Mrs. Rosenberg reemerged with an umbrella for the Spanish girl. It was a paltry offering, and the girl refused it. She already dripped.
Anna felt someone at her elbow and turned. A young lady stood peering out at the Spaniard and the silvery gray streets of the city.
“Why is she evicting that girl? What did she do?” Anna asked.
“It’s more what she didn’t do.”
“Oh?” said Anna. “Tell me so I can make sure to do it. I need this apartment.”
One of the girl’s eyebrows rose to the ceiling as if Anna were ridiculous or something. “Mrs. Rosenberg promised you an apartment?” She looked Anna up and down. “Makes a lot of sense.”
“Tell me.”
“She was a bad housekeeper.” The young lady smirked and swished off.
Anna was glad her landlord had no such standards. But she thought the girl might be lying. It occurred to Anna that only a highly indiscreet girl would tell a stranger her business, especially if it were nefarious. She scanned the café for someone who looked highly indiscreet. But they all appeared equally discreet, not nefarious at all—a collection of young, professional ladies, mostly in pairs or trios.
In a nearby window booth, one ashen-haired girl sat alone, her large green eyes darting hopefully to the door every time it opened. She looked bored as she sipped her soup, and possibly lonely—possibly a weak animal, separated from the herd. She might be inclined to talk, if cornered, if she truly were lonely. After all, she and Anna shared three things in common—they were both Jonquil renters, extraordinarily lovely, and about the same age. Anna pocketed the petit fours. She shed her fabricated sadness, flounced over, and blinded the girl with her teeth.
“May I sit down?” She perched in the booth beside the young lady as if it were just the normal thing to do. It wasn’t—not without an introduction. “I’m Gladys Sydalg. I’m an actress and we’re going to be neighbors.”
“Samara . . . M . . . Mowrey.”
Anna cocked her head. The girl either had a stutter, or she’d briefly forgotten her last name. Also, what kind of a name was Samara? A made-up prostitute name.
Samara smiled the kind of smile that made grown men swoon. It almost made Anna swoon. The young lady said, “If you must sit, I’ll have a brandy.” Once she opened her mouth, she didn’t seem weak and she didn’t have a stutter.
Anna deduced she was using an alias, too. “Isn’t brandy included? I was hoping . . .”
“Regrettably, no. Drinking turns your nose red. Mrs. Rosenberg wouldn’t want us to be inebriates. But, never fear. You’ll have brandy enough. Even champagne.” The girl winked at Anna and offered her hand. “How do you do?”
Anna shook. “Very well, actually. I was having trouble paying my rent, but now . . . ? Anna let her words trail off.
“You’re so beautiful. I can’t believe you’ll have any trouble keeping a roof over your head.”
“You mean if I do things with the men?”
The young lady’s eyes popped. She lowered her voice. “My goodness. You’re plain spoken.”
“Forgive me. Sometimes I take manners for granted. You see, I have nothing to prove. I was well-born.”
“You don’t look well-born. I’m not complaining about your manners, mind you. I like to know where things stand. It’s just . . . Mrs. Rosenberg told you everything? Or rather, what exactly did she say?”
“Everything,” Anna arched her brows. “You know. About the men.”
“Curious. Mrs. Rosenberg is typically not plain spoken. I had no idea until after . . . after—”
“I understand.”
“You do?” She relaxed back on the bench. “Frankly, I was going to warn you, but I suppose there’s no need.”
Anna leaned in close. “You aren’t being held prisoner, are you?”
The girl looked taken aback. “Heavens no. I’m as happy as a clam.”
“Who pays your rent? A man from Mars?” Anna bent her neck backward and laughed up at the ceiling, all by herself.
The lady squinted her eyes and examined Anna. “You’re a little crazy.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t worry, I don’t mind. We had a crazy girl here, but she moved out.”
“I think I met her. Matilda? She’s far too young to go with men.”
“Fifteen’s not too young. Fifteen’s marrying age. And there aren’t many alternatives.”
“And that Spanish girl. She wouldn’t go with the men?”
“No, and look where that got her. Now she’s on the streets.”
