by Rue Allyn
Leaving the glass on the bar, Dutch sat with his back to the auction and stretched his arms then linked his hands behind his head. He wanted the judge to think he was completely relaxed. Showing weakness of any kind would be a mistake.
In the room with the bidders, Cerise laughed. “Is that a second bid from the gentleman in the back. No? What about you, sir, in the derby? Will anyone bid $1,000 or more?”
“That’s too steep for me,” announced a man.
“I’m a Justice of the California Court.” The judge glared at Dutch, stuck out his chest, set the cards down, and carefully covered the envelope with one hand. “Why would I be afraid to come to San Francisco?”
What was Jeremiah Trahern trying to hide? Dutch tugged the envelope from under his father’s palm, picked up the folded paper, and spun it on its corner against the table. He gave the judge a long, hard look and spoke so his father alone would hear. “Father Conroy’s committee knows lying, thieving slime when they see it no matter how dignified the governor and his bully boys try to make it look.”
In the auction room the bidding crept upward.
“I’m out,” said another voice.
Privately, Dutch thought dealing with whores at any price was rank foolishness. Paying one thousand dollars for a woman amounted to sheer idiocy. Whoever bid that much deserved to lose his money.
Eyes as blue as his own mirrored Dutch’s cold anger.
Jeremiah eyed the envelope but picked up the card deck again instead of trying to get the envelope back. The older man fanned the cards then laid them face up on the table in a show of nonchalance. “Have more respect for your father, son. Besides there hasn’t been a true vigilance committee in San Francisco in nearly twenty years.”
Tapping the envelope atop his clenched fist, Dutch stared at the carefully arranged suits and thought about those years. Years of learning to thieve and pick locks at his father’s knee, years of struggle and suffering after the judge deserted them, years of watching his mother whore and die. More years of servicing Cerise Duval to keep a roof over Trey’s head and food in their bellies. Then, after the murder of Father Conroy’s sister finally broke Duval’s hold, Dutch spent years working and sweating to bury a past that even now would not leave him and Trey alone. All because Jeremiah Trahern was a cheat and worse.
Dutch swallowed the anger that soured his throat, wishing he had some chocolate to sweeten the taste. “Oh but the vigilance committee is active. It’s effective, if not widely recognized. The stabbing death of that merchant on Pacific Street — you know the man who wouldn’t pay protection money to the Sacramento bully boys — has Father Conroy and his friends all riled up. That’s one reason I’m here. Thought you should know.”
The judge’s face paled then he shrugged. “They can’t pin a thing on me, boy. I wasn’t even in the city when that fellow died.”
“Maybe so.” From the cards spread before the judge, Dutch snagged the ace of spades with a corner of the envelope. “But you were always good with a pig sticker.”
A roar emerged from the auction room as the bidding rose.
The elder Trahern’s eyes gleamed, and he produced a feral smile. “Not as good as you, boy, from what I hear. Bet Padre Conroy and his pals would be interested to know just what you intended doing to the good father’s sister the night she died. Duval’s still got the evidence that could convict any of us.”
Fury at the insult to the memory of that blameless girl more than the implied threat to himself brought Dutch to his feet. He reached across the table for the judge. Fisting one hand in the older man’s shirt, Dutch lifted him from the chair. “You piece of scum. Don’t you try to dirty her memory or me. If not for you, she’d be alive now. That murder was all of your making.”
His father’s smile dimmed, replaced with a fearful rictus. “Put me down, son. You’re drawing attention.”
Indeed all noise of the auction had ceased. From the corner of his eye, Dutch could see the auction room audience and most of the bar patrons staring.
“Gentlemen, there’s no problem. Is there, Mr. Trahern?” Cerise’s voice held as much warning as curiosity.
“No.” Dutch released his grip and sat.
The onlookers breathed a collective sigh as the tension eased.
The judge dropped to the floor but kept his feet. He straightened his shirt, dusted the sleeves of his jacket, and returned to his seat.
