by Ann Parker
“The parlor house reeks of smoke,” Flo said conversationally. “But it could be worse. The door to the kitchen was closed at the time, so the damage is concentrated in the back. Still, I didn’t think you’d want to meet there. And Lynch’s would not have afforded us the privacy we need for this matter. As for coming to your saloon, the last time I paid a business call I was afraid your cook, Mrs. O’Malley, would chase me down Tiger Alley with her broom.”
Inez shifted in the chair, thinking of Bridgette O’Malley’s propensity for gossip. “Just as well. I prefer that we keep this transaction between us. A private matter.”
Flo fluffed her hair absently. “I’m so glad you were amenable to this partnership. I know you’ve had an eye on my building for a long time, as have many others. I’ve been approached—oh, I don’t know how many times—about selling it. So, you see, we both get what we want here. Once I’ve moved to Fifth, you can take over the State Street building. We remain partners in both endeavors until you buy me out.” She sighed. “I wish we were at the new house now, what with all the visitors in town. Oh well. We’ll air the old place out, apply a little perfume, and be ready to open for business tonight.” She twiddled her fingers in the air, as if waving good-bye to wishful thinking. “Time’s a-wasting, and time is money. Especially in the whoring business. The girls and me are anxious to put last night’s dreadful event behind us. We must make hay while the sun shines. Or,” she glanced out the window at the drizzle falling from a gray sky, “while it doesn’t. So, when can you have the money to me?”
“Just how soon do you plan to move?” Inez countered.
Flo scrunched her nose, calculating. “Today’s Friday. We could clear out next Thursday, after Grant leaves, and be ready for business the Friday after.”
Inez’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s very quick indeed.”
Flo continued, the old twinkle back in her voice, “I’ve been preparing for a while now. With what you’ve promised to me today, along with what I’ve saved and the investment of a third party, I can finally make my move. Me and the girls will start sorting through the house for what to take with us. As for the new place, once I have the cash from you, it’ll take next to no time to sign the papers.”
Inez sat up straighter, frowning at the unwelcome news buried in Flo’s prattle. “You have another investor? Who?”
Flo smiled again. More indulgently. “I promised you I’d not utter a peep about our business agreement. How could I do any less for my other partner? I’m a woman of my word.”
Inez regarded her narrowly. Who, I wonder, is the third partner. A banker? A businessman or another saloon owner? Lynch, perhaps? I’m not keen on this arrangement.
Further discussion was cut short by a sudden battering at the door. It sounded as if someone was pounding with two fists.
Flo cut a look, sharp as a razor, at Inez. Inez realized that, without even thinking, she’d leapt to her feet and pulled out her pocket revolver.
The staccato beat was interrupted by a feminine wail, which resolved into the words, “Miss Flo! Oh, Miss Flo!”
Flo’s tightened expression relaxed. “One of my girls. Molly. Honestly, they get wound up about the smallest things. Probably one borrowed a necklace and broke it or some such. It was hard getting any sleep at Lynch’s last night, and everyone’s on edge. But just in case—” Flo extracted a small derringer from a hidden drawer in the table, then moved to the door and opened it.
A woman burst in, nearly tripping in her rush. Her red hair straggled about her shoulders, tears tracked through the face powder. The front of her dress, splattered dark by the rain, was buttoned crooked, leaving a gap displaying a white streak of belly. The disarranged female gave Inez not the slightest glance. She grabbed Flo’s sleeve, inarticulate.
“Molly!” Flo’s sharp tone served to stop the wordless gibbering.
“M-Miss Flo.” Molly rubbed her running nose on one sleeve. “Lizzie. She, she…”
“Jesus Christ.” Flo hissed the words with an edge of irritation. “Can’t I leave you in charge for a minute without a crisis? What happened? Did Lizzie show up at last? Is she fighting with Lynch’s whores? She better not have gotten my girls thrown out on the street. If she’s drinking, I’ll—”
“No!” Molly twisted Flo’s sleeve in her fist. “No! Not, not…Lizzie, she’s, she’s…Oh shit, Miss Flo. Lizzie’s dead! Stone-cold dead!”
