by Gregory Ashe
“Consider it tabled,” Irene said. “What’s this new fight going to be about?”
“Tonight.”
“I’d like to go out for dinner. Not the Grand. Someplace else.”
Cian laughed. “Not the Grand. But I’m afraid dinner will have to be another night. Harry got answers out of Sam. The mask is hidden here, in the city. We’re going to get it. And it’s going to be dangerous, Irene. And I absolutely forbid you to come.”
“You forbid me.” Irene’s voice could have raised icicles in midsummer.
“Well.” Cian swallowed. “Yes. Irene, you were hurt last night. Badly. And I left you behind. I can’t do that again.”
Her hand found his. “I was fine.”
“But what if you hadn’t been? Irene, I’d have gone mad. If something happened to you—if I couldn’t protect you—”
“Very well.”
“No, just listen—wait. What?”
“I said, very well.”
“You won’t go?”
“No.”
“Maybe we could find you another hotel. Sam is still here. I don’t like the thought of you being here alone with him.”
Irene nodded. “That sounds wise.”
Cian waited for the other shoe to drop. “But?”
“But nothing. You make a good point. I’m still a bit rattled from that blow to the head, and a night off will do me wonders. I’ll stay at the Majestic.”
“You will?”
“Yes,” she said with a laugh. “Goodness, Cian, you’re acting as though I’ve grown horns. I know reason when I hear it.”
“You do?”
Irene’s eyebrows went up.
“Yes, of course,” Cian said. “Perfect.”
“Now. One last question, Cian Shea.”
Cian felt the trap closing.
“Who is Captain Irving Harper, and why is he looking for you?”
Cian danced around the question for a half an hour like a dog with his head in a beehive. Irene watched him, feeling a mixture of anxiety and amusement. Anxiety that he wouldn’t answer the question truthfully. Amusement that—well, that he was Cian, and he had as much deception in him as a teaspoon. Eventually, and with a look that told Irene that Cian believed he had succeeded in dodging the question, Cian made a flurry of excuses and practically ran from the room.
Irene dropped back onto her pillow. Her head still ached. She felt like she’d fallen down ever step in the Louisiana Grand. She thought about the look in Cian’s eyes when he’d walked into the room. She thought about the tremor in his leg as he’d sat next to her on the bed.
She wondered, if she’d shown him her breasts, if he’d have swallowed his tongue.
She certainly hoped not.
Then Irene got up and set to work. She packed her suitcase, freshened up in the bathroom, and carried her belongings to the front door. Pearl sat on the sofa with her knitting. Her eyes were red, and her hands were idle in her lap.
“Pearl?” Irene said. “Is everything alright?”
Pearl lined up the knitting needles and shook her head.
“Is it Harry? I know he and Cian fought, but—”
“No,” Pearl said. Her voice was raw. “No, Harry’s sleeping. He’s fine. It’s Freddy.”
“Freddy?” And then realization. “Oh, Pearl. I’m so sorry.”
The other woman nodded. “Sam told Harry that he didn’t know anything about the carving. Harry—Harry says Sam is telling the truth.” Pearl paused a moment to recover herself. When she spoke again, her voice was steadier. “I suppose I believe him. It was one thing to know that Freddy had kept that disc. Considering his past, I thought that it might have been nothing more than curiosity. But that carving.” She stopped again. “I’m sorry, you don’t need to hear all this.”
Irene set down her suitcase and coat. Then she sat on the sofa and embraced Pearl. The older woman sighed and patted Irene’s back.
“Thank you,” Pearl said. “I wish you hadn’t been dragged into this.”
“It’s ok,” Irene said. “We’ll all be fine. We’ll figure things out.”
Pearl laughed. It was a weak laugh, but it brought some color back to her face. “I suppose we will. Harry’s never let anything stop him before.” She glanced at the luggage. “Where are you going? You need to rest.”
“Cian wants me to stay at a hotel. He says you’ll be busy tonight and he doesn’t want me here alone with Sam.”
