The Bear: Water & Oil

By John Kerr

The saga of the McGuire family continues. At the dawn of the 20th century disputes are no longer settled with a gun. They are handled in boardrooms with backroom deals. Under the close direction of the city’s oligarchy William Mulholland builds his aqueduct which will allow Los Angeles to expand to unprecedented size.

The San Francisco earthquake sends a whorehouse piano player, a newspaper reporter and a thief to Los Angeles. Each attempt to rebuild their life which was forever changed on the morning of April 18, 1906.

Renegade filmmakers from New York flee to Hollywood to make their movies. With the promise of stardom, the moguls run their studios with cutthroat efficiency, controlling the lives of all who work for them.

Michael McGuire takes over the family enterprise. With the McGuire fortunes on the wane and prohibition looming on the horizon, Michael forges a partnership with Canadian and Mexican mobsters to import alcohol and cocaine to Los Angeles. Any who stand in his way are fair game.

California is the place where dreams come true for some and for others a dead end. This is a tale of those who dared to dream.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532086281

John Kerr

John Kerr trained as screenwriter with the National Film and Television School. Theatre includes: Creditors, Mechanical Piano and The Jury. Film and television includes: The Riveter, Flying Colours, Capital City, The Volunteer, Night Shift. Radio includes: Stranger in the Bed. Books include: The Red Hog of Colima and Tic and Toc.

Book preview

1

The Gathering

On January 18, 1904, as inauspicious a day as any, Los Angeles Tribune publisher Otis Grayson and his son-in-law, Harry Chapman, met with Henry Huntington of the Southern Pacific Railroad, Thomas Bard of Union Oil, and Isaias Hellman, the founder of Farmers and Merchants Bank. The meeting took place at Grayson’s private suite at the Aurora Hotel. The drapes were drawn to ensure privacy. The men sat at a large oval table, smoking Cuban cigars and drinking twenty-year-old scotch. The businessmen founded the California Development Association that morning. The public image of the CDA would be one of philanthropy and public works. The primary goal of the elite group was to control the state, or at least the southern portion, as their personal fiefdom.

All gathered in the room held a strong anti-union stance, and in the case of Otis Grayson, his hatred for the unions bordered on obsession. The consensus of the group was that the north was a lost cause when it came to labor. There were too many Italians, Irish, and Germans in San Francisco. Those groups controlled the stevedores, the teamsters, and a dozen other trades. Los Angeles and the southern cities, such as San Diego, were a different matter.

Los Angeles was a small, dirty city that had retained its outlaw image. San Francisco was the Paris of the Pacific and personified culture and refinement in the new century. Los Angeles was a scrappy city some six hundred miles to the south and held a population of just more than a hundred thousand. Many of the outlying areas still lacked a central water system. Most of the real estate outside the city was farmland. Dairy farms had replaced many of the big ranches. Citrus groves stretched from the San Fernando Valley all the way south to San Diego.

Los Angeles was built on the edge of the desert. Its existence was predicated on the availability of water. Grayson knew that if Los Angeles was to grow, the city would need much more water than the local rivers could supply. The southern part of the state also had oil.

Edward Doheny’s oil strike in Los Angeles was like the discovery of gold at Sutter’s Mill some fifty years before. Doheny’s discovery set off a rush of wildcatters who descended upon Los Angeles, Long Beach, and other cities, all hoping to strike a gusher.

The oligarchy owned or controlled much of the state’s land. Twenty-three percent of the farmers were tenants. The farmers were easy to control. The railroad set the prices. A farmer survived or perished based on the control the railroad had over the shipment of his crops.

Controlling workers in the city was different, especially with all the wildcat wells and the tent cities that seemed to spring up overnight. The gathered businessmen decided that Los Angeles and the southern portion of the state would be an open region and that unions would be aggressively discouraged. They agreed the wildcat oil operations needed to come under control as well.

The price of oil is continuing to decline, said Thomas Bard, one of the founders of the Union Oil Company.

Grayson smiled. Well, we do have an abundance of it here.

Bard frowned. That isn’t the issue. The problem is there are too many independents. They’ve flooded the market.

You simply need to get control of your market, said Henry Huntington, puffing on a cigar.

Bard put his hands together and fixed Huntington with a cool look. That’s exactly what we plan to do. I have a pair of agents working on that very thing. We don’t want an incident like Muscle Slough, though, he said, alluding to the shootout that had claimed the lives of six settlers and two lawmen representing the railroad’s interests.

Huntington cleared his throat and gave a nod. Point taken.

You won’t have trouble from my paper, said Grayson.

