Record of Blood

by Sabrina Flynn

  A red token caught Riot’s eye. It was a faro token from a gambling den, but not from a low sort of dive—the Palm Saloon was one of the finest in the city. Riot knew the place. More club than bar, it was close to the financial district, and was a favorite of bankers and businessmen.

  A soft noise alerted him. Slippered feet were climbing the stairs—the servant was on his way up. Riot quickly palmed the token, slipped out of the bedroom, and hurried down the hallway to the third-story stairway. It led to an attic room. It was cramped but clean, the walls newly papered in a floral pattern. A narrow bed was made up as if the house were expecting a new arrival, and a wilting bouquet of flowers sat on the mirrored dresser. Crushed between homes as this one was, there were no windows, save for a small round one at the front, at knee level, and a skylight.

  Riot used a nearby stool to step onto a dressing table, then onto a dresser. He turned the skylight’s latch, pushed open the window, and braced his walking stick across the opening. He was not as young as he once was, but regular fencing and boxing kept him fit. Using the stick, he hoisted himself up and out, and closed the skylight.

  Cold, biting air embraced him, and he cast his gaze over rooftops. The Chronicle and Call buildings were lost in fog. Riot stepped over to the next house, and the next, until he found a neighbor’s open skylight. He lowered himself inside, fixed his hat, and casually walked towards the stairs.

  A door opened, and a woman in a lacy cap and robe stepped out into the hallway. Her mouth opened, her hand clutched her robe, and Riot tipped his hat.

  “Pardon me, ma’am.”

  She stepped back into her room and slammed the door—likely going for a gun. Without waiting to discover what type of armament she favored, Riot swept down to the first level and out the front door. He hit the pavement with the click of his stick and an easy, unhurried stride, then climbed right into the waiting hack.

  Tim’s head appeared upside down in the window. “How’d you fare?”

  “I think we’d best get going before the police arrive.”

  Grimm nudged the horse into action.

  “Where to?” Tim asked.

  “I doubt we’ll get anything out of his attorney. Let’s try his favorite saloon.”

  The Palm Saloon shone with polish. And palms. There were a great number of potted plants that sat between leather armchairs and hid the saloon’s paneled walls. And each and every lamp was a work of art, done up in the popular French nouveau style, curling and twining metal, caught in a moment.

  It was early yet, and the saloon was empty. Riot was dressed for death, and looked like a native of the saloon, so when he tapped his knuckles on the glass, the man sweeping the floor opened the door.

  “Sorry, sir, but we’re closed until eleven.” The sweeper was in his late twenties, with a straight nose and fine eyebrows that had a perpetual tilt. He sounded as if he spoke through his nose.

  “I understand, but a friend of mine left his best gloves here,” Riot said in his plummiest tones. “He’s in a meeting, and I promised to check for him.”

  “Oh, I see. Come in. We have a drawer for lost items.”

  Riot stepped inside. “Walker is always misplacing things.”

  “Many of our patrons do, sir.”

  The young man led him to the coat room, and opened the top to a basket. “What do his gloves look like?”

  Riot frowned. “You know… he didn’t say. I assumed there’d only be one pair here.” He blanched, looking embarrassed. “Do you know him, perhaps? Lee Walker.”

  The sweeper’s knuckles tightened around his broom handle. “You’re not here for his gloves, are you?”

  “I am not,” Riot confirmed. His own hands were folded casually over the knob of his stick. All Riot had to do was shove him back a step and he’d be free to plunder the saloon. That realization was written all over the sweeper’s face, along with the fear that the owner would hear of his blunder.

  Before the man could act on whatever plan was brewing in his mind, Riot produced his card. “Mr. Walker has gone missing. A relation hired me to search for him.”

  “I’m not supposed to discuss our patrons.”

  “I imagine not,” Riot said. “Not a problem. I’ll call on the owner of your fine establishment. I’m sure he’ll be more forthcoming. And I’ll make sure to mention how hospitable you were.”