“And you agreed?”
Irene fought to keep the lie from showing in her face. “Of course. It makes sense, I suppose. I’ll have a good night’s sleep and be right as rain tomorrow.”
Pearl stared at her.
“Is Cian here?” Irene asked.
“He went out.”
“Ok. Well, let him know that I went to the Majestic, would you?”
“Of course. I’ll tell him you left.”
“Thank you,” Irene said. She turned toward the door and stopped. “Pearl, I am sorry about Freddy.”
“So am I,” Pearl said. “Be safe, Irene.”
Irene donned her coat, grabbed her suitcase, and hurried downstairs to hail a cab.
Two hours later, she was settled in a new suite of rooms at the Majestic. Although not quite as spacious or opulent as the Grand, the Majestic had the same straight lines, the same gleaming metalwork and marble floors, and—most importantly—the same lovely, large bathtubs with hot water. After she bathed, Irene studied herself in the mirror. The bruises across her back and legs were dark purple splotches with yellow rings.
Her father.
She dressed. She chambered the revolver. And then she took her coat and her clutch and went out.
Patrick was certain that he needed her father’s help. Irene was about to show him how wrong he was.
At seven-thirty, Cian arrived at Harry’s apartment. By that hour, the streets were already dark tunnels studded with guttering street lamps. In the fitful rings of light, the snow lost its muddied, trampled aspect and turned the walks into forgotten mountains. As Cian knocked on the door to Harry’s, his stomach grumbled.
He needed money. He needed a job. And most of all, he needed not to see Harry Witte one more day than was necessary.
Pearl opened the door and ushered him inside. She wore, as she always did, a simple blouse and skirt. Nothing flashy. Nothing shabby, either.
Respectable. That was the word for it.
She made Irene look like a gypsy.
“There’s a bite of supper in the kitchen,” Pearl said. “Harry thought you might not have eaten.”
“He did, did he?”
“Steak and potatoes.”
Cian’s stomach lunged towards the kitchen, but he held himself still. Then he shrugged. “I already ate. Thank you.”
His stomach growled its disagreement.
One of Pearl’s eyebrows went up.
“Is he here?” Harry asked. “We should go.”
“We’re almost ready,” Pearl said. “Let me grab my things. Would you like a drink?”
Cian shook his head. “You’re coming too, then?”
“Of course,” Pearl said. “With Irene resting, who else will keep you two from killing each other?”
That, Cian thought, was a remarkably good point.
Harry emerged from his bedroom a moment later, dressed like a man out on the town—tailored suit, sharp hat, silver cufflinks, shoes that Cian could see his face in. And a revolver, visible in a holster under Harry’s arm.
“Ready?” Harry asked. His voice was colder than the air outside.
Cian didn’t bother answering.
“After our conversation this morning, I want to make sure we’re clear on something,” Harry said.
“Stuff your apologies.”
Harry’s eyes widened. He gave a clipped laugh. “Apology? Not quite. I want to make sure you understand that I’m giving the orders tonight. That means if I say jump, you jump. And if I say we leave without the mask, we leave. If I say shoo
t—”
“I got it,” Cian said.
Harry nodded. “Pearl?”
She came out of the sitting room pulling on her coat and gloves. They left the apartment, climbed into Harry’s car, and started south. The silence inside the automobile was thicker than the ice on the streets. Pearl looked at both of them, sighed, and pulled out a compact mirror to check her face.
“You’re going to get someone killed,” she said.
Neither man bothered to ask who she was talking to.
A half an hour later, they pulled up in front of a large house. It was an older building but well-maintained, three stories of white-washed wood with dormer windows. Music and laughter came from inside, spilling out from behind curtained windows. The smell of cigar smoke and cheap perfume hung on the house like a bad pair of stockings.
“You take me to the most wonderful places,” Pearl said.
Harry grinned at her.
Cian thought, briefly, about what that smile would look like with all those pretty teeth bashed in.
“I doubt Pearl is the kind of guest they usually have here,” Cian said. “No offense, Pearl.”
