by Allan Levine
St. Clair took his eyes off the stage and glanced to his right. A few feet away, in the corner of the theatre he could see Miss Kate speaking into the ear of her unruly customer, the man she referred to as Flint. She beckoned him and another man, presumably his companion, to leave with her.
“I’ve paid my money, you whore, and I’ll leave when I’m God damn ready to do so,” the man screeched.
St. Clair nearly fell over. It was his attacker. It was the thug he had seen earlier in the day at the Tombs. He was here. And now St. Clair knew his name.
Flint.
St. Clair steadied himself and stepped away so that he could not be detected.
“Will you shut your fucking mouth, you asshole?” said a patron in Flint’s direction.
“Yeah, listen to Kate and leave or . . .” echoed another.
“Or, what exactly?” said Flint, yanking his knife from its sheath and grabbing one of the men by the hair. He pressed the blade to the man’s throat.
The women on stage stopped abruptly. Johnny rushed to illuminate more gas lights. St. Clair dived to the floor to keep out of sight. Flint’s friend reached for the knife and gently pushed it away from the man’s throat. St. Clair gasped. Though the man was wearing a plain dark-colored suit—and his derby hat, a size too large for him, was pulled low over his head, he was certain that Flint’s companion was the Reverend Patrick Ingersoll.
Remarkably, Flint heeded Ingersoll’s advice and pocketed his knife. He spit a wad of tobacco in Miss Kate’s face and followed Ingersoll out of the theatre. Johnny hustled the two men to the main entrance. Miss Kate wiped the beads of brown spit from her cheeks and forehead. Apologizing to her customers, she invited everyone to stay for the next show on her, an offer that drew a loud and sustained applause.
Once he was sure Flint and Ingersoll had left the house, St. Clair approached Miss Kate. “Are you okay?”
“Nothing I can’t handle, Mr. St. Clair. All in an evening’s work, I’m afraid.” She brushed the last drops of tobacco juice from her face. “That man reminds me of a wounded bear. It’s hard to believe that he once had a mother.”
“What do you know about him?”
“You’re a curious fellow, aren’t you? What is it you do for a living?”
St. Clair took out his pocket book again and pulled out a few bills.
Now it was Kate’s turn to laugh. “No need for that. This one’s on the house. I don’t know much about him. He’s here, whenever he’s in New York. I think he’s from Chicago or maybe St. Louis, I’m not positive. He fancies one of my girls, Lauralynne. But he’s as unpleasant a patron who I’ve ever allowed in here.”
“So why do you let him in?”
Kate laughed even harder. “And here I thought you were a wise and intelligent man. I’m paid handsomely to keep him content. And it’s an offer that I’m unable to refuse, if you understand?”
“Victor Fowler,” whispered St. Clair.
“So you are man of some intelligence after all. Yes, the Boss does me favors with the police and, in turn, I do some favors for him . . . for a price. It all works out for the best . . . at least on most days. This evening was an exception.” She smiled. “One does what one has to do to survive. That’s the law of this city, is it not?”
“It all depends on your perspective, Madam.”
St. Clair knew that she was right. Had he not read last year a book by the English philosopher, Herbert Spencer, who suggested, “survival of the fittest implies multiplication of the fittest?” In short, either women such as Miss Kate made compromises and tough choices, or like thousands of others who did nothing, they would go adrift in the sea of poverty and misery that engulfed New York. The question, as always, was how far did one have to lower one’s morals and ethics? From St. Clair’s perspective, coming to terms with Fowler was akin to making a deal with the Devil. And that, he was not ready to do.
His sleuthing, on the other hand, had been fruitful and the evening was not yet over. Not to mention that Miss Kate’s sexual theatre had been an unexpected and interesting diversion. Perhaps he would allude to it in a future “Street Scenes” column. More importantly, he had learned that the name of his assailant was Flint and thanks to Kate had finally confirmed the man’s association to Fowler, who he reasoned must have facilitated Ingersoll’s quick release from jail.
