On his sixteenth birthday, he sat alone in a cold cell, one he’d become quite familiar with over the years. He was studying his bloody hands and didn’t hear the footsteps. When he looked up, he realized he had a visitor. He eyed him suspiciously, wondering if he might be one of those fancy boys that seemed to seek him out for his favors. It wasn’t the first time he’d been approached, and when money was tight…well…if it was good enough for his old mother, he supposed it was good enough for him, too.
But this wasn’t the gentleman’s pleasure. He was a shorter man, with a shock of blond hair, a streak of white running across it. He had a heavy British accent and a strange air, but there was something about him Samuel liked; maybe it was the way his eyes were dark and empty, not unlike his own. The man bailed him out that night; money was no object. He took him down to Chinatown, bought him some food, and made a proposition. He wanted to sponsor him, he explained. He didn’t understand that word, and so the stranger slowly and carefully described his intentions. He liked to watch fights, he enjoyed betting on them and he had the money to do it, and had been doing it since he’d moved to the states, but he wanted to get a little closer to the action, and decided he was going to take a boxer under his wing. He would provide him a place to stay; his meals would be taken care of, and maybe a few extras. When he asked what those were, he just smiled and told him he would show him tonight.
In exchange for paying his way, he would fight for him. His eyes lit up. Yes, he was going to learn to fight professionally. He wasn’t sure what this entailed, but it was all right. He would get his bills paid just for fighting. What could be better? However, there were some rules. He must never speak his manager’s name or show any signs of knowing him. That night, his new sponsor took him down to a dark building in Chinatown. When the red doors opened, his eyes widened. Striking women welcomed them inside. They wore skin-hugging dresses, and smiled with dark red lips, their eyes the color of raven wings. Shiny black locks curtained down their delicate shoulders. The room was hazy with smoke, curling up around him like a lover’s embrace.
He was led into a back room and presented with a pipe. A young girl handed it to him, her eyes the color of onyx. He took a drag and discovered paradise. The last thing he remembered was his new manager leaving the room. He put arms around two of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. They appeared to be twins. As the opium surged through his veins, he saw heaven, and knew that he would do anything for the feeling to stay. For the remainder of his short life, he would seek that high, and nothing would prevent him from getting it, no deed too dark, no action too shameful. For the next five years, he boxed in matches in the dark hovels and basements of Kearny Street. He made a name for himself. Other boxers kept their distance. He was known for fighting dirty, and enjoyed it when he seriously injured his opponents, once even killing a man. He had no friends other than his associates at the opium den, and that was all right by him. His love was for the pipe. It was what got him up in the morning, and it was what he dreamed of at night.
On this particular evening, he sat on the ground, outside the ring, drenched in sweat, bloody, but victorious. He knew his biggest fight was just around the corner. It was going to be a payday like no other. He was glad; he needed money to get high. It took a lot more these days to make a dent. His savings were gone, and he was in desperate need. The itchiness was beginning to spread over his skin. He’d scratched himself raw, making deep red gashes on his legs, where his fingernails had ripped off patches of skin. He looked down at the floor taking in shallow breaths. A shadow fell over his body, and he looked up. James Williams stood over him, a tight smile on his face.
“You’re looking a little piqued, my friend. Looks like you could use a pick me up. Congratulations on your win by the way. You’ve almost made it to the top. There’s just one more fight to become champion. You’ll earn quite a bit of money when this happens, but it looks like you might need some now.”
“Could you lend me a little, sir?” he asked, a whine in his voice that he couldn’t quite hide.
“That might be arranged, but I’ll need something in exchange.”
His eyes lifted, questioning.
“Next Saturday, you’re going to meet a new opponent. His name is Patrick Deane. He’s an Irish bastard. Yes, a real piece of work. So, I want you to do something for me.”
His eyes were slowly closing, as the pain in his gut deepened, he needed a fix and he needed it bad.
“Pay attention,” James said calmly, slapping him hard across the face. He sat bolt upright, his eyes blazing with anger.
“Wipe that scowl off before I change my mind about giving you an advance.”
He looked sheepishly at the floor like a scolded puppy.
“That’s better.”
“Now, this is what you need to do for me. You’re going to hurt this Patrick Deane. You’re going to hurt him bad.”
His eyes lit up. He nodded eagerly
“And, one thing more. You know there’s some new product at your favorite Oriental market. I believe it’s called Maiden Flower?”
“He eyed him greedily.
“Let’s just say if you actually killed this Patrick Deane, well then…perhaps, I might just gift you with a generous payment of this new flavor.”
His eyes glimmered.
“I can do that, boss, I’d like to do it for you, sir,” he said, cloyingly.
“Very good, boy. Why don’t we get you a little relief then?” His smiled widened, as James put his arm around his shoulders, leading him outside.