“You’d be surprised by some of these places,” Harry said, “but in this case, you’re right. Pearl will wait here and keep an eye out for any of the Children—or any of the Dane’s men—who show up.”
“More waiting,” Pearl said with a mock-sigh.
“There’s another option,” Cian said. “I spoke with a friend about this place. She knows it well enough and she told me there’s a back door that the girls leave open. Apparently that’s the way the Dane’s men come and go, since they’re not paying customers. If Pearl sits out front, all she’s going to get is a frozen backside.”
“Who is this friend?” Harry said.
“A whore named Eileen,” Cian said. “Know her?”
“Funny. What do you think, Pearl?”
She hesitated. “I think we should consider both possibilities.”
Cian fought not to roll his eyes.
“Did Eileen tell you if the house is closely watched?”
Cian nodded. “She said a woman could stand in the back hall for the whole night and not get a second look. The Dane brings new girls in all the time.”
“No, Pearl,” Harry said. “I don’t like it.”
“Harry—”
“You’re going to walk through the back door all by yourself? And then what? What if something happens?”
“Harry Witte, I am a grown woman. I was taking care of myself long before I met you. I might not have experience with whorehouses, but I know women, and I’ll be safer—and warmer—talking to a few of those poor girls than I would be sitting in the car. I’m going in.”
Harry gave a strangled growl. Then he threw open the door and climbed out of the car.
“Stop smiling, Cian,” Pearl said with surprising heat. “You’re behaving very poorly.”
The men climbed the steps to the double doors on the front of the brothel while Pearl circled around back. She gave Harry a firm nod before she disappeared into the alley. Harry gave a sigh and brushed at his trousers.
“If something happens to her—”
Without finishing the threat, Harry pushed open one door and stepped inside. As Cian followed, he walked into a cloud of cigar smoke. Music—blues, played loud on a piano in one corner—made eddies in the air. They stood in a large room that must have taken up most of the main floor of the house. Chaise longues, sofas, and padded chairs filled the room, and most of the seats were occupied by men and women in various states of undress.
Cian watched Harry’s eyes, to see where the man looked first.
He had to give Harry credit. The man was a consummate actor.
It only took Cian a moment to get a feel for the place. In the front room, the women still wore dresses—although many had been persuaded, undoubtedly with the help of a few dollars, to let their dresses slide down or up, as the case may be, exposing shoulders and legs. The men, most of whom looked like working class types, had their collars open and their ties loosened, shirts free of their trousers, hats forgotten. In contrast to them, Cian and Harry looked like a pair of St. Louis’s finest young men who had decided on a bit of adventure.
Cian cursed Irene for buying him those fancy clothes.
A woman with shockingly red hair—much brighter than Cian’s—and a lavender dress strolled across the room to greet them. “Hello boys,” she said. She walked with her back arched, and between her posture and the dress, certain attributes were made prominent. Quite prominent.
The way mountain ranges are prominent.
“God, pick your jaw up,” Harry muttered to Cian. Then, with that too-smooth smile, he said to the woman, “Well. Hello to you too.”
“My name’s Kate,” the woman said. “What can I do for two handsome young gentlemen?”
Harry leaned forward and, in a lower voice, said, “My big friend here is looking for some company. You might say he’s new to all this. I was hoping you’d have someone who could . . . show him around.” He chuckled.
Cian wondered how whorehouses looked on the act of murder.
Kate laughed softly. Her eyes ran up and down Cian, and he blushed. “Well, he is a big one. I think I know just the right girl to help him out.” Then she looked at Harry, and she could have started a fire with her eyes. “But what about you? Such a considerate friend, you aren’t going to forget about yourself, are you?”
Harry didn’t move, but somehow, his entire posture changed. The air between Kate and him became electric. One of Harry’s hands moved to hover next to Kate’s without ever touching her. Kate’s breathing shifted.
Even Cian was half-convinced.