“The man accompanying Flint, you know who he is?” Miss Kate coyly asked him
“I think I do, yes. Reverend Patrick Simpson Ingersoll, was it not?”
She nodded with a grin. “Correct. The reverend is a frequent visitor. I believe he enjoys my theatrical productions.”
“And you’ve seen him before in the company of this thug, Flint?”
“Yes, on several occasions. If memory serves me, it was Ingersoll who first brought Flint here. That must’ve been at least a year ago. Does that help you at all, my sweet?” Miss Kate touched his shoulder.
“It does indeed, Madam. Has Fowler ever accompanied them?”
“Never,” she said slyly. “Mr. Fowler’s much too clever to be seen with the likes of those two in public. Now why don’t you come with me and I’ll introduce you to a pretty young thing that’ll take your mind off your troubles.”
“Another time, Madam,” St. Clair responded stepping away. “First I must see about this woman you call Millie. What’s she doing up there?” He pointed the direction of the staircase.
“That you must discover for yourself. But take this.” She handed him a narrow strip of red cloth. “You’ll need it to enter.”
“Madam, I thank you again for your assistance. It’ll not be forgotten.”
He kissed her hand and excused himself.
Chapter Twenty-Three
ARABIAN NIGHTS
T he noise from the alley below startled Ruth Cardaso from her sleep. She roused herself and peered out the second floor window of her room. Directly below in the muddy street, a small crowd of drunken ruffians and streetwalkers had surrounded two sailors.
“Get your fuckin’ hands off that wench. She’s mine,” said one of them.
“You get your fuckin’ hands off her or I’ll slit your gut open, you arse-kissin’ scab,” yelled the second one.
Ruth could see that the object of their desires was a plump woman with stringy dark hair and a torn green dress who stood off to the side smiling and laughing, obviously intoxicated. She was missing a front tooth and on her face were red scratch marks. She was hardly a beauty worth fighting for, mused Ruth. Nevertheless, two sailors were about to come to blows over her.
“Pluck his bloody eyes out,” shrieked one of the women in the crowd.
“A little blood is what’s needed,” called another to a roar of laughter.
Just then, one of the sailors lunged for the other and the battle commenced.
Ruth stepped away from the window. She turned to gaze in dismay at the room she found herself in. It was cramped and filthy. There were dry bloodstains on the ratty piece of rug by her narrow cot and mouse droppings on the wood floor. A dirty bowl of water had been placed on the shelf near the window, but she dared not wash in it, never mind drink it.
Two hours earlier she had rented this room above the Jack-Tar, a shoddy little saloon off of Water Street where forty cents went far. She badly needed a place to hide, rest and think. And the Jack-Tar, as rowdy and seedy a drinking establishment as there likely was in the city, seemed like the only choice. Now, as the cries from the street grew louder and more vicious, she questioned her decision.
Desperation had driven her here. Desperation and fear. She had pleaded with Flint at the Tombs that she wanted to leave the city. He had forbid it and dismissed her with a shove to the ground. Her assignment was not yet finished, he had told her, and his threatening tone and actions could not be taken lightly. She knew all too well that he was capable of the vilest of acts. Greed not only governed his brutal behavior. So, too, did the great pleasure of inflicting pain on others. She understood that he owed no man
loyalty.
Why had she allowed herself to become embroiled in his senseless scheming? She pondered this question again and again. She was no saint, she would admit that. Yet could she honestly stand by while innocent people were hurt, even hanged?
And then there was Charles St. Clair.
She reached for the bottle of whiskey she had brought with her and took a swig. The liquid nearly scorched her throat, but its numbing effect was calming. Her thoughts were of the other evening when she lay with him. He had held her tightly and she had wrapped her legs around him. The fit was perfect and she had almost forgotten her dreaded role and task. For a few tender moments, she was indeed Ruth Cardaso, an accomplished actress from San Francisco, and not Estelle Perera, a wanted criminal.
