be arriving, although they hadn't sent apologies or otherwise declined the invitation. Someone finally advised our sturdy lawman that his wife had negligently scheduled her reception on the very evening when Belle Cora held her celebrated "Prostitute's Ball" each month, and that nearly every local bigwig had preferred that popular event to Mrs. Richardson's reception. When our Marshal whispered this disgusting explanation to his wife, she apparently expressed her outrage in a tone heard down the street, and after a short while her few guests found occasion to file out.
We understand, of course, that Belle Cora is no mere Cyprian or common parlor house proprietress, but has established herself as the supreme society hostess in San Francisco, and that her invitations are, like Queen Victoria's, rather like commands to those who would be understood as the elite of this metropolis. Back home in civilization, only wives would play this role, defining and entertaining the elite, and we assume that Mrs. Richardson was seeking to establish that same standard here. But we abide in such a poisoned moral atmosphere in California that our most important gentlemen would spurn the company of a U.S. Marshal's wedded wife to kiss the ring of a rich harlot and embrace her as the arbiter of fashionable society. Are we living in America or Babylon?
* * *
Neither Belle nor Charles Cora saw that article before a second piece by King of William made the paper two days later.
A new play opened at the American Theater last night, but the real drama was in the audience. According to reports, General Richardson, our U.S. Marshal, took his wife to the performance. After they were seated, she complained to him about a number of young men below, pointing up at her and laughing, which she assumed was on account of the publicity about her disappointing party. Her husband, justifiably aroused, strode down to accost the rowdies. But they laughingly explained they didn't know his wife at all, but were rather pointing at Belle Cora, seated in the row behind her in a white silk gown, bare shoulders draped in jet black lace, pearls and roses in her hair.
The Marshal sought out the proprietor and demanded Belle and Charles Cora be removed from the proximity of married women, to the curtained boxes in the rear reserved for harlots and their escorts. Charlie Cora then arrived at this encounter. But he didn't have to speak because the manager refused to honor Richardson's request. He said that, in the minds of San Franciscans, Belle and Charles Cora were the equivalent of any married couple. And her position in society made it impossible to treat her as a prostitute. Half the house had come to see her more than they’d come to see the play, and he couldn't dream of outraging the audience. The Marshal stormed away to get his wife, and the couple left the theater to much snickering attention. We do not doubt that the proprietor correctly understood his customers, and that a riot might have issued from a vain attempt to force Belle Cora from her seat. Such is her status in this City.
We understand, of course, that close associations between prostitutes and gamblers are common. We understand that husbands can and do betray their wives with harlots. We even know that couples that have never sanctified their unions can be treated as though married if they live and act that way. But Belle Cora's claim to any marriage is a scandalous assault on civilization and its most fundamental institution. In mockery of that sacred bond, she seeks to prove that she can simply redefine the name of marriage on a whim, to dignify liaisons tolerating daily promiscuity in her line of work.
This obscenity would be laughable, unworthy of attention, were it not that San Francisco has so come to embrace it that our citizens were willing to humiliate their senior law enforcement officer and his beloved lawful spouse. What would our families back at home think if they heard about this blasphemy? Would you dare to send this notice East so that your relatives might learn about the decadence and swill in which we swim? We have lost all sense of shame, all sense of decency.
* * *
This time Belle and Charlie read the piece and then the prior one about the party. Charlie was still heated from the confrontation at the theater, and dismissed them as the flailings of a drowning man seeking attention and an instant buck. But Belle saw it very differently. None had ever spoken of her bond with Cora in this combative and offensive way.
Belle:
Do you remember what you told me back in New Orleans? About coming out to California? You said that it would be a whole new world, like we named the place in Marysville. You said that we could make life up from scratch, without the bullshit and hypocrisy. We could be whatever we were meant to be. Live the way we wished with nobody to preach us sermons. Up to now, you've been completely right. But this asshole is now preaching us a sermon.
Charlie:
Who's listening?
Belle:
We'll see. But before nobody even bothered preaching.
Charlie:
This King of William character has picked on you, or us, because he thinks it's going to sell his paper. He's just sucking off of your celebrity. And he calls you a prostitute.
Belle:
That's what scares me, Charlie. He targets us because we make good copy, so he's likely to come back with more. He might turn this into a campaign, like what he started up with David Broderick. Ned McGowan says that it's his business strategy. Finding well known people he can ruthlessly attack. Ned says it feels like warfare more than journalism.
Charlie:
You worry too much, Honey. This garbage will make no impression whatsoever. And it will piss off all our friends.