Most of the independents will come around once they are approached. I’m not so certain with Sean McGuire and his Shamrock Oil, said Bard.

Grayson tugged on his ear. McGuire is a sticky widget. I would advise caution when dealing with the man.

I will take it under advisement, Bard replied.

There is still the matter of water, said Isaias Hellman.

The chief is working on that problem, said Harry Chapman, using the familiar term most employed when talking about the Department of Water and Power’s chief engineer, William Mulholland.

Well, he’d better work fast, Hellman replied. Without water, Los Angeles can’t grow. Considering the drought, we’ve had for the last couple years, we can barely service the current population. I don’t care if you control all of the oil fields and the railroad lines; without water, Los Angeles will never be more than an insignificant desert town.

I agree, said Huntington. Without sufficient water, there won’t be much of an agriculture industry, which means no produce shipped. Passengers don’t generate enough profits. Shipping cattle, produce, and dry goods is what generates real profits.

I have faith in the chief, said Harry Chapman. The man has never failed the city yet.

Grayson saw that the meeting might rapidly degenerate into petty arguments. He stood and lifted his cut-crystal glass in the air. Gentlemen, to California, the Golden State God has delivered to us.

Hear! Hear! the gentlemen responded.

The railroads owned more than half of all the land in the state, which meant they controlled the state’s agriculture and ranching industries by default. Any item from an orange to a steer was shipped by the Southern Pacific Railroad, and they set the price. Plans were underway to control the oil. While the group didn’t know how to expand the water available to Los Angeles, they had faith they’d find a way. The gentlemen smoked their cigars and sipped their twenty-year-old scotch, assured in the belief that they had been anointed to decide the destiny of the state. Labor would be controlled. Oil would be controlled. It was only a matter of time before water too came under their control.

2

Mr. Roy and Mr. Rogers

A large crow sailed through the cloudless blue sky and alighted on top of a wooden oil derrick. The derrick was under construction and stood nearly forty feet high. Eventually, it would rise to eighty feet above the earth. The derrick’s success was predicated solely on striking oil. Since there had been dozens of wells already sunk in Rancho de los Palos Verdes, it was possible this derrick too would soon pump black gold.

A large mutt lay on the ground next to a tent pitched near the derrick. The dog took no notice of the bird. Harlan Garris stepped out of the tent. Garris was in his late twenties and of medium height. He wore work trousers and a red long-john shirt and hadn’t shaved in a week. He yawned and stretched. The sun was just coming up. Garris gave the hound a pat on the head. The crow cawed and looked down on the man. Garris scratched his rear, bent down, and picked up a rock. He took aim and threw the stone at the crow. The bird cawed again tauntingly as the projectile missed its mark.

Jarred Lenson came out of the tent. Lenson was about the same age and build as his partner, Garris.

Damn bird, said Garris.

Lenson waved his partner off. He walked a few yards away from their tent, dropped his pants, and pissed a stream.

A black Buick drove up the road and stopped. The dog stood up at attention as two men got out.

Stay, Jingo, said Garris.

The men looked like bankers in their clean dark suits and hats. One of the men was tall and husky, with dark brown hair and a mustache. His partner was shorter by a good four inches and thirty pounds lighter. He had black hair and a well-trimmed goatee.

Good morning, gentlemen, said the slender man.

Garris gave a nod of acknowledgment.

Lenson lifted his pants, which were held up by suspenders, and walked over to where the three men were gathered.

I am Mr. Roy. The slender man gestured to the stocky man standing next to him. This is my associate, Mr. Rogers. We represent a consortium that is interested in purchasing the lease to this site.

Garris kicked the toe of his boot into the dirt. Who said we wanted to sell? We ain’t even got our rig up.

Mr. Roy smiled. That’s exactly why Mr. Rogers and I decided to pay you two gentlemen a visit. I’m sure you’re aware there is oil in the area. Two smart men like you wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t. What you don’t realize is that while there are a number of pools, you have to drill vertically to hit one, which means you have to literally be above that pool. If you are off by as much as a foot, your well can come up pure dirt.

We know that. That’s why we took this lease away from all those others down yonder, Garris replied.

Mr. Roy chuckled and clapped his hands. I like that—a pair of rugged individualists willing to take a chance. Don’t you like that, Mr. Rogers?

The stout man feigned a smile. Yes.

Might I ask what your plans are if you don’t hit pay dirt? Mr. Roy asked.

Lenson spit a wad of tobacco juice and waved the businessman off. We’re gonna hit oil.