  The sweeper paled, and the tilt to his eyebrows seemed to droop. “I could lose my job, sir.”

  “Not if you tell me what I need to know.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “You clearly know Mr. Walker.”

  Slim shoulders shrugged. “He frequents the saloon in the afternoon, when most of our clientele are here. He’s run up his tab, and has yet to pay. The owner, Mr. Lloret, closed his tab, and sent a messenger with collections.”

  “Does Walker mingle much with the others?”

  “Yes, he’s friends with most everyone. Attorneys, bankers, real estate agents—everyone knows Walker.”

  “And what of his gambling. I take it he is a poor hand?”

  The man’s eyes flickered sideways, and he licked his lips.

  “I’ve spent more than my fair share of time playing the odds. I don’t care that your saloon runs a table or two in a back room.”

  “He plays faro. Really bad at it. The house didn’t even—” He cleared his throat.

  “Cheat?”

  “They would never do that.”

  “Of course not. Every house is as respectable as they come.”

  “Especially this saloon.” The sweeper’s own lie seemed to comfort him.

  “So Mr. Walker socializes with patrons, has run up a high tab, and now he’s disappeared,” Riot said. “Seems like it’s in your establishment’s best interest if I find him. Do you know anything about him? His profession, perhaps?”

  The man opened his mouth, and then shut it. A puzzled sort of look confused his eyebrows. “I don’t know what he did. I think he frequents the racetracks. He is always claiming he knows a fellow who can pick the winning horse every time.”

  From the man’s bank book, Riot had his doubts, and he didn’t relish the idea of combing the racetracks for someone who knew Mr. Walker.

  I never said a detective’s job was an easy one, Ravenwood’s voice huffed.

  Riot closed his eyes, and took a breath. Was he hearing things, was his old partner haunting him, or was he just plain mad? But Ravenwood had said something to that effect during the course of his life, hadn’t he? He had always been quick to warn Riot of the hardships of the trade—as if Riot hadn’t been the one doing all the legwork.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “No.” He had stepped back from the coat room, and had his back to the hallway wall. He glanced toward the dining room, and wished he could sit down and nurse a whiskey to drown his throbbing skull.

  “Erm.” Riot searched for his line of questioning, “When did you last see Walker?”

  “The day before yesterday. He was here at peak time.”

  “Did he mention where this horse fellow was?”

  “The place was down by the ferry building. It’s popular with racing men. There are messengers that run to the telegram office across the street to place a client’s wager in Sausalito. We provide the same service here, but he preferred his fellow.” The sweeper thought a moment, and then snapped his fingers. “Park’s Place, that was the name of it.”

  Everything is a tangled web—every fact and action—but not all the strands belong to the same web. Riot could hear Ravenwood’s voice in his ear as if the man stood at his side. He wished that voice would stop whispering. It made him feel insane.

  Did it matter if he was?

  It mattered a lot. His hands shook, his knees locked in place, and he gripped his silver-knobbed walking stick as if he actually had need of it. Riot could not move. He was frozen on the boardwalk. Pedestrians flowed around him, wagons trundled past, and still he stood there, staring at Park’s
Place.

  It was unremarkable by all accounts. A stout brick building with a facade front that transformed two-stories into three. It wasn’t a dive, but it wasn’t the Palm either. The front windows were clean, and, although it had only just opened, a few patrons had already entered. And yet Riot stood rooted in place.

  The mind was a curious thing. Currently, he could no more make his feet move than stop his heart from beating.

  A gun to the temple would suffice. Ravenwood’s raspy chuckle was as irritating as sandpaper on wood. The man had always had a literal sense of humor, and the irritant spurred Riot to action.

  Seeing Park’s Place again was like stepping into the past. It was uncomfortable, and Riot wanted to flinch from it. For survival’s sake, his mind had shoved the events leading up to Ravenwood’s murder into the dark.