Belle:
Maybe people won't care anything about this. But the Marshal will. All this coverage has humiliated him. I can't see him just accepting it. We don't need a U.S. Marshal angry at us.
Charlie:
Forget about it, Belle, and drink your coffee.
Belle:
I can't forget about it! Sometimes I don't get you, Charlie! The man's a drunk and he's been made to look a fool at our expense with all of this publicity. And God knows what his wife is telling him. In any case, you're a gambler and he's a U.S. marshal.
Charlie:
So what? I'm not breaking any laws. He can't arrest me just because he made an ass out of himself and then it made the papers.
Belle:
Think for just a moment, Charlie. If you run into him and he should kill you, nothing's going to happen because you're a gambler and he's the local marshal. But if you shoot him, even if it's self defense, you'll hang.
Charlie:
Oh, go on with you, Honey! This is nonsense!
Belle:
All the same, I want you to stay clear of him.
Charlie:
How exactly is that possible without me staying off the streets entirely? He's out there all day, every day. On Montgomery. Everywhere.
Belle:
Just you lay low a little while. Stick around the house, or at least don't go downtown. Humor me.
Charlie:
You're asking me to hide from him? Can't do it, Honey. Not even for you. Everyone has read this story, which is why everyone will notice if I disappear. A man in my trade can't risk looking yellow. I'm not afraid of him, and I won't let anybody think I am.
* * *
The next afternoon, Charlie was walking with a friend downtown when the latter silently alerted him to Richardson approaching on the sidewalk. The Marshal was likewise accompanied by another man, and was speaking to him quite intently, gesturing with both his hands and staring downward as he walked. He'd already started drinking.
Cora sensed his own companion was uneasy and was passively suggesting that they step aside in order to avoid a confrontation. This made Charlie only more determined not to yield the way, as everyone would notice such a cowardice. And the Marshal might well pass without observing Cora, so involved was he in conversation.
Richardson drew near, still staring down, and would surely have passed on without noticing the gambler, except he saw his elegant Italian shoes, which he remembered from their confrontation at the theater. He glanced up, Charlie not a yard away, and in his great surprise, so powerful a flood of hatred flushed his face that Cora only barely managed to suppress that strong instinctive, almost automatic, urge to draw his Derringer. The danger only passed because, by cooperation of both much alarmed companions, the principals were moved along before the incident was likely noticed by the crowd. And both companions quieted their respective friends, insisting here was not the place for anything that might lead to hostilities. The Marshal's friend stressed also that this Cora could be deadly as a cobra. He was a forty year old man who'd survived since he was seventeen as a Louisiana gambler because he was a fast, determined draw. He'd killed many men who thought they'd kill him first, and had a psychic sense for danger.
* * *
Charlie didn't tell Belle of this incident, but his companion told "Ubiquitous" Judge Ned McGowan, and so it got to her from him. She was so alarmed that she pulled Charlie from a poker table in her Pike Street mansion to a private room, a public interference she was loath to do and hadn’t done before. He was angry to be drawn away at her command, but she was too upset to argue with about it.
Belle:
You didn't tell me you ran into that old drunk.
Charlie:
You're making too much out of it.
Belle:
I'm told you almost drew on him. That's what Harper told the Judge. That's what he's saying that it felt like.
Charlie:
It happened suddenly, so we were both surprised. But nothing happened. He didn't say a word. No one even noticed it.
Belle:
Don't bullshit me, Charlie. I'm begging you to stay away from anywhere you might run into him. If I've heard all about this, everybody has. And Richardson is going to be even more embarrassed if he thinks people think he showed a yellow streak when he ran into you and let himself be led away without a word. He'll start looking out for you, or even search for you directly.
Charlie:
So let him look for me.
Belle:
I know you, Charlie. Your only problem is your pride. It's an Italian thing. I understand it makes it dangerous to pull your string, and so I get that it protects you in a lot of ways. But this is different. The man's a drunk, and he's a Southerner like us, and he's been made to feel dishonored. He's been humiliated before his wife and the entire city where he's U.S. Marshal. He's like a wounded grizzly bear. Don't fuck with him. Just stay away. If you won't do it for yourself, do it for me. My business can't afford it if anything should happen.
Charlie:
Look, Belle. Once you start backing down in life, you're finished. I learned that long ago. I'm not looking for a fight, but I can't be seen avoiding one. Hell, I can't see myself avoiding one. I've got my self-respect and I've done absolutely nothing wrong.
Belle:
You remember that old Haiti woman back in New Orleans? The one that sold the charms? She told me once that fate is just a crazy man who doesn't know exactly what he's doing, but keeps on blundering along and can't be stopped until he suddenly bumps into you by accident.