Across the café, Anna noticed Joe lounging at a table and pretending not to watch them. His suit was wet. The indignant grocer must have detained him for quite some time and in the rain. Anna noted he had bought a big bag of fruit—penance for stealing the cherry no doubt. Anna caught his eye, and winked, deliberately indiscreet. “That man is watching me and he’s handsome.”
“He’s handsome all right, but he doesn’t have any money. Look at what he’s eating.”
It was true. Joe ate crackers with butter, which were free.
Samara said, “If you have an affair with him, Mrs. Rosenberg will likely chase him away.”
“Maybe not him, then. But I am rather in a hurry.” Anna lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m paying usurious interest on a loan.”
Samara winced sympathetically.
“So, how does this work? Am I to be seduced? Should I pretend to resist?” Anna asked.
The lady leaned forward conspiratorially. “Mrs. Rosenberg introduces you to a man, well, we don’t use real names. You entertain him in the café and, if you like him . . .” Her voice became a whisper. “You can entertain him at the bath house or the massage parlor upstairs. Mrs. Rosenberg owns that too. He gives you money. Mrs. Rosenberg takes half. It’s the same man every time, if you’re suited.”
“Who is he?”
“Oh, there’s more than one man. It’s just, I only have one man and he only has me.” She lowered her voice. “I’m a mistress, not a whore. Cuts down on disease.”
“You don’t use real names?”
“No,”
“Then, how do you address him?”
“My man? Everyone calls him Mr. King because he has a majestic disregard for money. Or, ‘The Black Pearl,’ because he wears a rather large black pearl scarf pin.” “So, he’s rich.”
“He must be.”
Anna noticed the girl wore a diamond ring—possibly a gift from her lover. It lacked symmetry and Anna didn’t like it. She also noticed a fading yellow bruise on the girl’s pale hand, as if she’d pinched it in a door. Or like someone had squeezed it. Did she have bruises elsewhere, covered by her clothes?
“He doesn’t hurt you?”
The lady moved her hand discreetly to her lap. “Never.”
Anna found this suspicious and didn’t believe her. “How much money does he give you?”
“Whatever’s in his pockets, but it’s always more than enough. I think he’d give me whatever I asked. He’s a gentleman like that. And I save every penny.”
“So, he’s . . . kind?”
“He gave me this necklace.” She fished the pendant from beneath her décolletage and handed it to Anna. It spanned the distance between them, still hanging by Samara’s neck. It was a cross, studded with red gemstones, and warm from the lady’s skin. “Garnets and eighteen carat gold. He gave all the girls identical necklaces. That’s why I say he’s kind.” She smirked. “We call it ‘The cross of the legion of dishonor.’”
“So, he’s a patron to all the girls?”
“No. He only sleeps with me. But he brings his friends here. He’s here twice a day. Mrs. Rosenberg recruits the girls. Mrs. Rosenberg gets half of whatever we earn. I don’t know what Mr. King gets for bringing the men.”
Anna’s smile had slipped. She tugged it back up too late.
Samara sensed her disapproval. “It’s not illegal.” She thought for a moment. “Tax evasion, maybe.”
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“It’s illegal to recruit a girl if she’s underage and of good reputation.” Reputation—that was a sticky part of the law. If the girl was already branded a wanton, even if she were young, the law didn’t much care. Joe had told her so. “And drugging a girl would be illegal.”
“Who said anything about drugging a girl? We’re wooed not forced. And we’re all of marriageable age.”
“You’ve never seen it happen?”
“Have you?”
Anna whispered, “Matilda.”
“The Black Pearl would never drug a girl. I know him.”
“What about a different man?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I don’t know them all. But no one drugged me.”
“There were some very young girls here—two twins.”
Samara glanced toward the door, then took a sip of her brandy. “What twins?”
Mrs. Rosenberg entered the café in the company of a young, blond gentleman. His clothes smacked of money, but his jaw was weak and could use a discreet powdering. His ruddy skin shone like an oil slick. Anna recognized him. How could she not? Clyde Owen had been in her confirmation class. He would see through her disguise.
“Is it warm in here?” She produced a fan and began fluttering it to hide her face, though it was a winter day and cold for Los Angeles. “Is that him? The Black Pearl?”
Samara chuckled. “Are you quite serious?”