  He was like a man with a broken leg who had a cobweb growing in some high corner. He hadn’t been able to deal with it while he was recovering—so he ignored it. Not quite forgotten, but never acknowledged. It was a source of unease. And every time he stared into that dark corner, he was reminded of pain, of a web of events he could not change. And still others that he could not remember.

  Riot gripped the door handle, and froze. The smell of blood and the bark of guns filled his senses. Flashes of movement and shadow, frantic voices, warm wood against his palm. And a grinning young man. His hand flinched towards his gun, but he stopped himself, and held on tight to the door handle instead.

  As fast as the snippets of memory had hit him, they subsided. The urgency passed, and was replaced with a nearly overwhelming urge to turn right around and find Isobel, but he swallowed down his rising panic.

  Why was he so reluctant to enter Park’s Place? It wasn’t as if the saloon had anything to do with Ravenwood’s murder. Yet something nagged at his instincts. Some shadowed piece of information wanted to surface, but was caught in a tangled mess of facts.

  Riot clenched his jaw, scowled at his severe reflection, and stepped into his past.

  8

  Park’s Place

  Wednesday, July 8, 1896

  Cool mist touched his cheeks. The streets were quiet, and only an occasional light flickered from a stubborn bagnio. It was the hour when barflies passed out and hoodlums stalked prey.

  Riot needed a drink. But he didn’t feel like returning to Ravenwood’s house. The man would be waiting, and he needed to cleanse the brothels from his mind and body—to collect his thoughts. A stiff drink, or two, were needed before he could pass into oblivion.

  Light cast deep shadows as he walked towards a familiar saloon. The weight of his Colt Shopkeeper in its hidden ankle holster was reassuring. Noise poured from the two-story building. He pushed open the door, and a man came barreling towards him. Riot stepped aside as a second man threw himself on the back of the first. Both men hit the planks. Fists and oaths were exchanged, a bottle was broken on an edge, and jagged glass flashed.

  A sturdy woman grabbed the bottle-wielding wrist, twisted the arm behind the assailant’s back, grabbed his trousers, and propelled the man out of her bar.

  “You boys fight like kittens!” she yelled, as the man crashed through the swinging doors. The woman raised a cudgel at the second man, and he quickly scrambled after his wrestling mate.

  “Evening, Mrs. Parks.” Riot removed his hat. “Trouble?”

  “What else but drunk men?” She turned to her patrons, and shouted, “Anyone else?”

  A round of murmured ‘no ma’am’ rippled over the saloon, and she marched back to her bar. Riot cracked the front doors, and eyed the fighting men. Assuring himself that they would not come charging back in, he followed the proprietress to her domain.

  “Your pleasure, Mr. Riot?”

  “Whiskey.” He tossed down a dime.

  She studied him while she poured his shot. “That bad?”

  He sighed, and tossed one back, then set the shot glass gently down. He nodded for another, and she pushed the dime back at him.

  Her dark eyes softened. “On the house, A.J.” Her words were heavily accented with French, and her voice was sultry and warm. He liked the way she talked.

  He raised his glass to her.

  “Does this have anything to do with those murdered slave girls? What are the papers calling it—The Broken Blossom Murders?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “No luck?”

  He swallowed down another bite of whiskey, and she poured a third, adding her own special combination of liquor. Mrs. Abigail Parks could mix a drink worthy of Miss Piggott herself.

  “Not yet,” he said, eyeing the shot glass.

  “Well you look like hell.”

  “Just what a man wants to hear.” He looked at the dark eyes across the bar. “You, on the other hand, are looking lively.”

  She laughed. “Don’t I always on nights like this?”

  “The cudgel suits you.”

  “You smooth-tongued devil.” She leaned forward, displaying a fine décolletage. “I was about to close. Stay if you like.”

  “I’m afraid I need a good scrub.”

  “I still have a bathtub.” She inclined her head towards a familiar door that led upstairs.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The water had gone cold a second time, yet Riot still scrubbed, trying to wash the night from his skin. Unfortunately, he’d need to take the coarse brush to the inside of his skull to manage that feat.