“I think I’ve already met someone I’m taken with,” Harry said. Then he glanced at Harry, and the look was unmistakable. “After all, I have a thing for red-heads.”
Yes, murder was the only possible choice. Cian was almost certain the whores wouldn’t mind.
At least, not too much.
Kate’s cheeks were flushed, and she was laughing as she called over another girl. A petite blonde with legs that went to the moon, the girl spoke with Kate for a moment and then came over to stand by Cian.
“Evening, sir,” she said. “I’m Marie, but you can call me Sweetie Pie. Everyone else does.”
Harry was whispering in Kate’s ear as they watched Cian. The red-haired woman’s face was almost as bright as her hair, and she threw her head back and laughed.
Cian’s tongue swelled until he thought he was going to choke.
Marie—Sweetie Pie?—stared at him, obviously waiting for a response. She threw a confused glance over her shoulder at Kate.
For a moment, Cian thought Harry and Kate were going to die from suppressed laughter.
God damn both of them.
“Would you like a drink?” Sweetie Pie asked.
“Yes,” Cian said. “God, yes.”
Kate was wiping tears from her eyes as she laughed.
“Anywhere but here,” Cian said.
“Come with me,” Sweetie Pie said with a sympathetic smile.
She led him out of the front room and up a flight of stairs. A series of unmarked doors ran the length of the hall. From behind several doors came the sounds—rather exaggerated sounds, from Cian’s limited experience—of love-making.
He wondered if his face could literally catch fire.
“Wait right here,” Sweetie Pie said, showing him into a small room that consisted of nothing more than a bed, a shuttered window, and a pitcher and washbasin. “Anything in particular?”
“Whiskey,” Cian said. “Lots of whiskey.”
She smiled at him, sweet as a spring morning, and shut the door.
It took Cian almost a full minute to stop thinking of new ways to kill Harry and remember why he was here. He dropped to his stomach and crawled under the bed. Aside from the usual dust-bunnies, the only thing of note was a forgotten sock.
No box.
Cian swore and squirmed free of the bed. He made his way to the door. He needed time to check the other rooms. He’d send Sweetie Pie—no, God damn him, Marie—he’d send Marie back for something else. What did men need in a whorehouse? Crackers?
Crackers. Cian shook his head. He was losing his mind.
As Cian stepped out into the hall, though, he paused. He was face to face with a massive man with a bushy beard, blond gone to gray. The man looked familiar.
Before Cian could say a word, the man brought his arm up and slammed the butt of a pistol against the side of Cian’s head.
A spark of white ballooned to fill Cian’s vision. His knees turned to slush. And then he hit the ground.
The whorehouse spread her legs in front of Irene. The building might have been stately once, standing three stories with dormer windows, but now mold speckled the white siding. Bundled in her coat, Irene rounded the corner to find the back entrance to the brothel. A door on the tenement to her right flew open. A red-faced women tossed water from a pot, missing Irene by inches, and then the door slammed shut again. Snow hissed where the boiling water landed. A moment later, the scent of defrosting garbage worked its way into the air.
Irene grimaced, hiked up her coat, and stepped around the spreading puddle.
This part of the city pulled darkness over itself like sheets in need of a good wash. The air was heavy with coal smoke. From the next street, a pack of dogs barked and snapped, but the sounds cut off at the sound of a single gunshot. Irene took the cramped street to her left.
Not a soul in sight.
The thought did nothing to ease the prickles at the base of her neck.
It had taken her most of the day to track down Patrick Hannafy. She’d found him in a small brick house tucked into a street of similar, respectable homes on the south edge of Kerry Patch. He’d answered the door in his shirtsleeves and with a towel thrown over his shoulder.
Behind him, a girl of no more than five squealed as she escaped the bathtub and fled, nude, down the length of the house.
Patrick Hannafy had smiled and invited Irene in.
At the next corner, Irene paused and listened. For a moment, she’d heard the crack of ice behind her. When she glanced back, though, the street was empty. The moon was a grainy black and white behind the gauzy layer of smoke.