How had she got herself into such a predicament? And more importantly, how could she extricate herself from it? Her first instinct was to run, but she knew that Flint would eventually find her. What kind of life could she have constantly watching out for him and guarding her every move and action?
Initially, the charade had been as easy as shelling peas. She had used her natural ability and flair for dramatics to obtain and keep a job with a stock company at the California Theatre in San Francisco. Her role as Ophelia in Shakespeare’s Hamlet had been, quite surprisingly, brilliant. It had garnered her superlative reviews and, most notably, an avid admirer in Mr. Nathan Scott of the Chronicle. He was a good and decent man and upon further reflection, she was troubled by the way she had deceived him so easily. He had been her entrance ticket into the city’s high society. It had won her further theatre parts and more admirers, rich gentlemen, seeking the company and affections of an actress.
As she took another gulp of whiskey, she decided then and there that she could not permit Flint to blackmail her for one more second. It had to stop, even if that meant a potentially deadly confrontation with him and revealing the truth to St. Clair. She had at least one more part to play and she intended to give the performance of her life.
The smell of the smoke, sickly and sweet, was the first thing that St. Clair noted as he reached the top floor of Miss Kate’s parlor house. There was a cramped hallway that led to a closed door. He approached it cautiously and knocked. The door opened and a dense cloud of scented smoke overwhelmed him.
A tall and stocky lad of seventeen or eighteen years stood before him. He said nothing but extended his open hand.
“The cloth, of course,” muttered St. Clair. He fished the red strip out of his pocket and gave it to the boy, who smiled. It was a strange smile, not that of a man who had drank too much whiskey, but of a dazed person who had been nearly knocked unconscious.
“Come, my friend, come and experience the pleasure,” the boy whispered in a French accent. “Please you’ll find this much more comfortable. My name is Didier, but you may call me Deedee.”
Didier insisted St. Clair give him his hat, suit jacket and shoes, and presented him with a long black silk robe, slippers, and a tasseled smoking cap. He felt foolish, yet dressed as he was instructed.
The curtains in the parlor were closed. Two hanging gaslights covered in a purple fabric colored the room violet. On the floor were large Oriental vases filled with a variety of colored flowers and green shrubs. Two paintings, both of fire-breathing dragons, nearly covered the far wall.
The young man led him through this room and into the next where some fifteen or twenty men and women, similarly arrayed in robes and tasseled caps, were sitting or lying on plush sofas, of the type Miss Kate had on the first floor of the house. The other three walls were almost entirely covered in mirrors, edged in gold. St. Clair noted that most of the men were of a dark complexion and he guessed that they must be Greek or Spanish. Several of them stared at him, but no one said a word. There was also no sign of Mildred, although at least four of the women wore multicolored masks, so he could not be certain.
The air held a haze of the sweet smoke sustained by several of the patrons who were puffing on what looked to be Indian or Persian pipes. These devices had glass decanters, which were filled with a clear liquid, likely water, St. Clair deduced. On the top of each was a silver bowl holding herbs and tobacco. Two long silver tubes protruded from the decanter, allowing the user to smoke from it. It was a scene, thought St. Clair, right out of Aladdin or one of the other tales of Arabian Nights that he had enjoyed so much as a young boy.
“You have the two dollars?” asked Didier.
St. Clair had no idea what he was talking about, but handed him the money. From behind a round table next to a wood shelf, Didier removed two items—a small bronze urn filled with a dry green herb and a tiny box containing five black lozenges.
Didier noticed the puzzled look on St. Clair’s face and chuckled. “This is the gunjeh or hashish, the dried leaves of the hemp plant, which you’ll soon smoke,” he explained pointing to the herb. “And these lozenges are called El Mogen, and my favorite.”
“What are they made of?”
“The resin of hemp, henbane, crushed datura seeds, butter and honey,” Didier recited, as if he had been asked the same question many times.