Charlie:
That's superstition.
Belle:
Please, Charlie. See the bigger picture for a moment and understand what you are up against. Don't worry how you look to others. Worry about me. I'm the only one who matters. The only one who loves you, and I don't want to be alone. You're the only person in the world that I can trust. The only person I can talk to.
* * *
This last appeal made some impression because Charlie was, as he well knew, the only person with whom Belle could be entirely herself. Her voluptuous attractions turned gentlemen to jelly, making it impossible to trust them or connect with them in any way not sexual. And though he wouldn't say as much to her out loud, Cora had his own fears of the situation. He'd come too close to drawing on the Marshal. Even if he hadn't fired, it might have proved disastrous to merely pull his gun.
So without mentioning it, Charlie decided to avoid the downtown streets by daytime, and at night to visit only those saloons where he had never seen the Marshal. He started off that evening at The Cosmopolitan, drinking with a doctor friend. Suddenly he heard the voice of Richardson, led in by another man. The Marshal stared around as if he didn't know the place. And then he noticed Cora.
A blue electric chill consumed the premises. The doctor, who was apparently a friend of Richardson as well, strode boldly to the Marshal.
Doctor:
Howdy, Bill! Don't think I've ever seen you in here.
Richardson:
Stuart here suggested it.
Doctor:
Look, Bill. I'm drinking over there with Charlie Cora. I really think you boys would like each other if you had a chance to talk over a drink. Have you ever been properly introduced? Let me introduce you. Charlie! Come over here. I want to introduce you to Bill Richardson. Let's have brandies all around. On me.
Charlie:
No, Doctor, please. I'll pay for these. Marshal, this one's yours.
Doctor:
That's fine! Now you boys are both men of the world. We all understand the need to stand up for our women. But we really shouldn't let their female differences get us into fights. You following me, Bill?
Richardson:
I'm listening.
Doctor:
The whole business was unfortunate. Charlie didn't do anything to insult you. Neither did Belle, for that matter. If the Bulletin hadn't made a bunch of noise about it, it'd be forgotten in a minute. Don't let that trashy rag start up a fight between you fellows. What do you say, Bill? Can't you talk it out between yourselves like gentlemen? Charlie's willing. Aren't you Charlie?
Charlie:
Yup.
Doctor:
I'm going back to sit down over there. Come over with me, Stuart, so they can have some privacy.
Richardson:
Another round?
Charlie:
Thank you.
Richardson:
My wife's been shamed by all that's in the papers, Cora. You understand that?
Charlie:
It's unfortunate, Marshal. Like Doctor Mills was saying.
Richardson:
You understand what all this means for me at home? What it means for my position as a federal officer?
Charlie:
What can I say? I'm sorry for you, but I don't feel responsible.
Richardson:
I didn't say you were responsible. I asked you if you understood. My wife was mentioned in the papers in the same sentence as a prostitute. You're a Southerner. You understand how impossible that is for a respectable Southern lady of her birth and education. I know that you must stand beside your woman, as I must stand with mine. But you must confess that this has all been most improper and offensive for people like ourselves. You can't deny there’s been a gross affront to common decency.
Charlie:
I'm not denying anything.
Richardson:
My wife was raised respectably. Her father was a county judge. You know what I mean?
Charlie:
I think I do.
Richardson:
I've never seen her blush so hard as at the theater. First she thinks that men are staring at her. Pointing at her. Bad enough! Then she finds they're staring at a prostitute behind her. She was mortified, sir! A Southern lady, sir! Mortified!
Charlie:
She must have known they weren't staring at her. I doubt she's ever turned a man's head in her entire life.
Richardson:
What's that you said, sir?
Charlie:
Forget it.
Richardson:
Of course I can't forget it! I'm going to slap your face!
Charlie:
Doctor Mills! The Marshal says he's going to slap my face.
Richardson:
That's what I said and that's exactly what I'm going to do!
Doctor:
Please, Bill! Control yourself. I thought you boys were going to talk it out.
Richardson:
He said something unforgivable about my wife! Absolutely unforgivable! Directly to my face! And now I'm going to slap his face.
Doctor:
It's best that you get out of here, Charlie. Right away. Don't stand on honor. We can't let this thing get worse, for everybody's sake. I hoped that we could patch it up. Another drink for Marshal Richardson, Sam. Right now.
* * *
Cora spilled all this to Belle:
Charlie:
I know I lost control. But I couldn't take his crap. I'd gone someplace I never thought he'd go because I'm doing what you asked and trying to steer clear of him. Then Doctor Mills forced us both into a conversation. He meant well, but I knew it was a bad idea. Richardson is crazy, and he was obviously loaded. Seemed determined to get me to admit his wife and him were somehow wronged. There's only so much horseshit I can handle.
