FRISCO—The Secret History

North Beach, September 1928. There's a walk-up playhouse on Green Street with a stage the size of a dining table and fourteen actors crammed onto it. The show is a French farce called "Easy for Zee Zee." Opening week, it's bombing.

Beautiful Elaine Worth, a Russian emigre, replaces the leading lady in the role of Zee Zee.  Elaine is the kind of dame who brings trouble with her the way some dames bring perfume. 

Frisco can't get enough of her and leading man Robert Chapman. The show takes off and soon sets attendance records for Frisco.

November 24, 1928, half past midnight. Somebody puts six bullets into Jerry Ferri at his apartment on Lombard Street. The cops find letters addressed to Elaine on a dresser there. She had just moved out a week before the murder.

January 29, 1929, the cops bust the manager and the cast on an obscenity charge. The judge goes to see the show to see for himself. He dismisses the charges, but the story boosts ticket sales even more.

For nearly a year, "Zee Zee" is the hottest ticket in town. 

In August 1929 the show's Robert Chapman goes out a sixth-floor window at a friend's place after a cast party. The Chronicle wants the show shut down, and the District Attorney is looking for a way to do it. Producer Sid Goldtree is sitting in Los Angeles and pulls the plug himself before they can. 

The Coroner's Jury determines Chapman's death an accident, which makes no sense, but that is Frisco. He is the fourth bee buzzing around Elaine Worth's hive to turn up dead in a span of nine months.

Part One of the Elaine Worth story. Part Two, "Where There Is Honey, There Are Bees," picks up the bodies.

#SanFranciscoHistory #NorthBeach #TrueCrime #Prohibition #Frisco

Frisco in 1928 was a town with fog in its lungs and money in its pockets, and somebody had to decide who got to keep it. Frank Lanza, a quiet Sicilian who ran Fisherman's Wharf and  sold grapes to half the bathtub wineries in America, sat back and watched the gunsmoke drift over Little Italy. 
Handsome Jerry Ferri went down days before his wedding. The men who put him there went down after him, one after another, and a blonde stage star named Elaine Worth stood in the middle of it all with a lot of dead boyfriends and a story about how she never knew a thing.
Then the bridges opened, the cops lost their grip on the money machine, and the city was ready for a new boss. Elmer "Bones" Remmer walked in: a North Dakota farm boy who had played football with Jim Thorpe and had grown into three hundred pounds of trouble. 
He ran the Cal-Neva up at Tahoe, owned the Menlo Club on Turk Street, ran Emeryville while the mayor drank all day at the Townhouse.
Dealing cards at Bones's tables in the thirties was a skinny kid from Chicago they called "Sparky." The Warren Commission would call him a clean-cut, honest kid. The world would know him as Jack Ruby. This is Part One of the Bones Remmer story, a tour of the Frisco underworld where everybody knows everybody and they all talk.
#TrueCrime #SanFrancisco #OrganizedCrime #JackRuby #BonesRemmer #FriscoSecretHistory

In October 1893, San Francisco society was rocked by the secret marriage of millionaire Charlie Fair and Maud Nelson, a well-known madam. The couple quietly crossed the bay to Oakland intending to elope without attracting attention. Instead, their wedding became front-page news.

Charlie was the son of Comstock silver millionaire and former U.S. Senator James G. Fair, while Maud had built a reputation and a business of her own in the city’s notorious late-nineteenth-century underworld. 

The newspapers turned the marriage into a scandal, with increasingly outrageous stories about the couple. The San Francisco Examiner, in particular, crossed the line from sensational reporting into outright fabrication, even publishing a story that Charlie had been arrested for insanity.

Yet beneath the headlines was a much more complicated story. Maud appears to have become a stabilizing influence in Charlie’s life, eventually helping him reconcile with his family and take their place among San Francisco’s wealthy elite. Their remarkable story takes us from the city’s parlour houses and high-society mansions to European travel, the emerging world of automobiles, and a final chapter that would leave millions of dollars—and the question of what really happened—to be fought over in court for years.

San Francisco has always looked good on film, but in The Sniper (1952) and The Lineup (1958), the city becomes something more than scenery. It becomes a character—a maze of steep streets, fog, waterfronts, alleys and lonely neighborhoods where killers can disappear and cops have to pound the pavement to find them. Rachel Walther, author of Born to Lose: The Misfits Who Made Dog Day Afternoon, joins me to talk about two very different pieces of Fifties' Frisco noir.

