Pretty Waiter Girls

by Greg Alldredge

  As she walked, she had to chuckle at herself. After spending the past few days running through the city like a lost child looking for her mother, she couldn’t for the life of her even think what day it was. Having been knocked unconscious the night of the riot, Angus said that was last night, that makes this Thursday or Friday, it didn’t help with her time loss.

  Eventually, she came to City Hall Square, by then her feet hurt. She had become accustomed to seeing average people walking everywhere, she thought: How did they ever do such a thing? She’d only walked maybe ten blocks, and she began feeling pains in parts of her body that never felt pain before. When she passed the sign for Howard Street, she knew she wasn’t far from the Wizard’s workshop, but this had become a personal quest, besides she didn’t want to show up like some lost puppy on his doorstep. Like the Knights Templar traveling from Europe to Jerusalem, she felt the need for a holy pilgrimage to find Missy.

  The signs of the riot from the night before were evident all over City Hall Square, she even found the dark red-brown puddles of dried blood, that with the mounted Army patrols made it apparent something had happened. The conflict the night before was a lot more violent than Gus implied. I wonder how many people were injured? She thought as she walked.

  Past City Hall, she turned right on Larkin Street continuing her trudge the seven blocks to Post Street. She finally decided to take a break, watching the city wake from its slumber, she rubbed her aching feet. Sitting and resting on the corner she couldn’t help but notice the opening to the city sewers, the grates in clear sight inset in the cobbled street.

  Determined to make it the rest of the way on her own, she grunted as she stood up on her sore feet and started the march uphill to Scott Street. The skyscrapers slowly turned into three and four-story buildings, then into one and two-story single-family homes. Eventually, she came to a park and across the corner from the park sat The Mission for Wayward Women run by the right Honorable Beckett Cartwright.

  Helena felt the grime of two days and the four-mile hike, hang heavy on her body, she was exhausted, her feet hurt and little dribbles of sweat ran down her back. She felt in no condition to meet a man of the cloth, finding a patch of grass under a shade tree, she decided to take a break before the confrontation.

  She had just sat in the shade when a raggedy man stumbled towards her. At once she felt compassion for the man who dressed in bits and pieces of union uniform.

  “I’m sorry sir, but I have no money to give you,” she said.

  The man continued to shamble towards her, tin cup in hand he rattled it a few times a few pennies making a clanking noise.

  She thought: Poor man must be hard of hearing, so she tried again louder, “I’m sorry sir I have no money.”

  The man continued his relentless stagger to her. Helena feared he might topple onto her, his gait becoming less stable the closer he drew. She was about to scream when the vagrant fell at her feet and spoke with the clearly recognizable voice of Detective Longstreet.

  “Be quiet you fool woman, you’re ruining my police work by being here.”

  She couldn’t help but kick at him striking him square in the forehead with her riding boots. “What is the matter with you Mister Longstreet trying to give me my death of fright?” she shouted.

  “Would you please shut up, I have been following a lead on my murder investigation, and you are about to ruin it by being here. I’m trying to watch the Mission; some strange things have been going on,” he whispered to her.

  “And you’re about to ruin my investigation into Missy’s disappearance. I’ve also learned there are some strange things going on here,” she hissed back but amazed at how complete his disguise looked.

  “If you don’t leave I’m going to arrest you for impeding my investigation.”

  “And if you touch me, I will scream bloody murder while I fight you tooth and nail.”

  Helena could see a man in a black suit walking up the street towards the main gate to the mission. “Shush someone’s coming,” Helena said.

  Doyle glanced over his shoulder. “That is Cartwright,” Doyle hissed and jumped on top of her, knocking her flat and pinning her to the ground, his right hand over her mouth.

  Helena was shocked at his impertinence, taken by complete surprise she didn’t know what to do. His raggedy disguise doing a fantastic job of hiding them both, and she might even admit to herself it was half pleasant having his weight on top of her. Not wanting to lose her chance to find a new lead she held her tongue and her fingernails.