“It’s no skin off my back, if you choose to sweat like a miner to earn your grub. But don’t act all high and mighty with me, when I know just how much blood you’ve got on your hands.” He spoke for Dutch’s ears alone.
“That’s a lie. You know nothing about me.”
“You can call me a liar all you want. Don’t change nothin’.” Jem snarled. “I know what I know. I’ve got my sources of information, and they’re real reliable.” He nodded his head in the direction of Cerise Duval, who urged her audience to bid more than $1,500. What else could the judge know about the killing done years ago and Dutch’s failure to defend an innocent girl? Failure that was the direct result of his own youthful fear of Duval. No, despite the horrors of that incident, Duval and the judge had come out of it worse than Dutch. Duval was a proud woman, careful, savvy, and not above manufacturing evidence if need be. But the calculation in the judge’s narrowed gaze told Dutch the man was bluffing.
“Liar is one of the nicest things I can call you.” Dutch tried to keep his tone as indifferent as possible. But under his calm façade, temper roared for freedom. He badly wanted to smash something.
“Perhaps, but seein’ as how you think so poorly of your pa, why’d you bother to accept my invitation?”
“Because I want that information you promised and I want you to leave town.”
Hands busy with the cards again, his parent shrugged. “I like San Francisco, and information has a price. ’Sides, I always got use for cash. How much are you payin’?” The judge stacked the cards in front of him. Avarice and something akin to panic gleamed in his eyes.
“You asked for $4,000. That’s more than you deserve.”
“I deserve whatever it’s worth to get rid of me. Now, are you paying my askin’ price?”
Within his inner coat pocket Dutch had just over $4,000, but he wasn’t telling the judge that when he might get rid of him for less. Dutch stared hard at the man, wondering for the thousandth time how the judge could possibly be his father.
Voices rose again in the auction room. “Well I got me seventeen hunner’d, an’ I wanna taste o’ that first-timer real bad. I’m biddin’ it all, Madame.”
“Thank you kindly, sir. The bid is now $1,700. Seventeen hundred dollars, once. Come now, gentlemen. The collective wealth of San Francisco is in this room. Surely one of you can see the value in this priceless, once-in-a-lifetime experience. To take a lady on her journey into womanhood requires a man with the stomach to bid a great deal of money. Why, $2,000 is almost too little for such a treasure. Seventeen hundred, twice.”
Murmurs ran through the crowd, but no one spoke up.
Dutch shook his head slowly. His lips thinned in disgust. He reached into his coat, removed half the cash and stuffed it into the envelope he’d been toying with. “For a man with the salary of a California District Court Justice, you’re awfully desperate. I’ll give you half now, half when your information checks out.”
The judge grabbed for the packet.
Dutch lifted the money over his head, out of the older man’s reach. “What’s got you so all fired anxious? What did you do, murder someone else?”
“None of your business.” The words strangled from the judge’s throat. His gaze on the envelope, he rose and moved toward Dutch.
Dutch stood too. A good foot taller, he shook the envelope in his raised hand. “I’m making it my business, and if you want this you’ll tell me e
verything about Trey and what you know about slavers using Trahern-Smiley ships to transport women.”
“Ah, a bid of $2,000 from our first bidder. You are a gentleman, sir, and know the true worth of a lady’s innocence,” purred Duval.
Awed murmurs came from the room at Dutch’s back.
He shivered. He’d heard that purr before, when he was young and desperate. He pitied the poor fool who’d fallen victim to Duval’s schemes.
“Sold to the tall man standing at the table near the bar. Turn around, sir, so we can see who won tonight’s peerless prize.”
Dutch pinned his iciest glare on his parent.
Beneath his tan, the judge paled. “I’m risking my life to tell you anything. ’Sides you won’t believe me.”
“Stop stalling.”
“Fine, have it your way. Trey’s the one letting the Chinaman use your ships to transport shanghaied women. He’s also helping to transport women to the active gold fields around Sacramento.”