The Grand Opening
Mara paced back and forth trying to calm herself. It was six o’clock and people would be arriving within the hour. The canvases were hung along the walls, each according to subject and artist. Jenjie’s paintings were arranged across the green partition, each animal representing its zodiac year. Underneath the images were small cards describing their significance. Donald’s Triptych was set near the front window, showing the San Francisco Bay in all its glory. Berthe Morisot’s piece was on the opposite end, a private glimpse into the French art scene. Mara scattered a few of her own canvases around the room. She’d placed them among her new clients’ works. Her friends took turns tidying up and preparing the appetizers. Mrs. Levy brought along finger foods—deviled eggs and vegetable latkes. Donald and Jeremiah had donated a few bottles of champagne for the guests. Jenjie was hanging a small landscape scene of the Oakland Train Station. Betty and Joshua were busy pinning streamers along the walls. Teenage boys lit street lamps down the avenue. A heavy fog was rolling in, making everything appear hazy and distant. Mara looked out at the darkening street, anticipating the visitors. Patrick walked up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her neck. She smiled and reached back, folding her hands over his.
“I’m so proud of you, Mara. You’re quite the business woman.”
She turned to him, her eyes moist with tears. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done this without you, and just look at how our friends helped to put this together. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am.”
“I wish I could stay for the whole thing.”
“It’s alright. I know you have to prepare for the fight. We’re all going to come down to watch it later tonight,” she said, her mouth trembling slightly.
“That means the world to me, love, but I don’t want you to be frightened when you see the match. It can look worse than it is,” he trailed off.
She did her best to reassure him, but her insides felt cold. Mara forced a smile, trying to put him at ease.
* * * *
The guests arrived in twos and threes, larger groups within the hour. Joshua made his way over to the open door with a violin in hand. He handled the instrument with great love, and the music flowed forth with an intimate grace. It was a stirring melody, soft and sweet. Betty moved closer, losing herself in his aquamarine eyes. A smile moved over his face. Neither spoke, as no words were needed.
Several visitors hud
dled around Donald’s paintings. Whenever someone new approached, he would hold his breath. A well-dressed gentleman made his way over to the window. He studied the triptych with his hand resting against his beard. He turned and introduced himself as Mayor Thomas H. Shelby. Mara and Donald exchanged shocked expressions. He went on to explain how he was impressed with the new gallery, and that he was very taken with Donald’s work. He asked if he might purchase the entire set, describing how the paintings would be perfect for his downtown office. Mr. Becker’s eyes widened as he struggled for words. The mayor patiently waited for his answer. He took a deep breath and said it would be an honor. Mayor Shelby shook his hand, and gave Donald a firm pat on the shoulder. Jeremiah stood behind him with a proud smile.
Mara busied herself mingling with her guests and was embraced eagerly by her peers. Donald and Jenjie were treated like royalty that evening, everyone wanted to meet them, some even asking for autographs. There was quite an interest in Mara’s paintings as well. She’d sold the majority of the collection by the end of the evening. Berthe Morisot didn’t make it to the opening that night, instead she was on her way back to Paris for an exhibition. Mara looked forward to writing her that the grand opening had been a success. At the end of the evening, an elderly gentleman made his way around the room, taking his time, studying each piece with interest. He was so taken with Berthe Morisot’s painting that he not only wanted to purchase it, but also insisted on donating fifty dollars towards the gallery as a sponsor of the arts. Mara made enough money from the paintings to pay three months’ rent. It was a relief, and she couldn’t have been happier.
By ten o’clock the final guests had departed. Her friends took turns congratulating her. Sarah Levy went to the back of the room, retrieved the last champagne bottle, and filled their glasses.
“To Mara McClain,” she said, raising a toast, “Congratulations on your first art opening. We couldn’t be more proud of you. Cheers to many more!”
“Mazel tov,” her friends cried in unison.
“Mara looked out at the kind faces, her body shaking with emotion. “I wish I could find the words to thank you for everything you’ve done for me these past few weeks. Each and every one of you is a part of my family now, and I love you all.” Her voice shook, cracking on the last few words.
After taking turns toasting, the friends made their way to Kearny Street to support Patrick’s final fight. Joshua helped Mara and Betty inside his carriage. A few moments into the ride, Mara looked over at her friends and realized they were holding hands. She smiled as they made their way into the dark, cold night.
Patrick Deane
Patrick stood alone in the back room. He heard the laughter and excitement of the crowds outside. They were slowly taking their seats, anxious for the festivities to begin. It was by far the largest gathering of any fight he’d ever been in. Most of his matches took place in back alleys, or hidden deep within San Francisco’s underground, but this time, things were different. Some of the wealthiest people in the city—politicians, bankers and businessmen were involved. With a little money exchanged here and there, the fight would take place right out in the open. High society wanted to play, and the event grew into quite the formal affair. The Golden Queen Casino stepped up to host the match. They’d moved their gambling tables downstairs, clearing out the entire second floor. Velvet backed chairs were arranged around a large roped in arena. An open bar available for those who’d invested high stakes in the game. Gentleman and well-dressed ladies walked about the room, engaging in polite conversation. Their soft laughter was more suited to the theatre than the violent affair about to take place.