Mrs. Rosenberg ushered the man in their direction. Anna raised the fan so that her eyes barely peeped from behind it. She fluttered it in rhythm with her rapid heartbeat.
“Miss Sydalg, Miss Mowrey, this is Mr. Smith.”
“Biscuits,” Anna said flatly.
Samara smirked. She leaned close and whispered, “I’d hold out.”
The man slid into the booth beside Anna, leering at her. He smelled like a patchouli bush. Her fan pulsated frantically.
Mrs. Rosenberg laughed, her voice a silk flower. She put two fingers up and lowered Anna’s fan. “She’s got a marvelous sense of humor.”
He squinted at Anna. His eyes sparked and caught fire, no doubt fueled by some perverse hope. “Anna?”
She tensed everywhere. Her eyes fluttered madly. Her ruse was unraveling. She was about to get caught. Then Mrs. Rosenberg would disappear, hide evidence, or otherwise frustrate Anna’s investigation. Or maybe, she’d simply make Anna disappear.
“Gladys Sydalg,” Mrs. Rosenberg repeated.
“Oh yes, Mrs. Rosenberg. Heavens, yes. She’s the one I want.”
Mrs. Rosenberg patiently pressed her eyes closed. “Don’t be vulgar my boy. You’ll spook her.”
Anna’s stomach turned. She wanted to flee but was hemmed in by Mr. Owen and Samara. “I don’t want the room after all, Mrs. Rosenberg.” She scooted so close to Samara, the girl had no choice but to get out of the way. Anna slid out of the booth.
Mrs. Rosenberg sighed. “You see?”
Mr. Owen jumped up and grabbed Anna’s hand. His palm felt damp. “You know I’m not Mr. Smith. You know very well I’m Clyde, and I know you’re Anna.”
Mrs. Rosenberg slapped a hand over her eye.
“But it’s okay. It can be our little secret. Please, make me the happiest of men . . . I mean.”
Anna wriggled in disgust and pulled her hand away. Samara stepped closer. “Hey Clyde, lay off!”
The cad continued. “It’s not a proposal, I’m already married, but—”
Joe’s fist collided with Mr. Owen’s shiny jaw. Anna hadn’t seen it coming, hadn’t seen him coming. She watched the man teeter and fall. His head hit the floor and bounced. His eyes closed.
The maître d’ was on Joe in a flash, holding his arms from behind. He had fifty pounds on Anna’s lover at least.
Anna yelped.
Mrs. Rosenberg stabbed at Joe with her finger. “Young man, you’re banned from the premises.” She glared at Clyde Owen, who lay on the ground with his eyes closed. She jabbed down at him. “You, too. I don’t know what you were thinking.”
Anna glared at Joe. “So, I smiled at you. Your reaction was unwarranted. My actions don’t need to be warranted because I signed a lease. Girls are very important, and you’re just a penniless cracker eater who I’ve never seen before in my life. You should try the Spanish beauty sitting on her trunk outside.”
“My dear, you’re odd, but you have a knack for inspiring passion in men,” said Mrs. Rosenberg.
“I know,” said Anna.
Joe struggled against the burly maître d’. “All right. I’m sorry. I understand. My actions are unwarranted. Yours don’t need to be warranted. But I don’t like how he was talking to you. Tell this ape to let go of me and I’ll leave.”
Mrs. Rosenberg nodded, and the maître d’ let Joe go. He stomped out the door onto the street.
Anna was alone in an establishment where young girls were possibly drugged and raped by Martians. Her insides fluttered. She turned to Samara, “Thank you for defending me.” She smiled at Mrs. Rosenberg. “Show me to my room?”
CHAPTER 16
Anna and Mrs. Rosenberg trudged up the steps to the Jonquil Apartments beneath a black umbrella and the dripping branches of pepper trees. Two stone cherubs stretched their wings above the door, promising peace and protection. Joe was nowhere to be seen. Anna looked about for the Spanish beauty, but she was gone too. Anna silently wished her well.
Mrs. Rosenberg unlocked the door and took Anna’s hand. Anna followed her across the threshold. The lady’s hand felt cold, like her eyes. “Of course, no men are allowed.”