“Liar.” Dutch sliced the air with the envelope the way he wished he could slice Jeremiah Trahern’s throat for spewing such filth about his own son. “Trey helped rescue a shipload of women just a few nights ago. He’d never involve himself with forcing women into prostitution.”
“Mebbe he didn’t have much choice.”
“What do you mean?”
The judge lowered his gaze. “Could be the Chinaman’s got a hold over Trey and is forcing him to cooperate. Could be Trey needs money and didn’t want to ask you for it.”
Dutch felt the words like a blow to his chest. “Then why rescue … ?”
The judge studied his nails. “You sure those women made it to the mission? Who drove the wagon? Did you or Smiley travel all the way to the mission, or did Trey drop Smiley off at his house? I hear your partner and his new wife left town to visit her people for a few weeks.”
Dutch didn’t bother asking where the judge got his information. In the human gutter where the elder Trahern lived information and rumor swirled like raw sewage. Dutch didn’t entirely believe the older man’s claims about Trey, but doubt and worry began to gnaw. Trey alone had driven the wagon that supposedly took the women to the mission. Since then Dutch had been too busy to confirm that the women arrived safely. However, to put those niggling doubts to rest, he’d check at the first opportunity. Surely Father Lucas would contact him if any problems arose. One thing was certain. The judge would never know he’d caused a moment’s worry.
“Trey wouldn’t do it. He’d come to me first if he had trouble with the Chinaman.”
“Suit yourself.” The judge shrugged. “But I done my part. I want that money.” He made a half-hearted grab for the envelope.
Dutch lifted his arm high once more. “You aren’t getting a single penny until you give me enough details to convince me that this cockamamie story about Trey is true.”
“That’s just plain mean, denying your father money when he needs it. ‘Sides Trey’s problems are your fault. You’re the one who took him with you to get those girls that the Chinaman was shipping. You gave Trey the opportunity he needed to get the women back and keep the Chinaman happy. Now gimme the money. I promise I’ll leave San Francisco and stay away as long as I can.”
“Not until I have proof that your story is true.”
The judge smiled, and instead of grabbing once more for the envelope and the money, he simply picked up his hat and placed it on his head. “You’re digging your own grave, son. You’re gonna wish you paid me when you had the chance.”
“What in Hades do you mean?”
Against the noise of chairs scraping the auction parlor floor and feet tramping into the saloon, Dutch lowered his arm a bit, bringing the envelope to rest against his shoulder. If the judge was so desperate for cash, why wasn’t he trying to wrestle the envelope away? The older man was up to something, and ten to one Duval was in it neck deep.
In Dutch’s head alarm bells clanged. “I need more than your empty promises, old man. Tell me what you and Duval have cooking.”
Jem looked around. “Not here. Too many ears.”
“You’re the one who insisted on Duval’s. Now you want to meet somewhere else?” Dutch waggled the envelope in front of his father’s eyes. “You don’t get a penny until you tell me everything and I verify your story. Come to my house in an hour.”
“I can’t meet you tonight.”
“Too bad, guess you don’t need this.” Impatience rising he tapped the packet against his shoulder.
“All right, all right. I’ll come to your place at dawn.” The judge faded into the crowd at the bar.
“Fine.” Dutch turned toward the exit and opened his coat to place the envelope in the inside pocket.
“Wait up, Dutch.” Duval’s drawl sounded in his ear. “I’ll take that. You’re our winner.” Her nimble fingers snatched the envelope from his grasp. She looked inside, frowning. “I’ll have to count this. If any’s left, you’ll get it back. But I need the full amount before I can let you go upstairs.”
“What are you talking about?” Dutch glared at the woman he hated most in the world. He was twenty-five years her junior, but she remained stunningly exotic. The air of mystery she cultivated attracted men like the mother lode. But Dutch knew most of her secrets, and she’d only be able to claim his disgust.