Chapter Ten
Flo slapped Molly’s face. Hard. The crack of flesh on flesh sounded like a gunshot in the small room. Molly’s sobbing abruptly ceased.
“You’re lying!” snapped Flo.
Molly’s hand flew to her reddening cheek. “I’m not!” She seemed more injured by Flo’s disbelief than the actual cuff. “Lizzie’s behind the house. In the mudroom. Danny caught that mapmaker with his hands on her throat and her tit. Miss Flo, hurry, Danny’s like to kill him!”
Without a backwards glance at Inez or to stop for a hat or coat, Flo hiked up her skirts, showing an indecent length of white calf, and shot out the front door. Molly followed suit.
Thinking of the gun in Flo’s hand and the just-signed deal, Inez grabbed her umbrella and hurried out the door, slamming it behind her. She took off for the parlor house as fast as she could without showing more than her boot tops.
The contract with the lawyer lay in her pocket, rubbing against the agreement she’d signed with Flo. Casey’s envelope with its sharp corners was a stiff reminder of yet another legal promise made, both of which had surprising and unwelcome addenda appearing after the ink was dry.
Will I come to regret them both?
Chapter Eleven
Inez heard the ruckus long before she saw anything. As she approached the alleyway entrance, women’s voices rose and conquered the street noise. A knot of men hovered near the rear of Flo’s parlor house, necks craned for a better look. Inez slowed her pace, debating whether to brush on by and gather information later so as not to embroil herself in the sordid dealings of the brothel. It’s too late for that! I’ve signed an agreement with Flo. My fortunes are tied to hers, for better or worse.
With a deep breath, she arranged her expression into one of disdainful curiosity and sidled up to the growing crowd.
The scene was not lovely.
The back wall and door of the tacked-on mudroom had vanished into smoke the previous evening along with a sizeable portion of the roof. A more-or-less three-sided, well-charred enclosure remained, open to the sky. One of Flo’s women sat on the plank that served as a stair, weeping loudly, fingers twined in brown tresses that all but hid her face. A coalscuttle lay abandoned by her feet. She blubbered, “The stove went out in our room at Lynch’s. I j-just wanted to see if there was any coal left in the kitchen.”
Flo stood just inside the destroyed mudroom, hand to her breast. The hand with the gun, Inez observed, was hidden in the folds of her dress. Flo sank onto what was left of the floorboards, looking as if she might faint. Her knees hit the damaged flooring, which protested with a loud crack! Molly sprang to her side, grabbing Flo’s arm lest she fall through. Flo ripped away from Molly’s grasp and leaned forward, reaching down into a hole in the flooring, reaching for a bundle of rags.
Inez stepped forward to see better and realized that the bundle wasn’t rags, but the body of a woman. A woman dressed in a soiled white wrapper, curled up on her side like an infant, her face obscured by a matted mess of long dark hair.
Up the alleyway, Danny, the brothel’s doorman, had some fellow pinned to the ground. Papers were scattered around, wet and torn, mashed into the muck. The feet and legs of the conquered were flailing as the doorman applied unknown pressure to the upper portion of the man’s torso.
Inez sensed someone even taller than herself step close behind her, nearly breathing down her neck. She turned to find Jed Elliston, editor, reporter, and owner—if one discounted the fact that his father had shoveled out the money for the business venture—of The I
ndependent. She was surprised that he was upright and walking, given his plunge from the grandstand the night before. About the only damage she could ascertain was a knife-thin scrape down one side of his long-nosed, aristocratic face. The mark gave the newspaperman a slightly rakish air.
