The club existed outside of Denver explicitly for men who had “exotic” tastes. Roxanne was proud of this distinction, but Mei-Xing had learned through experience what “exotic” tastes consisted of.
Mei-Xing spat more than blood from her mouth. You mean perversions, she thought and spat again. The very things Uncle Wei and Auntie Fang-Hua profited from in Seattle.
No matter what the cost, she thought, I was right to reject your son.
Not all the women at the club had been forced into prostitution. The girls rose late in the day and talked as they had their first meal together. Savannah, a buxom blonde from the Deep South frequently declared that “being a whore beat picking cotton and growing old and haggard from birthing a dozen babies any day of the week.”
Tory, a tall, “high-yeller” woman merely shrugged when asked her story. Mei-Xing admired Tory’s graceful sophistication and her wide, dark eyes, even though they were often sad. Once Tory had offered the insight that she had never known a full belly until a “kindly gentleman” had taken her off the street at age 12.
Because the club was so selective, Roxanne only used “the best” girls there and only those in their “prime.” As they aged or if their attitudes and skills were not exemplary, they were placed in less selective Denver bordellos.
In a very few of the women Roxanne recognized an aptitude for business and a hunger to make money. She trained those women to run new houses in the city.
Apparently business was very good.
When Roxanne had approached her about the gentlemen’s club, Mei-Xing had outwardly agreed. She wasn’t naïve—she had seen and heard what disobedience produced.
When she was moved to the club to begin her training they gave her the name of “Little Plum Blossom,” an irony that cut Mei-Xing deeply. A dressmaker from Denver had designed and sewn a costly wardrobe for her. She was to be marketed as an exotic oriental treat, so her costumes were sewn in what these ignorant white people felt were “Chinese” style. They painted her face in a garish caricature of a geisha, uncaring or oblivious that geishas were Japanese, not Chinese. Mei-Xing certainly had not corrected their errors.
She was considered a valuable commodity for her exquisitely tiny body and her face’s ivory perfection. Roxanne told her proudly how much excitement her début had generated and how much she brought per “visit.”
And she had endured many visits.
She had carefully acted her part for two months. It hadn’t been long enough. They had been waiting for her to make a move and had anticipated it. Two men had taken turns beating her and using her for three hours. Tory had been assigned the task of cleaning her up and nursing her through her pain. Mei-Xing had also been refused food for five days. At the end of that time she had promised Roxanne to cooperate and “be a good girl.”
“You had better, my dear,” Roxanne had warned severely. Her dyed red curls shook emphatically “We only allow one such mistake. You remember Betty? I believe she is servicing filthy cowboys and drunks in a lice-ridden crib off Market Street in Denver now. And why? All because she was foolish enough not to see the golden opportunity she had here. Mei-Xing, you can have years of good food, beautiful clothes, and your own comfortable room—and what do you have to do? Just be the lovely, gracious woman you are and enjoy the adoration and gifts of wealthy men.”
Roxanne paused on her way out of Mei-Xing’s room, concern on her face. “I hope you take my warning to heart, my dear.”
And so she had cooperated. More than that, she had worked toward becoming as successful as Savannah and Delilah, the most sought-after “doves” in Corinth. She had played her part well and garnered much success until, after another three months, she felt ready to try again. Try because of what she had overheard a few days ago.
Darrow had been complaining to Roxanne about the blonde woman who had stolen two new girls right out from under his nose. He was complaining because that woman, instead of running scared as she should have, had established a small inn on the ridge. It stuck in his craw.
Mei-Xing heard him say, “I think she fancies herself as some reformer, tryin’ to rescue whores and help them find Jesus. Well, if she thinks that, Morgan will fix her wagon, he surely will.”
Roxanne had answered, “We’ve ended our ‘help wanted’ advertisements. And she won’t be finding any girls to help from my houses.”
That was when Mei-Xing knew she had to try again. Run and get to that blonde woman. Mei-Xing cursed under her breath as she thought of what had happened. That pig Darrow and two other men had been waiting for her—again. It was as though they had known she was listening and read her mind.
