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two Cassala children staring at him in wide-eyed wonder, and with a great plate of spaghetti in front of him, did he come to life, and suddenly raven ously hungry, he began to stuff himself with the food.
    “Slow, slow, Danny,” Maria Cassala said. “There’s plenty food.
    Eat slow.”
    The boy finished the plate and then another plate. He drained down a tumbler full of red wine—and he smiled, slowly, tentatively.
    “Thank you, Tony, Maria—”
    “You be all right, Danny.”
    “The city’s gone—Mom and Pop gone. I’ll be all right. I got the boat.”
    “Sure.”
    “I’ll be all right, Tony. I’m just tired.”
    “Sure. You sleep now.”
    The boy reached into the pockets of his jacket, and his hands emerged with fistfuls of bills. Again and again, he dipped into the big pocket of the jacket, piling paper money, gold coins, and silver dollars on the kitchen table. A sudden silence fell over the crowded kitchen, and the men and women and children gathered around the table, watching the pile of money grow. It came from his jacket, from his trousers, from every pocket. Then, when his pockets were empty, he pushed the pile of money toward Cassala, who sat across the table from him.
     
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    H o w a r d F a s t
    “I no understand,” Cassala whispered.
    “I didn’t steal it, Tony,” the boy said. “They wanted to go to Oakland. They were like people gone crazy. They emptied their pockets and gave it to me, and then they climbed over each other to get into the boat. It wasn’t only me—all the boats. Ten dollars, fifty dollars, a hundred dollars—it didn’t matter; they were so crazy with fear. For three days I have been taking the boat across to Oakland and back, and this is the money they gave me. So take it, and keep it for me.”
    Cassala stared at the boy for a long moment, and then he nodded.
    He counted the money carefully. “Here, Daniel Lavette,” he said formally in Italian, “is the sum of four thousand and seventy-three dollars and twenty cents. I accept the custody of this money in your name. It is like a deposit in a bank. When you need it, it will be yours, whatever part of it you desire or all of it. Meanwhile, I shall pay you six percent interest and use the money—if that is agreeable to you?”
    “I think I understand you,” Dan said, “but my Ital ian is not so good.”
    In broken English, Cassala repeated his proposal. Now Dan could hardly keep his eyes open. He grinned and nodded, and said, “Sure, Tony—whatever you say.”
    “Maria,” Cassala said to his wife, “make a bed for him where he can sleep. Let him bathe and rest.” And to Stephan, “Bring the ledger here.”
    That, more or less, is how the Bank of Sonoma came into being; the business process was less romantic. A year later, with the advice of an attorney, Anthony Cassala issued and sold a hundred thousand shares of stock at ten dollars a share. A new, incredible, and vibrant metropolis was rising out of the ashes of the old city, and a part of it was a small but dignified storefront on Montgomery Street that bore the legend, The Bank of Sonoma.

Part one
    FIsherman’s WharF
     
    Perhaps never before in history—or since for that matter—did a new city arise from the ashes of the old as quickly, as hopefully, as vitally as San Francisco. Almost five square miles in the heart of the city had been turned into blackened timbers and ashes. For seventy-two hours, men, women, children, firemen, sol diers, and policemen fought the flames, and shortly after seven o’clock on Saturday morning, the twenty-first of April in 1906, the fire was brought under con trol, and its advance was halted. Already families were making their way up Howard Street and Folsom Street, clam-bering up California Street and Washington Street and all the other avenues and streets within the wasted area. Regular army soldiers and National Guardsmen tried to bar their way—having maintained looting rights to themselves over the past three