Eyes pinned to the scene before him, Jed pulled out his ever-present notepad and pencil from beneath his waterproof. Ignoring the small spits of rain that pocked the paper pad, he licked the lead with relish and elbowed his way forward through the crowd. Taking advantage of the vacuum left in his wake, Inez followed.
“Press, ’scuse me, the press, pardon. What’s going on?” Jed was now at the front of the throng, near Flo and her women. Inez slid in beside him.
The woman on the step lifted her face. With her hair trailing like snakes, she reminded Inez of a weeping Greek tragedy mask, with a touch of Medusa. “Lizzie’s dead!” she wailed. “And that one,” she pointed at the prostrate figure on the ground under Danny, “done the deed!”
A gargle exploded from beneath Danny.
Flo’s face twisted in fury. “Quit howling, Belle! Go back to Lynch’s. Stay with the other girls.” She turned to Molly and snapped, “Go get a doctor! She’s not dead. She can’t be!”
Molly jerked as if touched by lightning, stared wide-eyed at Flo, then turned and shoved her way through the crowd, throwing epithets at spectators who moved too slowly.
Jed took advantage of the chaos to climb the step and peer unchallenged into the hole. Inez followed suit, knowing that the curious masses behind her were also pressing forward, jostling to see better what lay under the floor.
Jed shook his head. He glanced at Inez. “Hullo, Mrs. Stannert. I’m no physician, but I’d wager this one’s left the world of the living.” He commenced his note taking, eyes pinned on the scene before him.
Inez took another step forward, and the deceased came into clear view.
At least, Lizzie certainly looked deceased, bereft of life and movement.
Her face was mottled, either badly bruised, marked by dirt, or both. Flo clutched one unresponsive hand in her own. The woman’s dead-white skin made fair-skinned Flo look ruddy by comparison.
“That’s Lizzie?” Jed’s pencil was poised over the tablet. “Does she have a last name? How long did she work for you, Mrs. Sweet?”
Flo looked up, tears straggling down her face. Then, as if just noticing the one-sided fight in the alley, she struggled to her feet and propelled herself toward Danny and his captive. Inez saw the small nickel-plated derringer flash in her hand as she crouched in the mud beside the victim. Inez, hurrying toward the trio, heard Flo say, “What did you do to her? Tell me!”
The barrel of the small two-shot pistol pressed deep into the soft skin under the older man’s jaw. His face was covered in mud; his mustache slimed with blood from what Inez presumed was a broken nose. Danny held him in a chokehold, looking within an inch of breaking his neck. It was clear the fellow lacked breath in his present position to say anything in his defense. Or to confess.
Men pressed Inez on every side. A rough elbow to her side, so sharp she felt it through the protective cage of steel corset stays, caused her to snap, “I beg your pardon!”
The transgressor, oblivious, wedged himself in beside her. Inez had to tip her head back to glare at his profile—young, with a dark wisp of a mustache, no detectable beard, dark pools of eyes in a face so pale that she immediately placed him as a tenderfoot from out of town. She gave him the once-over, taking in the elegant stovepipe hat, the expensive cut of his waterproof coat, the fine kid gloves and silver-headed umbrella held high. Not the sort of attire one associated with Leadville’s grimy back alleys. From the East Coast, she guessed, or perhaps San Francisco. The rapt eagerness with which he drank in the squalid scene was distinctly off-putting.
“I never.” Inez considered jabbing him with her umbrella to give him a taste of his own medicine.
“Pardon, ma’am.” The apologist wasn’t the young upstart, but someone behind her. The speaker squeezed between Inez and her unwelcome neighbor. Her tactile impression was of solidity, a man with muscle on him. Other than that, there was the ubiquitous bowler, rain-soaked, and a carefully curled thick brown mustache.
“Mr. Wesley.” He addressed the noisome youngster firmly, but with a certain obsequiousness. “You’re expected at the Clarendon. Your mother said that General Grant requested that everyone be ready to leave on time.”