The Sniper ollows a troubled veteran who stalks women with an M1 carbine, while police struggle to understand what is driving him. Shot largely on location, the film offers an unusually intimate view of the city without ever actually naming San Francisco. Then comes The Lineup, where two very strange hitmen arrive in town to retrieve heroin hidden in the luggage of unsuspecting passengers. Eli Wallach, Robert Keith, steam rooms, Sutro's Baths, the Cliff House and a spectacular chase across the city all come together in one beautifully grimy piece of Frisco noir.

Along the way, Rachel and I talk about director Don Siegel, the Hollywood blacklist, the Film Noir Foundation, Eddie Muller, the lost San Francisco of free parking and empty streets—and the way these old crime pictures can sometimes feel like a decoder ring for the darker machinery of American life, and one San Francisco that exists now mostly on celluloid.

Find Rachel's website here.

#FriscoNoir #SanFranciscoHistory #FilmNoir #SanFrancisco #Podcast

Henry Miller came to Big Sur with no money and even less interest in behaving himself. He had already spent years writing books that were banned in America, smuggled into the country and sold under the table, and now he was living in the coastal hills with artists, poets, lovers, eccentrics and other people who had apparently misplaced their alarm clocks. The vast Pacific was there, the mountains were there, the fog came and went through the canyons, and for a while it was possible to imagine that a person might simply walk away from the machinery of modern life and disappear into the California landscape.

Naturally, the San Francisco Examiner could not let that happen. In 1947 the paper sent reporter Clint Mosher south with a mission: find the dirt on Miller and his bohemian companions. What followed was a four-day campaign portraying the Big Sur artists as a cult of anarchists, nihilists and general enemies of decent civilization. There was marijuana, surrealist poetry, barefoot girls, a dismembered mannequin, Central American jungle music and enough sinister laughter to frighten the average subscriber straight back into his chrome-and-bakelite toaster kitchen. Miller himself was less interested in the American Dream than in escaping it, and the Examiner seemed determined to make that escape look like the beginning of the end of Western Civilization.

But there was something wonderful underneath all the newspaper thunder. Miller believed the artist had a duty to go against the crowd, to choose the uncertain road, even poverty, rather than surrender the imagination to convention. Big Sur gave him a place to live that philosophy. The Examiner gave him a villain. And postwar America, busy building suburbs, appliances, conformity and a new industrial future, suddenly found itself staring at a bunch of strange people on a mountain who appeared to be having a pretty good time. This is the story of Henry Miller, Big Sur, and the newspaper crusade that tried to turn bohemia into a public menace.

Dolly Adams hit Frisco as a wild and precocious child, already carrying the kind of trouble that would follow a girl in the late 1800s. She  became infamous as the Water Queen, and she could stay underwater long enough to make a North Beach crowd forget its manners. The bloods, the rich boys, from Nob Hill and Pacific Heights came looking for a little excitement and found Dolly instead. Money followed. Diamonds followed. Soon enough, she had plenty of both.

But Frisco always collects its debts. Dolly moved from the stage into the city’s demimonde and eventually established a bordello on Ellis Street. For a few wild years she made a fortune and sent money home to her family. Then the booze, laudanum, opium, and syphilis began taking their cut. Her beauty faded, her customers disappeared, and her name turned up in William Chambliss’s poisonous book about San Francisco society—a book full of scandal, grudges, and whispers about the respectable men who knew Dolly.

In 1887, Dolly went back to the Big Apple for five months and came back to Frisco looking like a wreck of the woman she had been. She still had diamonds and railroad bonds, but the good times were gone. She sailed for the Orient, learned in Hong Kong that her mother had died, and turned around for home. She never got there. Dolly Adams died aboard ship on the voyage back to San Francisco, twenty-six years old. They embalmed her body and brought her home with a little tin trunk containing diamonds, bonds, and the remnants of a life that had burned hot and fast. In a city built on gold, vice, and second chances, the Water Queen ran out of all three.

The jury's out, sequestered up at the Fairmont like kings in exile, and Frisco holds its breath after four weeks of front page testimony. Part Three opens with the strange coda nobody asked for — a state Attorney General's daughter kidnapped for an hour and a half, grilled about her father's trip to Chicago, then let go with a mobster's name dropped on the way out. The cops call it a prank. Nobody believes that, and nobody does anything about it either. Then Inspector Frank Ahern takes the stand and finally gives the State what it's been missing all trial: Leonard Calamia's own confession, a hand-drawn map of a barroom, and the names of every man who waited for Nick De John in that basement.