Mr. Roy looked directly at the two wildcatters. You are so sure. That’s good. But let’s just say you don’t. You’ll be out the money you paid for the lease and your rig, not to mention all those days you’ve worked.

What do you want, mister? Lenson asked.

Mr. Roy flashed a smile that was as sincere as a politician’s on Election Day. Why, I thought I already told you. The company I represent, Consolidated Oil, is willing to pay you $2,000 for your lease. I know you paid $300 for it. Your rig is used. I figure it’s worth $600 at best. That’s a $1,000 profit.

Garris glanced at his partner and then turned back to Mr. Rogers. We don’t want to sell.

Mr. Roy pushed his hat back on his head. You’re sure about that?

Lenson rubbed the back of his neck. We’ll take our chances.

One in ten comes up dry. Mr. Roy removed an envelope from inside his jacket and exposed the shoulder holster rig he was wearing. He opened the envelope and flashed the bills inside. Hard cash, and all you have to do is sign over your lease to Consolidated Oil. You don’t even have to clean up your camp.

Lenson and Garris stood silently with their arms crossed.

Mr. Roy shrugged his shoulders. A good day to you both then, gentlemen. He slipped the envelope back inside his jacket and tipped his hat.

Mr. Roy got behind the wheel of the Buick. Mr. Rogers bent down and cranked the engine and then climbed in on the passenger side. Mr. Roy made a U-turn and pointed the Buick back the way it had come.

Lenson and Garris worked all day on the derrick. Just before sunset, they stood and admired their work.

We should be able to start drilling tomorrow, said Garris.

Good. I’m hungrier than a pig on Sunday, said Lenson.

Garris and Lenson walked the two miles to Dawson’s Diner, where they had a meal of pot roast and apple pie. By the time the two men returned to their camp, it was well after dark. They were nourished and tired. Lenson headed into the tent. Garris sensed something was amiss. He turned and looked out into the dark. Jingo!

Only the wind answered his call.

Jingo!

Silence.

Damn dog. Garris ducked inside the tent and retrieved a lantern.

Probably got himself a rabbit, said Lenson.

Garris lit the lantern and exited the tent. Jingo!

Silence.

Garris held the lantern up and walked away from the tent. It was pitch black except for the few feet the lantern illuminated. Garris continued to search the area. Something finally caught his eye. He wasn’t sure if it was just a shadow playing tricks. Garris held the lantern higher and walked toward the object. The wildcatter suddenly froze. The dog’s head was crushed. A large rock sat next to the body. He took a step toward the dead animal. Garris wanted to be certain it wasn’t Jingo. He held the light close.

Oh, Jingo.

Those were the last words Harlan Garris uttered before a two-by-four came down and crushed his skull.

A hand grabbed the lantern from the wildcatter as he collapsed and set it down gently next to the body.

A few moments later, Lenson stuck his head out of the tent. Harlan!

When he didn’t get a response, Lenson put his boots on and tramped out of the tent. He spotted the lantern some twenty yards away. Goddamn it, Harlan, don’t be playing no damn games.

Lenson marched toward the light. Something warned him. He ducked just as a two-by-four swung. The board whistled as it missed his head by centimeters.

Lenson pulled his pistol and fired.

A second shot rang out. Lenson looked down at the crimson stain rapidly spreading across his long johns. You killed me. He pitched forward face-first on the ground.

It’s done, said a man’s voice.

The two-by-four was tossed to the ground between the two bodies, and footsteps receded. A car started and drove away. A moment later, crickets began chirping in the warm night air.

***

Two days later, the bodies were discovered. By then, the coyotes had done a fine job of picking over the carcasses.

Looks like these two must’ve gotten into a fight, said Hank Dempsey, the deputy.

Karl Kendall, the sheriff, frowned. He disliked when his deputy stated the obvious. He took his hat off, mopped his brow with a handkerchief, and then put the hat back on and returned the kerchief to his back pocket. You figure that out yourself, Hank?

The deputy remained silent.

Well, let’s get Abe Greene out here to pick up the bodies and bury ’em. There looks like there’s enough gear here to pay for the burial.

The sheriff and his deputy got in their Model C Ford and drove away. Neither man had bothered to take note of the half-eaten dead dog that lay nearby.