  “He’s gone,” he said as soon as he saw Cartwright enter the gate. Which was Helena’s cue to bring her knee up as quick and firm as possible into Doyle’s groin temporarily immobilizing him and rendering him speechless almost efficiently as Madame Youngblood’s grigri bag did against that trash Cade Storm.

  Doyle tried to speak while in the fetal position, “Dammit woman I’m trying to catch a murderer.”

  “And I’m trying to stop one,” Helena rose trying to fix herself, her riding gear now covered with grass stains and twigs from the tree above. At that moment her mixed emotions for Detective Doyle Longstreet distinctly focused more on the hate over love.

  Doyle worked his way as best he could behind the tree and deeper into the shadows. “Please come here and tell me why you think Cartwright is involved with Missy’s disappearance?”

  Helena checked the Mission gate, then turned back to Doyle resigned to the fact that she might need his help. “You tell me first then I’ll let you know.”

  Helena could hear Doyle grit his teeth. For a moment she wasn’t sure if he was going to cooperate or strangle her. “Through a source, I learned that the good reverend might be selling his wards to pay for his cocaine habit.”

  “I have a source, a contact, who said there were some strange things going on at this mission.”

  “And that’s what brought you here? There are strange things going all over the city.”

  “Mister Doyle I find you the most impertinent man.”

  “To you, it is Detective Longstreet, and I find you the most infuriating girl. Now run along home,” on all fours, he tried to make his way to standing.

  Helena could do nothing but clench her fists in anger, her fingernails bit into the soft flesh of the palms of her hands, ready to march off in anger. She was so tired of men telling her what to do. Looking down at his smirking face and immediately deciding what to do, she leaned back with all her force and kicked him as hard as she could in the jaw. The blow took Doyle entirely by surprise laying him out cold. Helena did a short victory dance until she realized she might’ve broken her foot on his jaw, shortly after she came to the realization that Doyle wasn’t moving.

  “Doyle if you’re playing possum, I’m going to kick you harder,” she waited for him to reply, which he didn’t.

  “I swear Doyle if you’re faking, I’m going to thrash you,” she leaned down to check for signs he was still breathing, and immediately sensed him snoring.

  Her attention was pulled from him once she listened to a wagon’s metal-rimmed wheels and the horseshoes making their distinctive sound on the cobbles. Ducking behind the tree and watching as the uncovered buckboard wagon pulled up to the Mission’s gate, she peeked inside when the gate swung open for the wagon to enter.

  She could hear Doyle groaning at her feet. “Shush will you, something is going on,” focused on the gate, she shut everything else out around her. Quickly the gate opened again the wagon now covered guided out of the courtyard by the Teamster. She had a split second to decide, her mind made up she sprinted at her best possible speed, with a sore foot, across the street. The wagon moved slowly, Helena checked to make sure she wasn’t being watched from the mission courtyard, then crawled into the back of the wagon under the tarp.

  Once under the tarp, she had to stifle a scream, finding an unconscious bound and gagged body stashed. She bit her lip, the metallic taste of blood snapping the fear out of
her, needing to do something she began working on the binds on the woman’s feet. Her calculation was if nothing else the woman could run once she got her awake and out of the wagon. Not sure where they headed, but she knew so far, they traveled straight down Post Street towards the bay with no turns.

  Now she grew sorry she had knocked Detective Longstreet out, she could really use his help to untie these knots. She found the sword in her walking stick useless, with no cutting-edge. Urgently working to untie the knots she considered shouting for help, she could hear people on the street, but she felt in her heart that if she cried out, she would lose her best lead at finding Missy. She had come this far she wasn’t going to give up now.

  She almost lost her balance as the wagon took a left turn she could tell the street wasn’t as crowded, and in only a few moments it made another left turn. Helena prepared for combat, the unconscious woman still trussed up, blade in one hand, scabbard in the other ready to pounce, like a wildcat to protect the woman.