  How many girls had he questioned? How many had stared back with eyes numbed by opium, or dulled by hopelessness? How many had burned with anger and distrust? Too many. And all far too young.

  The door to the bathroom opened, and Riot instinctively reached for his gun. It was cocked and readied before he stopped himself. Even near-blind, he knew those curves by heart. Abigail had auburn hair and generous breasts, and she was leaning on the doorpost.

  “Still think I’m trying to kill you, A.J.?”

  He set his revolver aside. “You’re bound to get tired of me, sooner or later.”

  She sauntered in, and perched on the bathtub rim. “You have your uses.”

  “And what are those?”

  “I’m fond of your gun.” She bent forward, ran her fingers over his smooth chin, and kissed him deep and slow, while her fingers stroked the very thing of admiration. It wasn’t on the chair.

  Silver light cracked through the curtains. The bed lightened as Abigail rose, and padded across the floor to the bathroom. He admired her shape until she walked out of sight. When the door closed, he shook off his drowsy state and sat up, planting his bare feet on worn boards. Mrs. Parks’ husband stared at him from the bedside table. Mr. Jim Parks was all cocky and sure, and as big as a man came. He had reminded his wife of that often.

  “You seemed distracted tonight—this morning.”

  Abigail’s voice snapped him from his thoughts. Riot looked up, but saw only a shapeless blur. “I apologize.” He reached for his spectacles, and all became clear. She stood in the bathroom doorway, tying her robe, but the end result did little to cover her; it only managed to offer an enticing glimpse of her soft body.

  “Feeling guilty?” she asked, nodding towards the photograph.

  “Your husband’s a brute.”

  “Don’t I know it.” She sat down beside him on the bed, and plucked the photograph up. Her robe shifted, revealing one of many puckered scars where Jim Parks had stabbed her. There were plenty of other scars, too—both internal and external.

  “Why do you keep his photograph here?” Riot asked.

  “Does it bother you?”

  “No. I’m only curious.”

  Abigail frowned. She and Riot were lovers, maybe friends. Not much talking was involved in their relationship. He feared his question was too personal.

  Setting the photograph down, Abigail tucked herself back under the covers. She was drowsy from a long night of work, and a good romp at the end. She’d sleep for hours yet.

  “I don’t know,” she sa
id with a yawn. “Habit? A reminder?”

  “Of what?”

  “He’s my husband.”

  “He regularly beat you unconscious, and stabbed you multiple times.”

  She raised a shoulder. “But I loved him—still do, I suppose.”

  Riot nudged the photograph back an inch, to the precise location where it had been before she’d picked it up. He didn’t like to disturb her room.

  A smile curved her lips.

  “What is it?”

  “I am relishing the fact that your agency put him in San Quentin. It’s a satisfying sort of revenge to bed you, especially after he refused to sign the divorce papers.”

  He studied her relaxed face. “You didn’t think so fondly of me and Ravenwood at the time.”

  “No.” Her eyes opened, and she looked at him. “I was terrified. I didn’t know what would happen next. There’s more fear in the unknown than any fist. No matter how bad things are, they can always get worse.”

  “Worked out well in the end,” he said.

  “It could have gone the other way—still can.”

  “I suppose.” Riot’s thoughts turned to the girls he had seen. He had wondered why more didn’t run. The answer was in Abigail’s words. The girls were in a foreign land, spoke a foreign tongue, and more often than not, their own families had sold them into slavery. In their eyes, there was no path to redemption, and those girls had only their slavers to look to—men who fed them horrors about foreign barbarians and their ways. The girls knew what was coming through their door—men with only one thing in their minds. But outside anything could happen.

  “Truth is,” Abigail murmured. “A man tells you that you’re worthless enough and you start to believe it. I thought I deserved every blow he gave me.” She quickly rolled over, putting her back to him.

  “What happens when he’s released next year?”