St. Clair was familiar with the hemp plant and had heard rumors that there were groups of young people in New York who smoked it the way you would opium. The other ingredients in the El Mogen, apart from the butter and honey, he had never heard of before.
“Sit with me, here,” said Didier, inviting St. Clair to join him on one of the unoccupied sofas. He complied, curious about the strange practice. Didier helped St. Clair off with his slippers, placed a soft pillow behind his back, then clapped his hands once. A colored male servant appeared bearing one of the Oriental pipes in one hand and a silver tray in the other. On the tray was another silver bowl filled with tobacco.
“I enjoy mixing this with the gunje.” Didier took a spoonful of the tobacco and mixed it with the hemp. He then lit the pipe and offered St. Clair one of the silver tubes.
“Like this,” said the young man, inhaling and holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment before blowing a whiff upwards. St. Clair imitated him as best he could and found the taste very smooth and pleasing. He coughed slightly after releasing the smoke, but tried it again without any problem. He lay back and indulged himself. Finding Mildred, he reasoned, suddenly did not seem as critical.
“Didier—I mean Deedee—I must tell you that I haven’t felt this tranquil in many months. Even the recent injury to my nose isn’t painful anymore.” St. Clair laughed. “Do the doctors at Bellevue know about this?”
“Vous êtes très amusant, monsieur,” said Didier.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I’m certain I don’t care.” St. Clair said with a wave of his hand. He started to find everything strangely droll.
Didier put one of the black lozenges in St. Clair’s hand. “You must now try one of these,” he said.
“I definitely cannot. I believe this gunje I’ve smoked is quite enough.”
Didier laughed again. “You are reaching Hashishdom. Is it not a tranquil state of relaxation?”
St. Clair had to concede that he had never felt more at peace. For some reason he could not take his eyes off the patterns in the Oriental ceiling. Its border of the red and green serpents and dragons appeared to dance and swirl while the white-faced women waving their fans at the center seemed as real as if they were standing in front of him. His senses never before had been so acute.
“Would you like me to summon one of the ladies from down the stairs for your pleasure?” asked Didier.
St. Clair shook his head, though he had to admit that smoking the herbs aroused him. “I’m looking for a woman named Mildred? Millie? She came in here before me. She’s quite beautiful. You’d know her . . . she looks as if she’s still a girl. Her hair is blonde—” St. Clair seemed to lose the thread as the ceiling continued to entrance him.
“Millie, oui, I know who you mean. You must understand, I cannot disturb her, not in here.”
“That’s most
unfortunate.” St. Clair paused. He had lost his train of thought again. He realized the gunje was making him dopey. “If you’ll excuse me, I must get some fresh air.” He staggered up, pushing the tassel on his hat away from his eyes.
“If you leave now, Mr. St. Clair, you’ll never learn what you came for, will you now?” said a female voice behind him.
He turned around. Standing before him was a woman in a red silk robe with a matching mask. Even in his dreamy state, he could tell that it was Miss Mildred Potter.
Mildred silently grasped St. Clair’s hand and led him to the back of the parlor, where they both reclined on a plush divan. She offered him pears and berries. Food had never tasted so full of flavor. Next, she handed him a cup of hot tea. Its effect, too, was almost magical.
“I think you’ve enjoyed the happiness and peace brought on by the hashish. Have you not, Mr. St. Clair?” asked Mildred, removing her mask at last. Her eyes were redder than they had been earlier in the day, yet she was far more serene.
“Let’s say, it’s been an enlightening experience. And please, you may call me Charlie.”
“You’d do it again, Charlie?”
“I’m not certain. I don’t think I’m able to make such a decision at the moment.”
She giggled. He smiled. Whether he cared to admit it or not, he found her delightful and genuine—unlike Ruth.
“Dear Lucy first brought me here. She’d been introduced to gunjeh on her travels to Europe. I’d never felt so at peace. It’s difficult to resist. Don’t you agree? Nothing like whiskey or beer, which to my mind brings only anger and resentment.”
“No one knows who you are?”