But this case doesn't want to be won clean. Alibis collapse on the stand — Catherine Calamia can't keep her dates straight, Sebastiano Nani can't explain a hotel register with his own signature on it, and a mysterious in-law who was supposedly dead three weeks before the murder somehow lets a witness into a basement anyway. The jury tours the murder scene, La Rocca offers the judge a drink. Thirty hours of deliberation takes the jury to seven-five for acquittal — with the jury still reading back transcripts when the District Attorney asks for the judge  to dismiss both the jury and the case. 

And that's it. No verdict, no reckoning — just three gangsters walking out the city jail smiling, two more still in the wind, and a District Attorney's decision nobody in the room, on either side, seems willing to explain. Nine dead men traced back to the Chicago Cheese Syndicate mob moving into town, and Frisco never gets its answer for a single one of them. 

Some cases close. This one just swirled like mist out into the cool Frisco night and disappeared.

Fog rolls into the North Beach basements, and Nick DeJohn is still not talking — a garrot saw to that back in May of '47. Part Two picks up the case cold with Freddie Francisco’s break down of rumors in the Tenderloin whisper stream, jumps forward to a judge's chambers where DA Edmund "Pat" Brown torches his own trial rather than let a liar keep the stand, then rewinds to fill in the backstory. 

A crab fisherman's wife walks into a police station with an extortion complaint and walks out having cracked a mob murder. Four men plotting in a back bedroom, not realizing the walls have ears — and one very unlucky woman caught listening.

The Grand Jury scene reads like  paperback fiction nobody would believe: a widow turning hysterical on the stand, a son dropped at a movie house hours before his father’s killing, and Leonard Calamia — the friend who delivered Nick to the wolves. He runs, changes his name, even gets himself elected an election worker in Albuquerque, and still can't outrun a Christmas package. The trial turns into theater — memories evaporating on the stand, until a secret witness nobody knew existed turns up watching it all from a bay window above the murder scene.

And because this story never ends a chapter quietly: a California Attorney General’s daughter is kidnapped when three men jump into her car and make her drive barefoot through Golden Gate Park, grilling her about her father’s business in Chicago. When they let her go, finally, they drop one last name, a mobster on the lam. Part Three, next week.

In this episode, I tell the story of Ah Toy, San Francisco's first Chinese prostitute and madam. She arrived in 1849 at the age of 20, just as Gold Rush fever was turning the tiny harbor settlement into the wildest and most chaotic city on earth. In no time at all, she became one of the most infamous women in town.
Ah Toy was many things: entrepreneur, madam, celebrity, courtroom ninja, a source of fascination for some and outrage for others. She made a fortune servicing Gold Rush miners, repeatedly stood up to the extortionists and self-appointed community leaders who thought the tall, thin young woman from Canton would be easy prey. She used the courts to defend herself when powerful men tried to dominate her. This worked until they rigged the game.
Through Ah Toy's adventures, we see a city exploding in opportunity, greed, vice, prejudice, and ambition. For those few brief years, she  outsmarted her rivals gloriously, made a fortune, and never submitted to those who would attempt to extort her. 

Nick DeJohn never knew when he had enough. 
He’d slipped out of Chicago in the nick of time, so to speak, with a stolen $250K skim in his pocket and a lot of enemies at his back. Safe in Santa Rosa, California, with his wife and children, he could have stayed quiet and counted his money. 
But guys like Nick need the action.
He decided he could muscle into the gambling action in Frisco. Old underworld connections were drifting west based on rumors that Northern California was opening up, and not just in Frisco. Nick figured he could make a move. Maybe get into the dope trade as well. He had plenty of friends.
On May 7, 1947, Nick pointed his big maroon Buick south and drove into San Francisco for the day. He looked at a house he planned to buy, met up with his old Cheese Syndicate partner and good friend Leonard Calamia. They had known each other for years. Their families were close. Nick trusted him. What Nick didn’t know was that Leonard had been sent west by Chicago boss James Franzone to take care of the "DeJohn" problem. 
By nightfall they were in North Beach, at La Rocca’s Corner, where a handful of familiar faces waited beneath the glow of neon signs and the haze of cigarette smoke. Nick thought he was spending the evening with old friends at La Rocca's Corner in North Beach. Even top Frisco boss Tony Lima was there that night. 
This is Part One of the story of Nick DeJohn and his untimely but unsurprising end, about ambition and betrayal, and the way old debts never disappear. 
Nick DeJohn spent the last few hours of his life in a North Beach mafia hangout, surrounded by men he had known for years, smoking, drinking, maybe playing cards.
Nick had no friends in the bar.
Two days later, police found him in the trunk of his Buick out in the Marina District, while the men who put him there were busy planning their next moves.