Roxanne let them have their way with her, but Mei-Xing had not cried. Not once. While they beat and savaged her she had drifted away to somewhere else in her mind, the place overlooking the sea where her father and mother had taken her as a girl. She could hear the waves crashing and the surf pounding on her body as the men slapped and pinched her, but it was the ocean she saw, not them. It was the sea salt she smelled, not their rank sweat and her own blood.
When it was over, Roxanne came to see her. “It’s too bad, Mei-Xing, it really is. You could have had such a good life here.” She shook her head sadly as she examined Mei. “Your nose is broken. Likely your looks are ruined. In any event, you are no good to us here anymore. We’ll make arrangements to have you moved in a few days.”
Mei-Xing hadn’t waited, though. As injured as she was, they assumed her spirit as well as her body was broken. They weren’t expecting her to run again. She had fooled them, though, and had dropped from her prison window, even though her body was battered and still bleeding. Now she listened carefully. Only the silence of the late night over the freshly fallen snow answered her.
The snow could be a problem. Her footprints might be tracked. Mei shuddered. It would be Wednesday morning in a few short hours. She had to get to her destination before then. Wincing, she padded slowly across the snowy lawns of the Corinth Gentleman’s Club. She reached the curving drive, followed it to the avenue and, walking carefully inside a few wheel and tire prints, trudged into the darkness.
Edmund O’Dell was beginning to feel like a cork on a bobbing sea and nearly as addled. He’d left Denver two months ago with nothing but wisps of leads that refused to connect to any of the missing persons cases he was working. Breezy Point had been a bust—he didn’t know where Bickle had gotten his information, but it was wrong. Nothing he’d gathered linked to his cases in any meaningful way.
Following his look into Breezy Point he’d taken the train back to Omaha on one of his “whims,” a niggling notion that refused to be silenced. He’d found nothing and returned to Chicago, even more frustrated.
In the meantime, additional reports from other Pinkerton agencies had filtered back to the Chicago office. Two more missing women and then—nothing. The ads that the agent in Boston had found in the newspapers of seven major cities had stopped, canceled. Hope was fading for the missing girls the agency had connected to the advertisements.
O’Dell admitted he was more than frustrated. He was angry. Whoever was behind the kidnappings had caught wind of Pinkerton’s interest. Now the trail was going cold and the unscrupulous men behind the scheme were going to get away with it.
Not only that, but he couldn’t escape the impression that his “strangest” missing persons case was somehow linked to the others. O’Dell had never felt an impression as strong as this, even as he admitted that no evidence even suggested, much less supported, such a claim.
A cork. On a bobbing sea. Addled. He repeated those words to the rhythm of the train he rode on as it steamed west toward Omaha. Again.
What was it about Omaha?
Three days later, O’Dell turned up the collar of his overcoat against the stinging wind. He stood in front of a newly constructed mercantile emporium that occupied most of the block. His guide, a street-wise urchin known only as Stick, provided running commentary. One of the Omaha Pinkerton men had re
commended him, and Stick had been well worth the daily rate O’Dell paid him. The kid had a mind like a steel trap and was an encyclopedia for detail. For the past three days they had tramped through the city, O’Dell allowing the kid to be tour guide.
“. . . sawr the fire m’self, I did. You never sawr such a fire! When the winders blew out—BOOM!—you shoulda seen ever’body run! Even the firemen! An’ when the place kerlapsed, first that roof blew up in the air and then straight down! Best fire I ever sawr. Couple months later, they builded this place. Kinda swank, huh?” Stick had obviously enjoyed that evening.
“Let me guess. Arson, right?” O’Dell speculated.
“Right you are, sir! How’d ya know?”
O’Dell grinned at the boy. “Fires are something of a hobby of mine.”
Stick grinned back in complete admiration. “Lordy, that lady had some bad luck, I’m tellin’ ya. First her husband drowns in the ocean, then somebody burns her out, and on top of that, they made her stand trial fer burnin’ her own place!”