Anna nodded. She had one goal—to find and rescue the twins and any other young girls who may be trapped by a warm bed, pig’s feet in batter, and no alternatives. Then she could take them back to the cow ring where she would feed them stolen mush until the Friday Morning Club came up with a better plan, or they were sent to Whittier Reform Academy where they wouldn’t be safe either, and the food was so bad they would yearn for the Jonquil. Anna squeezed her eyes shut. She had to stop thinking in hopeless circles or she would lose her gumption.
If they had witnesses, the LAPD could raid the Jonquil, she could give the story to the newspapers, and maybe some of the men who frequent the place could be prosecuted.
They tread down a colorless hallway, cold hand in trembling hand, passing apartments. Anna thought she heard the monotone drone of the twins in conversation floating through a door. One voice rose in anger. She took note of the room number. Mrs. Rosenberg paused and patted Anna to reassure her. “You’ll like your room. You get one of our few singles.”
She unlocked a door with a plain brass key, and then handed the key to Anna. The room was small and simple but clean. It featured no decorations and a twin bed with an old, brown, patchwork quilt—not a place to entertain men, certainly.
“I’ll let you rest up. The bathroom is down the hall. And please join us for breakfast in the café. My treat.” Mrs. Rosenberg exited the room backward with a puckered smile. “Good night.”
When the landlady had gone, Anna stepped into the hall and flounced in torn ruffles back to where she’d heard the voices of the twins. She pushed back her fake, wavy locks, and knocked on the door without an introduction, without even knowing their names.
One of the twins answered. “Hello.” She wore rouge, which she most certainly had not before.
Anna smiled and whispered, “Hello. I’m with the police.”
The girl looked Anna up and down. “You don’t look like you’re with the police.”
“I promise you, I am. There’s an officer waiting outside, but he can’t come in because he doesn’t have a warrant.”
The girl looked nervous.
Anna smiled extra hard. “I’m here to help you. Can I please come in? Pretty please?”
The girl cocked her head looking suspicious. “You’re not another Mrs. Rosenberg? You know. She seems nice, but she wants things.”
Anna shook her head vehemently. “I’m the opposite.” Of course, she did want
things. She wanted them to testify. She crossed her fingers. If this twin did not take the bait, Anna would be exposed as an LAPD police matron and could never go undercover here again. Mrs. Rosenberg and the nefarious Black Pearl would be on their guard, and Anna could never move forward with prosecution. “We want to take you somewhere safe where you don’t have to do things with men.”
Suddenly, the girl seemed interested. “Is there food?”
“Very good food,” lied Anna. “And you’ll make lots of nice friends.” With Matilda, a forger, a counterfeiter, several shoplifters . . . “We’re like a family there. A happy one.”
The twin cocked her head.
“You can bring your sister, of course,” said Anna. “But we should go now.”
She heard Mrs. Rosenberg’s voice somewhere down the hall. Her own voice went high with desperation. “May I please come in?”
The twin hesitated.
Mrs. Rosenberg’s voice grew louder, closer. Anna blurted, “We play Parcheesi night and day.”
The twin opened the door wide and Anna slipped in.
The other twin sat on the bed gaping. Anna assumed her most charming demeanor. “Hello. I’m Matron Blanc with the LAPD. I’ve come to take you to safety.”
“I don’t want to go with you. Your dress is torn and your hair is weird.”
“I think we should go,” said the twin who had let Anna in.
“You would. You’re stupid,” said the twin on the bed.
The standing twin picked up a shoe from the floor and threw it, hitting her sister. “You’re stupid and ugly.”
Anna winced. “You’re twins.”
The twin on the bed threw the shoe back at her sister. “We aren’t coming.”
“Then, I have no choice. You’re both under arrest.”
Anna gripped both twins by the hands and dragged them down the hall, out the door of the Jonquil, and down the street at top speed. Their squawking alerted Mrs. Rosenberg who Anna heard shouting. Joe fell into step beside them. “Are you okay?”
“Fit as a fiddle.”
“Are they going to testify? Because the girl on the trunk is gone.”
Anna gave him a meaningful look. “We are going to give them tasty food, a warm bed, and new friends. And they won’t have to do things with men. That’s as far as we’ve gotten.”
The Body in Griffith Park Page 11