3

A Mission

Sean McGuire frowned as he read the morning edition of the Tribune. He was seated at the long dining table in his Beverly Hills home. The four-acre estate sat at the west end of Sunset Boulevard, where the street was nothing but a dirt road. Sean was seventy-four and still a man to be reckoned with. His eyes had dimmed a bit, but his accuracy with a gun was the stuff of legend. The fact he had lived to that ripe old age was a testament in itself. He had fought Californios during the Bear Flag Revolt. After that conflict, he’d fought the Comanche and killed nearly a dozen white men as well. He’d been the first rancher to import cattle into the state and had built a ranching empire that had covered more than fourteen thousand acres at its peak. When oil had been discovered in Los Angeles, Sean used his ranch, the Oso Negro, as collateral and drilled for oil on his Long Beach property. He nearly had gone broke, but Sean’s third attempt had been a gusher. The strike saved the ranch and Sean founded the Shamrock Oil Company a small, independent operation. The men Sean had built his empire with—Rufus Cobb, Charlie Davis, the Native American, Falcon, and Lee Sing, his Chinese partner—were all dead. McGuire was the last man standing in a world filled with ghosts of the past.

Goddamn it, said Sean.

Jenny McGuire-Reynolds, Sean’s daughter, walked into the dining room with a fresh pot of coffee. Jenny was twenty-four, beautiful, and a widow. Six years previous, her husband of ten months, Lieutenant Peter Reynolds, had died in Cuba. The lieutenant had not died in glorious battle but, rather, had passed away ignobly by crapping himself to death, a victim of dysentery. The lieutenant had been among the American forces that had landed with Colonel Teddy in order to liberate the locals from the oppressive Spanish. Jenny was eighteen at the time. In most cases, a woman widowed that young became a casualty of society. Few women owned property, held jobs, or had an education much beyond the eighth grade. Jenny wasn’t like most women. After Peter’s death, Jenny earned a law degree from Berkeley and was now the vice president of McGuire Enterprises, which included Shamrock Oil.

What is it, Father? Jenny asked as she refilled his cup.

"The damn Tribune. They have an article about a mining disaster in France. Another one about the pope condemning the separation of church and state in France. You’d think Grayson hired nothing but frog reporters. Not a damn thing about Consolidated Oil muscling out the independents or the kickbacks the mayor is receiving."

Jenny smiled and sat down at the table. This was a regular morning ritual with her father. "Did you honestly expect the Tribune to carry an article about the wildcatters being forced out, Father? The Tribune backed the mayor’s election. They aren’t going to say anything against him. Now, eat your breakfast before it gets cold."

Sean grumbled and tossed the newspaper onto the table. I should’ve shot that bastard Grayson when I had the chance years ago.

You didn’t, and there’s no point in complaining about it now, Jenny replied matter-of-factly as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

Sean frowned and poked at his eggs. That damn Tom Bard is behind these takeovers.

Sean hadn’t been so free with his language at one time, especially around his daughter. After his son, Thomas, was murdered, Sean had become a changed man. He cursed freely and brooded much.

Jenny took on an active role in the company at that time. She preferred the ranch to the oil fields, but knew someone had to deal with their oil holdings, as small as they might be. She visited the site regularly and knew the names of all the workers. Sean was now more of a figurehead, and he was content with that. He came to the office downtown, but Jenny ran day-to-day operations. Sean was uncertain, though, how Jenny would handle herself in a war.

Jenny put a spoonful of sugar in her coffee and stirred. "Be that as it may, you shouldn’t get yourself riled up over an article that didn’t appear in the paper. The city named San Pedro as its official harbor. You should be happy," she said in a soft, soothing voice.

I’d like to shoot that bastard Grayson and his buddy Bard, Sean replied.

Jenny smiled at her father. You already said that.

Sean grumbled something in Gaelic.

I am well aware that Consolidated is gobbling up the independents. I am also aware they are a front for Union Oil, said Jenny. The truth is, most of the wildcatters fail.

I was a wildcatter once.

You already had the ranch. You were established.

Sean chuckled. I mortgaged the ranch to get into the game. When the first two wells came up dry, we almost lost the ranch. He saw his daughter’s surprised look. You didn’t know that. If we hadn’t hit it with the third, well, we certainly wouldn’t be sitting here in this fine house.

Jenny sipped her coffee and set the cup down. I wasn’t aware of that.

The combine will come after Shamrock.

Jenny looked at her father. What would you suggest I do?

Be alert. William is currently absent, said Sean, referring to William McGrath, his right-hand man. He should be back in a few days. If approached, do nothing overt, and certainly do not confront. Be cordial and, if need be, condescending but not obvious.

We do have standing in this city. I don’t believe—

Girl, have I not taught you anything? Sean didn’t bother to hide his irritation. Life is war. The bodies of two wildcatters were found in the fields in Torrance. He thrust a finger at the newspaper. Partners murder each other, my ass! I’ll bet you a steak dinner at the Palace that Consolidated has already taken over the lease on that land.

