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Page 86.

Tim was too tired for small talk, and did not answer. The sergeant carefully—as if linen were his career—laid sheets, a blanket, a pillowcase, and a tiny blue-white pinstriped pillow on the counter. He smoothed the linens with a gnarled hand as he spoke. “Need you to sign in and leave one copy of your orders, Sir.”

Tim produced a fountain pen and signed the logbook.

“Oh, I just realized—this came for you.” The sergeant produced an official looking Kraft envelope with War Department seal and a bunch of administrative hieroglyphics in the upper left corner. It was addressed to Lt. Cdr. Nordhall.

Tim took out a small pocketknife and slit open the envelope. Inside was a letter on official stationery, signed by the executive officer of his new station. They’d known each other while serving at Admiralty Headquarters near St. James’s Park in London. Scrawled under the signature block was a note in pencil: “Call me right away—Stan” followed by a phone number and a wild zigzag.

“Got a phone?”

“There is a booth in the corner,” the sergeant said.

“Thanks.” He dialed Stan Kehoe’s number and waited while it rang on the other end. Tim stepped into the wooden booth and closed the windowed door behind him. The booth inside smelled of old phone books, of ashes and gum and stale coffee. An endless procession of uncaring callers had dropped their cigarettes or gum on the floor while speaking, and forgot half-empty coffee cups.

Stan Kehoe, his former roommate in London, now stationed in San Francisco at the same command where Tim was to work, answered with a muffled voice that sounded as if he’d had a few drinks too many. “Hey, good to hear from you. I was afraid my note wouldn’t get to you in time.”

“Thanks. Are you sending someone to rescue me from this flea hotel?”

Stan laughed. “There is a duty driver at the Coast Guard barracks up the road. He’ll drive you to this little spot we reserved for you. I pulled some strings.”

“I’m in your debt, old pal. I hope it’s good.”

“The best, my friend. Wait till you see the place.”

“I can’t wait. Tomorrow at work, eh?”

“See you.” Tim stepped from the booth, unbuttoning his coat and loosening his tie. “Sarge, call the Coast Guard duty car for me, will you?”

Fifteen minutes later, Tim sat in the back of a grayish panel truck with military numbers stenciled on the doors along with the legend U.S.C.G. The driver, a lanky young Japanese-American yeoman, with a cigarette over one ear and a pencil over the other, drove as if the truck were on fire. “Nob Hill, Sir. Nice address.” He grinned.

“Let’s get there alive,” Tim growled, holding on to the door handle.

The young Coast Guardsman slammed the stick shift from gear to gear, and swung the big wheel in wide turns as the car sizzled on slick roads, around turns, ever uphill. Fog lay wrapped around the empty houses in Japantown, whose denizens had been taken away to some snowy freezing hell on the Prairies. Neon signs gleamed in their reflections on the sidewalks as the truck labored up the grade on California Street. Here and there, men and women spirited past in the night from doorway to doorway, standing on corners talking under their umbrellas, or catching a cab, or stepping in twos into one of the many cozy looking little bars for a little relief from the rationing. Everything was in short supply—metals, meat, fat, rubber, flour, anything one could think of. If you had the cash and needed x, there was a thriving black market operator who either had x or knew where to get x, always just around the corner or down in a basement or pool hall nearby, in return for cash or y, whatever y might be—silk stockings, coffee, whiskey, gasoline, anything.

They drove past neo-Gothic Grace Cathedral, whose spectacular windows were blacked out. The city was pleasant and cosmopolitan, even in wartime with its minimal lighting. It was a great place for walking, congregating, conversing—if one had time. The car passed Huntington Park with its trees and fountain. They crawled along ever-narrower streets, around corners, and came to a quiet, tree-lined back street. “Here you are,” the driver said. Tim thanked him and got out, hefting the sea bag onto the sidewalk. The truck sped off.

It was nearly midnight now, and the street was quiet. A strange, lovely magic descended that Tim would remember always, recalling a special time that was about to unfold in his life. It would be a short but wonderful, if dangerous and crazy little block of time, like all things topsy-turvy in a world war. It seemed the laws of logic and convention were suspended. It was okay for a stranger in uniform to be dropped off at an unknown address in the dark of night, carrying only a satchel and a scrap of paper with an address scrawled in pencil.

The houses were decorous old wooden Victorians, with high, narrow fronts that reminded Tim of places in London, though those were stone. Same wrought iron fences, ornate trim, and warmly glowing, barely blacked out windows. These were the few that had survived the terrible quake of 1906.

Just as was so typical in London, a rain squall broke loose. Cool, fresh, silvery raindrops dropped at an angle, shattered on the sidewalk, and bounced up. Tim pushed up his collar and pinched it together over his chin. Gathering up his bag with his free hand, he walked down the sidewalk until he spotted the white on blue enamel number sign, 56 that signaled his new residence. His hair was plastered down, and water ran freely down his face so that when he sputtered his lips, spray flew. He huddled in a rounded doorway and knocked on the door. Sheltered from the worst of the rain, but chilled by a wind that blew up from below and whipped trees and his coat tails about, he waited by the door. After several knocks, he heard movement somewhere back in the house. A dim light snapped on. A voice muttered, and slippers shuffled on wood floors and carpeting.

“—is it?” an elderly man’s voice called out, query truncated.

“Tim Nordhall, USN.”

A latch snapped, and an elderly, balding Asian man in a nightshirt peered out. After a solid glance, a chain rattled and the door swung open. The man took Tim’s bag, towed him inside, and closed the door.