The room’s periphery held an entirely different crowd. These were the hardened gamblers, the brothel owners, and drug dealers. Five of their highest-ranking leaders represented the Chinese Tongs. They stood together, dressed in identical black attire. They surveyed the room as a united front. Their emotionless faces gave no clue to their power and influence. The Tongs simultaneously aided their people and enslaved them. They offered protection against rising discrimination, but in doing so, demanded a heavy price. When these restitutions were not met, punishments are carried out swiftly and violently. They had their hands in many pies—opium dens, prostitution rings, gambling parlors, along with their racketeering. On these accounts, they were given a wide berth.
Across from this somber group stood a middle-aged woman with an aura of eternal youth. Lola Vilonia was the Madame and proprietor of Lola’s Ladies. Her pink hotel was one of the town’s most infamous brothels. The men hovered around her like a queen bee, and she busied herself keeping court. She wore a pink taffeta gown, low cut, leaving little to the imagination. Every so often, one of the more well to do businessmen would gaze in her direction, making it apparent that it was not the first time he’d looked into those ebony eyes. Her mouth would turn up, and she’d smile her secret smile.
Ordinarily these outsiders were looked down upon, if not openly despised by the upper class, but tonight everyone was welcome inside the Golden Queen. These people were in charge of all of the forbidden pleasures of the city. In the light of day, the wealthy aristocrats made every point to ignore their very existence, but at night, things were different. They begrudgingly put up with their presence in order to indulge in a little thrill, an exciting jaunt inside the darker corners of San Francisco’s Barbary Coast. In any other situation, their paths would never cross; this was how each side liked it, but on this night, on account of necessity, their worlds collided. The entire top floor of the casino was decked out and ready to house as many guests as they could squeeze in. They had moved several gambling tables to accommodate the fight and the room was packed.
The bets were placed, and the winner was going to take home a pay day like no other. The purse was large enough for Patrick to change his life, and he would take it, gladly. There would be a small part of him that would miss the excitement of the ring—the thrill of victory, but he knew he couldn’t keep this up. He would need to protect his hands for his new businesses, but more importantly, he had to do it for Mara. She was his life now; his very soul lived for her smile, the way her eyes lit up when he touched her, the passion they shared. She was just a tiny little thing, but her heart and mind were so strong, and she stirred something in him, something he’d never known existed. He would fight for her tonight, and then his boxing career would come to an end. He just couldn’t stand the pain in her eyes, or the way her tears surfaced when she studied his bruises. He tried to reassure her, and insisted it was nothing, but it just was too much for her. So, this would be his last fight. It was as simple as that. He’d give her a good life.
He understood that she wanted to be an independent businesswoman, but as a man, he meant to provide for her, and provide he would. He noticed the way her eyes lit up when she looked at the Painted Lady. Oh, God, the way she talked about the autumn colors, and it being like a fairytale, and her eyes became so wistful. Those beautiful blue eyes. His heart ached every time he looked at them. He wondered if she really understood the depth of his love for her. He’d give his life if she asked, his very soul. He would get her that house. He’d build it with his own two hands. Oh, yes, he would, and together they would start their lives together, raise a beautiful family, and eventually they would grow old, happy in their love and memories. He imagined their children and grandchildren, even their great grandchildren running through the house, playing up and down the stairs. Their laughter would ring like little bells, happy and safe inside the towering walls. There would be lots of rooms for them to play. He hoped that Autumn Lady would be their legacy, passed down from generation to generation. He would see to every detail of the estate, and it would be remarkable. Stained glass windows surrounded the parlor, fall leaves etched in the glass, turning the light into the color of Mara’s strawberry-blond curls.
And of course, he would build a beautiful art studio for his bride. There would be lots of windows for her to paint by, and there would be roses outside
. Yes, he would plant rose bushes all over the yard, roses for his lovely Irish rose. This is what he would do for her. She was his life now and he would provide everything her heart desired. And he’d protect her too. Maybe, he could even manage to purchase the building for her gallery, or perhaps he would just build her one. He wouldn’t let James anywhere near Mara. He’d already taken steps to protect her from that monster. He’d informed Sheriff Carpenter all about Mr. Williams’ dark past, and his friend had done some excellent detective work. He’d recently discovered that James had his hands in a lot of illegal business dealings, had in fact been involved in gambling to the point of losing quite a bit of money. He was deep in debt in the Chinese community. The sheriff had explained how he enjoyed the opium houses, the women, and the drugs. So much so, that he was losing more than he was making off of his real-estate investments. Patrick wondered if James had placed money on this fight. It would be ironic if he had. Because he was going to win and he hoped that meant that the man would lose all of his savings. If all went well, the sheriff just might be able to arrest Mr. Williams tonight, if not for the murders, then for the illegal dealings he was involved in around San Francisco.
So, he began to warm up, taking quick jabs into the air. Outside, the noise of the swelling crowd grew to a roar. He imagined that Mara and their friends were in their seats by now—anxiously waiting. He hoped to finish the fight quickly and be done with it, then they could start their new lives together. Patrick couldn’t wait to hold her in his arms again.
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