Jenny didn’t want to argue with her father and replied, I will be alert and do as you say.

Sean smiled. Good girl.

***

William McGrath stood in the shadows of Gunerson’s Mercantile Store and watched as the chief of Water and Power climbed up onto a two-horse buckboard along with Fred Eaton, the former mayor, and rode out of town. Their wagon was loaded with supplies of food, water, and survey equipment. It was obvious the two men were planning a long trip. Sean had tasked McGrath with following the chief. He wore his duster and had a slicker, a bedroll, and three days’ rations of water and hardtack. As soon as the wagon was out of sight, William McGrath walked to his horse tethered to the post, saddled up and rode off in the same direction as the two men.

Mulholland and Eaton regaled each other with bawdy songs as they enjoyed each other’s company and shared a seemingly never-ending supply of bonded Kentucky bourbon. The pair traveled through the dry wash of the Rig Tujunga River, laughing and joking. McGrath held his brown mustang back and allowed his quarry ample distance. They were easy to track. McGrath merely had to follow the trail of empty whiskey bottles left in their wake.

The morning was uneventful for the travelers. When the pair reached Newhall, things changed. The road was narrow and unpaved and rose forty-two degrees. The two men had to unload their supplies. The former mayor grabbed the harness and pulled the horses forward while the chief pushed the buckboard from behind in order to get to the top. They then had to march back down the road to retrieve their supplies and load them onto the wagon before traveling on.

That evening, the chief and Eaton spent the night in Newhall, drinking at a saloon. McGrath camped outside the town. One could have spit from one end of Newhall and hit a man standing on the far side of the city limits. William McGrath did not want Mulholland or Eaton to suspect they were being followed. The presence of a third stranger in town would have aroused suspicion.

McGrath slept out under the stars. He had been doing that for much of his thirty-four years. William McGrath’s father, Robert, was a captain in the Boston Police Department. His older brother, James, was a policeman in New York. It was expected that William would likewise one day join the force, but the boy had no intention of following in the family tradition.

From his earliest memories, William McGrath wanted to be a cowboy like the ones he read about in dime novels. He stole the rag merchant’s horse to ride it. When his father discovered the theft, he thrashed his errant ten-year-old son. William stole the horse again and rode it to the park. Robert beat the boy harder. The horse thefts continued, and so did the beatings. The fifth time his father caught him with the horse, he didn’t beat him. Robert McGrath took his young son down to the train station, gave him three dollars, and put him on a train west to live on his uncle’s farm in Oklahoma.

Ray McGrath had ten acres of corn growing on the plains. He had a wife and two children who feared him. Another hand was more than welcome, especially a relative who would work for free. Ray McGrath showed no preferences; he was as mean to William as he was to his own children. William received a beating for the slightest infraction. Leaving a basket outside instead of storing it in the barn, spilling the pig slop, and dropping a chicken egg all were causes for a beating. William took the punishment just as he had from his father. He refused to cry, no matter how hard his uncle whipped him. He would bite his lip and fight to hold back the tears. William was determined never to give Uncle Ray the satisfaction of seeing him cry.

When William was seventeen, Uncle Ray got it in his mind to beat his nephew for yet another minor infraction. William had reached his limit. He caught his uncle’s wrist when the man swung to hit him.

Don’t, William said quietly.

The older man’s eyed burned with fire and anger at being challenged. Uncle Ray brought his knee up. William anticipated the move. He stepped to the side, avoiding the knee, and bashed his uncle’s face with his fist, breaking the older man’s nose. Blood sprayed. William stepped back with his fists ready.

Uncle Ray sucked in a breath. He wiped the blood from his face and glared at his nephew. He knew better than to challenge William and snarled, Get your things, and get. If you don’t, I’ll kill you.

William left that night. He hated abandoning his aunt and young cousins to the wrath of Ray McGrath, but there was nothing he could do for them. He took his satchel and a horse and left the farm.

The following year, he learned that his uncle had died of influenza, which did much to relieve William McGrath of the guilt he carried for leaving his aunt to the brutal man. McGrath kicked around for the next few years cowboying mostly and working his way up to the Dakotas. When he reached South Dakota, McGrath signed on as a scout for the army. He was assigned to Colonel James Forsyth, who was in command of the Seventh Cavalry in that region. The army was there to set up forts and subdue the natives. William McGrath scouted for the colonel but refused to partake in the subduing. Disgusted with the army’s treatment of Native Americans McGrath took his leave of the colonel