  Then she heard a scuffle like two people fighting, apprehension took hold of her, should she attack now in the confusion or wait and use the element of surprise, then the sounds of fighting stopped.

  “Helena come out I’ve taken care of the driver,” it was Doyle’s voice calling to her from the other side of the tarp.

  Helena exhaled and thought: Why are men constantly sticking their nose in when it’s not needed?

  Sister Ping:

  “How did you find me?” Helena asked as she peeked out from under the tarp covering the wagon.

  “After that coldcock, I barely woke in time, when I saw you climbing into the back of this wagon. I almost shouted, trying to stop you but, then I thought, ‘Why would she do such a foolish thing?’ So, I decided to follow instead. I almost lost you at the first corner--”

  “Help me lift this woman out of the wagon and to safety,” Helena interrupted him.

  Doyle peeked over the buckboard and saw the woman tightly bound. “Hold on now, what are you doing with an unconscious woman?” He walked over and closed gate.

  “I found her here, we must get her to safety.”

  “She’s safe now, what is this place?” He looked around trying to identify the structure from its back. “I think we should go inside and investigate. I don’t think our friend here will wake up anytime soon,” he kicked the heel of the teamster to prove his point. After a second thought, bent and cuffed him to the wheel spoke, “You followed this clue, let’s see where it leads. Missy might be right inside, and I’m trying to catch a killer.”

  Helena hesitated, she hated leaving a helpless woman alone.

  “Look if you don’t want to, I understand. Stay here and guard the woman. I will tell Missy you send your regards,” he gave her a snarky smile.

  Helena contemplated the unconscious woman still tied up in the wagon, then the unconscious man lying on the ground, then the wide door into the dark interior of the space beckoning her to enter. What if Doyle was right and Missy was in that building? She should investigate the building first. What was the worst that could happen?

  “All right untie her first, but at the first sign of trouble, we run for help. We need to check if this place has a basement that’s where Missy would be.”

  Doyle pulled a Bowie knife from under the back of his coat, smoothly slicing through the unconscious woman’s bonds, finished he returned the blade to its scabbard. Then patted his ever-present firearm, one of the Wizard’s new gas-powered automatic pistols. “I think we will be fine.”

  Heading for the stairs leading to the loading dock Helena thought: Doyle must’ve been the sight running down the street with his tattered uniform disguise on. I would’ve loved seeing that. She shook her head, “I should hit you harder, teach you to keep your nose out of other people’s business.”

  “I’m a Copper my job is to put my nose in other people’s business. Besides, you got in a lucky sucker punch.”

  The dark doorway led into an even more mysterious and spacious room. Helena had never seen such a place, it was cavernous, she couldn’t spot the far wall. On either side of the door, hung a series of ropes tied to belaying pins, with sandbags dangling on the lines.

  “Where are we?” Helena asked.

  “If I had to guess, I would say we were in one of the theaters near Chinatown. We headed that direction when we pulled into this alley. However, I’m not familiar with this one. It doesn’t seem to be in operation.”

  The farther they stepped into the dark, the more the light faded, Helena could perceive shapes in the murky gloom ahead and to either side. “What are those things? Helena asked gripping her walking stick handle firmly and pointing at the darker shapes.

  “I would assume set pieces of some sort. Maybe that can be wheeled on and off the stage, haven’t you ever seen a play,” Doyle studied the floor for a moment before continuing, “We need to go that way,” pointing towards the right.

  “Now how can you possibly know that?” Helena said and thought: You scoundrel!

  “Can’t you see the footprints in the dust? I’ve been following footprints, while you’ve been chasing shadows.”

  Helena tightened her grip again on the walking stick handle, but this time it wasn’t out of fear.

  “Look over there, it looks like a staircase,” Doyle pointed deeper into the darkness, Helena couldn’t see a thing. She wished she had the Wizard’s goggles with her.