“She do it?”
“Her? Heck no. Ever’body ’round here feel kinda sorry fer her, ya know? It were a big scandal. Prac’ly ran her outta town—an after that they prove’ she din’t do it. Guy who did got away, though.”
“Then what did she do?”
“Dunno. Nobody knows where she went. She shore were a pretty lady, too. Long, blonde hair, jest like moonlight.”
Something kept niggling in the back of O’Dell’s mind and he almost brushed it away . . . almost.
“Tell me about this woman again?”
“Well, sir. She an’ her husband owned this store, see. Then he went off to some big eastern cities to buy some fancy stuff for a new store and then got on this boat and it sank, ya see, an—”
The hair stood up on the back of O’Dell’s neck and he shuddered. “When was this?”
~~**~~
Chapter 25
Joy was pulled from her sleep by a quiet knock on the attic apartment’s door. She threw on a wrapper and went to the door. Breona’s curious face peeped out of her room.
“It’s Billy, miss,” a voice whispered.
Joy opened the door a few inches. “What is it? Is everything all right?”
“You’d better come and see.”
Joy and Breona dressed quickly. They could hear soft whiffles coming from Marit’s room and tried not to wake her.
Downstairs in the kitchen lit by a single candle they found Billy, Mr. Wheatley and, huddled at the table, a tiny figure. Mr. Wheatley stood soberly against the wall as though alarmed; Billy looked from the girl to Joy and back, tears in his eyes.
“Billy, would you please light a lantern?”
Joy cautiously moved around the table until she could see the figure seated there. As the light flared, the face turned toward her. Joy gasped softly.
The young girl’s features were swollen and bruised. One eye was closed, the other was filled with blood; her nose trickled blood that her hand mechanically swiped at. Her mouth twisted in what might have been a smile but was only a grimace.
“I’m very sorry to wake you, Miss Thoresen.” The words were a whisper.
Joy sat down gingerly opposite the girl as if she might unintentionally jog her and cause her pain. “You know my name?” Joy hardly knew what to say.
“Yes. I heard them speaking of you a few days ago.”
“They?”
The girl swallowed and coughed. Joy could see how much the coughing hurt her and gestured for Breona to get her a glass of water.
“At the . . . house. Roxanne . . . Miss Cleary and . . . one of the men.”
At Roxanne Cleary’s name, the pieces fell into place. “You have escaped from them,” Joy breathed. Breona edged around the table so she could see the girl, too. As she glimpsed the girl’s battered face, her hand rose involuntarily to her mouth.
“Well. So far,” was all the girl answered.
Joy reached carefully for the girl’s hand. It was crusted with blood and she tried to pull it back but Joy gently covered it with her own.
“We will help you,” was all Joy said.
Several moments passed and then it was as if the girl released a breath she had been holding for a very long time. Her head bowed slightly and she gasped and then began to rock, backward and forward, backward and forward. The sobs were silent and then grew louder until they came as gasps and then a rasping, keening wail that echoed through the house.
The sheer anguish of the moment was too much for Billy and Mr. Wheatley. They both fled out the back door, and Joy heard the unmistakable sound of someone savagely kicking the oil barrel again and again.
Joy moved around the table, sat next to the girl, and gradually—oh! so carefully—wrapped her arms around her. “Breona,” Joy whispered. “Put water on for tea and for a bath. Gather soft clothes, bandages, and a clean nightgown, please.”
Over the next hour Joy and Breona gently bathed the girl and managed to spoon some tea and soup between her split and swollen lips. Marit, wandering down the back stairs into the kitchen as the sun came up, took in the scene and burst into confused tears.
Joy sent her out of the room with instructions to let Billy and Mr. Wheatley in the front doors but to send Billy immediately to get Flinty and Domingo and then the sheriff and Dave Kalbørg. He was to take one of the two shotguns. Mr. Wheatley was to have the other loaded and nearby.