Belle:
You know that now that he's declared he's going to slap your face, he's going to run you down and do it. There'll be no stopping him. He challenged you in front of other people. Drunk or not, there's no way he can back away. And you personally insulted him. Insulted his wife to his face.
Charlie:
I know what I did. I'm not going to apologize for doing it, even to you. You say I insulted his wife to his face. I did it because he insulted you to mine. Was I supposed to take that? Might as well accept a slap across the face! I slipped away to please the Doctor, because I didn't want him caught up in the trouble. That was shame enough. And I did it because I knew that was what you wanted. But I could never run away again. You know that.
Belle:
I guess I do know that.
Charlie:
Let's be honest, Honey. All I've got left is my self-respect. Call it honor. Call it dignity. Call it what you want. I know you don't like talking of it, but we both know where we stand. Until last year we both were riding high. You're still flush but now I’m nearly broke.
Belle:
You know that's only temporary, Charlie. It's just the business climate's bad right now. There's more money for my business than for yours because men would rather give up poker than what I'm providing. You've been up and down a dozen times just in the years I've known you. And you know what's mine is yours if you should ever need it. We staked each other many times back in the early days.
Charlie:
It isn't temporary, Honey. Sure, money isn't flowing like it used to. But that's the least of it. I was getting rich because I played a healthy game of poker and the gentlemen around here were willing to lose money just to learn the game. I knew it’d be a fashion, like it was in New Orleans. I understood the opportunity and took it. And I knew I only had one shot, because once they learned to really play, I'd no longer have a practical advantage. It just happened somewhat quicker than I reckoned, and I didn't see it coming. So they all won back a lot of money, bluffing me to thinking I still had an edge. These Front Street merchant types are gamblers, Belle. Very sharp and very ruthless. The fact is that they rolled me. Everybody out there knows it. There's no hiding it, and there's no pretending I can match their wagers anymore.
Belle:
Of course I know how much this has depressed you! It's been this way for months. I understand that bad luck makes men reckless with their lives. I'm only hoping that you understand how valuable your life still is to me, regardless what it is to you. If not for you, I'd have been used up by the time that I was twenty-two, in that place you bought me out of. It was you who taught me to believe what I could be if I took charge of my own beauty. It was you who taught me how to handle men. How to use them. You gave me confidence to be what I've become, because I so believed in you that I believed what you were saying.
Charlie:
I've served my purpose with you, Honey. I'm forty and you're twenty-six. You've still got glory years ahead of you. I'm just a drag on you at this point. I'm circling the drain.
Belle:
Don't make me mad, Charlie! I hate to get mad with you, but never say that kind of shit to me again! You may want to give it up, but I will never let you give it up as long as there's a breath in me. You got that? As long as there's a breath in me.
* * *
The next day, Cora didn't leave the house til sunset. He went to the Blue Wing Saloon downtown, a place he never patronized and therefore most unlikely to be found. He sipped a drink and played backgammon with a gentleman he'd never met.
Bartender:
S'cuse me, but are you Mr. Cora?
Charlie:
That I am.
Bartender:
There’s a kid come asking if you were in here. And if you were, there's someone's looking for you on the street. Want me to say that you're not here?
Charlie:
I'm here. I'll be out there in a minute. Want to finish up this game.
Backgammon Partner:
We can fold it.
Charlie:
Let's finish. I'm not in a rush. Fate can wait another minute.
Backgammon Partner:
What's that?
Charlie:
Just a joke.
Five minutes later, Cora stepped out on the street. It was already dark, but Richardson stood under a door lantern. He was so drunk as to be noticeably slouching.
Charlie:
You looking for me, Marshal?
Richardson:
I want to ask you something, Cora.
Charlie:
What’s on your mind?
Richardson:
Just a moment. I need to ask this right.
Charlie:
I can't wait around. Ask me some other time.
Richardson:
Hold it, Cora! I know what I want to ask. I want to know if you honestly believe, as the Southern gentleman that you pretend to be, that married couples should be forced to sit in public with people in relationships such as you have with your mistress. That's what I want to know. Whether you yourself believe that.
Charlie:
That's what you dragged me out for?
Richardson:
I want to know if it's acceptable to force a decent married couple to sit beside a gambler and a whore. In public.
Cora grabbed for Richardson's lapels and thrust him up against a railing. He sensed the Marshal going for a Derringer. Charlie drew out both his own and fired one into his chest.