  “Do you have the eyes of the cat? I can’t see a thing,” she tried to use her walking stick as a cane to locate obstacles.

  Doyle stopped suddenly prompting Helena to run into his back.

  “Will you be careful you blasted...” unsure of what to say next Helena took a breath before continuing on her exhale, “Man.”

  “Here, take my hand, I will be your eyes,” Doyle reached back with his right hand taking her left.

  Helena valiantly fought the urge to giggle like a little girl when he grabbed her hand. Instead, she forced herself to focus on the blackness at her front.

  “Careful, we’re at the head of the stairs,” Doyle guided her.

  “I don’t think anybody is here, I don’t think anyone’s been here for a long time.”

  “I’m not too sure, I see a glow coming from around the door at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “If you say so,” Helena started to hear strange echoes reverberating through the stairwell, and from the stage area above her.

  “They say most theaters are haunted,” Doyle smiled in the darkness.

  “You’re not scaring me, let’s just find the bottom of the stairs,” Doyle stopped, pausing, and putting his ear to the door.

  “Do you hear anything?”

  “Yes, your constant yammering, now shush.”

  If she were strong enough, she would have crushed his fingers for his rudeness.

  Helena could hear a series of clicks as the door began to open below her, a sliver of warm oil lamp-light flooded the stairwell, so she could inspect her location, a rather dull wooden stairwell. She watched in silence as Doyle peeked through the crack.

  Doyle pushed the door open farther allowing her to inspect inside the space. The door led to an average enough looking hallway, wall sconces on either side glowed orange from the gaslight.

  “Appears someone is here after all,” Doyle smirked to himself.

  “Detective Longstreet, are you married, engaged, or otherwise attached?” Helena asked in an innocent a voice as possible.

  “Not at the moment,” Doyle answered a look of fear flashed on his face.

  “I can understand why,” Helena smiled at her own cleverness.

  As they whispered bantering back and forth, they walked down the hallway covered with peeling paint, holding doors that lead off left and right every five paces or so. Inside the open doors, the rooms sat dark, the smell of mold and mildew wafting out from rotting clothing. However, Helena could tell that they were once dressing rooms. Racks of decaying c
ostumes still lined the walls just inside the entrances, and she scrutinized discolored mirrors casting her reflection as she walked by.

  “Don’t you think we should check these rooms for people hiding inside?”

  “If someone was going to attack us from these rooms, they already would’ve.”

  At the end of the hall, they came to a Tee-intersection. The door to the right labeled properties, the door left labeled gallery, and the entrance in front of them marked costumes, Doyle paused at the intersection inspecting the three doors.

  “Which do you want to investigate first?” Doyle asked.

  “Always forward I guess,” Helena answered after inspecting the three doors.

  To which Doyle quickly answered by opening the door on the right.

  Helena muttered something very unladylike under her breath and Doyle fought back the urge to chuckle. Yet, when he opened the door that said properties, he was overwhelmed by an avalanche of clothing that came tumbling out from behind the door; filling the small vestibule and making closing the door impossible.

  “That will teach you, rogue,” Helena smirked at his predicament.

  “Great, you can open the next-door.”

  Helena was beginning to think this was simply an old empty theatre, yet she couldn’t help wondering, why the wagon had delivered the kidnapped woman here, and why so many lights were left on, then she opened the next-door.

  The next room opened up like a scene from a Thousand and One Arabian Nights, a Sultan’s throne room. All the costumes had been moved out, most of them stuffed into the property closet that Doyle opened. The left-hand wall had been knocked down opening the room to a series of wooden pillars that held up the stage floor above. Strung between the posts, the walls, the ceilings, on what looked like every imaginable surface, yards upon yards of soft goods, silks, satins, and velvets all bleached white and hung like laundry day. The floor had been covered with every conceivable rug and carpet the occupant could find. It appeared every Asian country had been represented by the display of floor covering, wide piles of pillows stacked chaotically around the room.