“She means, you won the biddin’,” said one of the men who’d left the auction room to surround Dutch and congratulate him.
“I what?” roared Dutch. The crowd of men stepped back. His temper was as well known as it was quick. A ring of space formed around him and Cerise. “I don’t use whores let alone bid for the privilege. Everybody in San Francisco knows that.”
“B … b … but you gave Madame Duval the cash,” stammered the fellow.
“She took that without asking me.”
“Are you calling me a thief?” A broad smile tilted the madam’s lips as she rifled through the envelope.”
He looked her in the eye. “A mule is a mule no matter how fancy the harness. Now give me back my money.”
An ugly murmur rippled through the crowd.
“Sorry, Dutch. I can’t do that. Busy as you were talking to the judge, you managed to open and close the bidding. I have a room full of witnesses and your invitation to the auction to prove it.”
“I never received an invitation and wouldn’t have accepted if I had.”
“Really?” She smiled broadly and turned the envelope that now held his money so he could see the front where Trahern was scrawled in elegant black script.
Anger crashed through him in the wake of the dawning truth. Duval and his father had set him up. He’d allowed concern for Trey to blind him to everything else. Dutch opened his mouth to protest then closed it. The room was full of men who knew him or knew of him. Some might know the judge and wonder how much the son was like the father. Despite years of hard, honest work to shake off his past, Dutch saw doubt on the faces of men he did business with every day. Denying he’d bid on the whore would confirm him as a liar and a cheat in their eyes and destroy everything he’d worked for. Trahern-Smiley Import & Export would be out of business in less than a week. If he accepted the whore and let Duval keep the money, he’d be short on cash and his reputation for clean living would be smirched, but the business would suffer less.
Cerise Duval’s cat-in-the-cream expression gleamed up at him. She had him, and she knew it.
“Fine.”
“Drinks on Mr. Trahern, boys.”
The crowd made a rush for the bar.
“Follow me.” With a swish of satin skirts, Cerise made for the stairway.
CHAPTER SIX
What had she gotten herself into? Edith swiped at her sweating forehead and tugged on her sleeveless bodice. She simply did not have enough bosom to support the thing. Why
she’d allowed Duval to dress her in clothing more suited to seduction, Edith didn’t know. With a man hired for sex, she didn’t think seduction was necessary, especially since she had no intention of allowing any intimacies. Of course she hadn’t told Madame that. Insisting on the dress, Duval had explained that “cold business deals are rarely pleasurable for either party. Surely you read the Kama Sutra’s instructions on how to intensify pleasure.” Edith had read some of the alarming text and paged through the scandalous pictures.
Giving a mental shake, she walked to a small table near the bench nestled within an alcove formed by a dormer window. Right or wrong, she had embarked on this course to find her sister and prevent Grandfather from committing a serious error. Now was not the time for doubts.
She rolled her shoulders in an attempt to loosen knots of worry. The attempt failed, so she took a bottle from the tray on the table and poured a dark, pungent liquid into a cut crystal glass. Madame Duval claimed that the cherry liqueur would help Edith relax. She sat. Lord knew she was tense. Still she stared into the glass a long while before drinking. The stuff was sickly sweet. She gagged and nearly spat the liquid into a spittoon but forced herself to swallow. The liqueur would relieve her tension, thus serving a greater good. Just as the deceptions and bribery she would commit tonight would serve to increase her chances of finding Kiera.
Edith forced down sips of the sugary brew. It was the only source of refreshment in this overheated chamber. Her breasts itched. She looked downward. The bodice had sunk once more. She hauled it upward. With every move, the garment — it could hardly be called a dress — crept lower. If she didn’t constantly tug on the bodice, her nipples would be exposed.
Anxiety churned in her stomach; she really needed to relax. She was hot and very uncomfortable. Nothing would make her happier at this moment than to remove this horrid apparel, but she couldn’t do that until she made her bargain with the hired man and he left. Hearing a noise at the door, she looked up.