Breona eased the girl into a nightgown and together Joy and Breona helped her up the stairs and into Joy’s bed. “I want to give you laudanum to help you sleep,” Joy whispered to the girl as she lay shaking in the bed with pain.
“No! No!” The shaking intensified and Joy saw the terror in her eyes.
“Whatever you say,” Joy answered carefully. “But I want you to know something.” When the girl’s one open eye finally fixed on her, Joy continued. “I have sent for help. We have guns, and the sheriff will be here soon. We will not allow anyone to take you. Do you understand?”
The terror slowly ebbed and Joy held the girl’s hand until she slid into an uneasy sleep.
Joy explained the situation to Sheriff Wyndom and David Kalbørg in the kitchen. Both men wore grave expressions, but the sheriff seemed more disturbed than David.
“Miss Thoresen, I’m concerned that you don’t realize the gravity of your actions.”
“My actions? Of which actions are you speaking?” Joy responded evenly. “I took in a woman who has been severely beaten. And worse.”
The sheriff shuffled his feet and looked down. David became very still.
An edge crept into Joy’s voice. “Let us be plain here, Sheriff, shall we? The woman upstairs in my bed was being held against her will and used as a slave. A slave. Slavery was abolished by law in this nation decades ago. The issue here is not my actions but yours, Sheriff. You are either the defender of law in this town or you are not.”
Wyndom’s head jerked up and color raced from his leathery neck into his face. He answered her, punctuating each word, his voice rising in volume. “You have no right to speak to me about—” but Joy shouted over him.
“I have every right to expect you to do your job! Innocent women are defiled right here in Corinth—right here in the town you are sworn to protect! And you know all about it, Mister Wyndom. If you do nothing to help them, you are not the sheriff in this town and are as guilty of their degradation as the men who kidnap and rape them!”
Wyndom’s face went from red to white as he struggled to control his shock and anger. Finally he answered Joy carefully, “Miss Thoresen, I am one man. The real power in this town is stronger than you realize. If it becomes known that you have that woman in your lodge, I cannot guarantee your safety or that of your employees.”
Joy stared daggers at the man until he looked away in shame and frustration. “Look,” he muttered, “I don’t know how to handle this or how to remove that woman from Corinth without Darrow and his thugs finding out. Darrow’s boss, Morgan, has eyes and ears ev
erywhere and this is a small town with only a few ways in or out. I am outmanned and outgunned.”
Joy reached a hand to the sheriff’s arm and, her voice much softer, answered, “That may be so. But God is on our side. And we dare not remain silent in the face of such evil.”
His weathered face screwed up into a sardonic smile. “You really believe that, don’t you? You know you will start a war here? And people will be hurt, their lives ruined?”
“Ruined? Ruined! How many young girls have been ruined in the past year?” Joy’s words were sharp as a blade. “We are already in a war, Mister Wyndom. And people are already being hurt. We must choose whether we hide from the truth or side with the truth.”
“They are already out looking for her.”
“Then we must be ready to defend her.”
Wyndom looked down and laughed harshly. “A couple of inexperienced young bucks, two old men, and myself. Should make for a quick battle.”
“No.” David spoke sharply. “Joy is right. I have shirked my responsibilities also. No more. I will stand with you, too. And so will others.”
Joy suddenly thought of Uli and the children, of the church and the threats to burn it. “We need help. From outside.”
Wyndom frowned. “I could call on the law in Denver . . . but I know many of them are corrupt, bought by the gambling and prostitution crime bosses. We don’t know who to trust.”
“I do,” Joy announced suddenly. “We can bring in the Pinkertons.”
“Like adding gasoline to a fire, miss,” Wyndom warned.
But Joy was adamant. “David, we need to send a wire to Arnie. His Pinkerton man in Omaha will know whom to send from Denver and will know how to get them here quickly. Arnie will make sure it happens.”
Joy on This Mountain (A Prairie Heritage, Book 2) Page 17