Young Wesley gestured impatiently with the umbrella. “Just a moment longer won’t make any difference, Kavanagh. You can tell the old girl you did your level best to get me back on time, like the professional minder that you are, but the crowds didn’t allow. That’s why I provide you with a handsome bonus on top of whatever she pays you. I mean, look at them. Like pigs in the mud.” He sounded delighted.
The man named Kavanagh glanced at Inez, his face full of apology and distaste. Whether for the scene or for his employer’s behavior was unclear.
“Put him down like a damn dog, Flo!” shouted someone from the crowd. “Danny caught ’im, red-handed. One hand round her neck, other on her boobie. He don’t deserve any better than to have his head ventilated for desecratin’ poor Lizzie there.”
A chorus of “yeahs” and “rights” swirled about Inez. She sensed the mob shifting, pressing in, restless, a living breathing unity, hungry, and eager for blood.
The blast of a whistle echoed off buildings up and down the alley.
“Everyone. Back!” barked a gravelly, hoarse voice, hard, commanding. “Law. Coming through.”
Kavanagh inadvertently shouldered Inez as he turned to check the commotion at the rear.
The same voice that had called for blood now said, “Dadgummit. Party’s over. It’s The Hatchet with reinforcements.”
The Hatchet.
Dismay bit the back of Inez’s throat.
Somewhere in the rear, the solid thwut of a policeman’s sap hitting flesh was followed by a yelp.
Kavanagh turned to Wesley. “Mr. Wesley. The police are here. Your mother and the general wait.” The politeness was gone, the words, sharp as a whip, were made civil only by being near whisper-level.
Wesley jumped at that, glanced about guiltily, and smoothed his mustache with a gloved hand as if to gain comfort from its presence. “Oh, very well. Guess we shouldn’t keep them waiting.” His superciliousness sounded off-key, strained.
Kavanagh and Wesley eased away.
The pressure of bodies behind Inez vanished suddenly, and she stepped backwards to regain her balance. A hand closed like a steel band around her arm.
She looked up into the glowering face of The Hatchet: Patrick Ryan, Leadville policeman and duly appointed city collector of fines, fees, and taxes.
The Hatchet was a tall rail of a man. The crease that split the length of his forehead, stopping only at the bridge of his nose, looked as if it had been put there with a hatchet. A sharp nose, curved and long provided another axe-like echo. But his appearance was only part of the genesis of his nickname. The Hatchet had no compunctions about cutting down any fool who dared stand up to him and his authority. A State Street businessman or woman who refused to pay the requisite fees, sometimes several times over, was in danger of experiencing the same fate.
And no one, no one called The Hatchet “Pat,” “Paddy,” or any other diminutive. It was “Ryan” by those on the force, “Officer Ryan” or “Sir” by all others, and “The Hatchet” when he was out of hearing range.
Inez had taken care to cultivate a neutral relationship with the local law: the city marshal, county marshal, the deputy federal marshal, the ordinary beat police officers, and the local merchants’ Protective Patrol deputies, who, to the dismay of the city council, stopped crime more effectively than the city’s police force. However, The Hatchet was another matter. As city collector, he had staked out State Street as his own private fiefdom. Given that the city’s biggest source of revenue came from fee
s and fines imposed on prostitution, gambling, and various aspects of the liquor trade, The Hatchet’s near constant presence was expected, and dreaded, by most State Street denizens and merchants.
Right now, The Hatchet stared at Inez, suspicion narrowing his dust-colored eyes into slits. He moved her incrementally to the side, out of his path, and released his grip, before continuing his advance on Flo, Danny, and their injured prisoner. Officer Kelly, one of Leadville’s finest, trailed in The Hatchet’s wake. Inez recognized Kelly by his beacon of red hair and his cheerful demeanor, maintained even when dealing with obnoxious drunks and hysterical dancehall girls. He stopped when The Hatchet stopped, examined the scene with bemusement, and looked to his partner for direction.
The Hatchet spoke. “What’s the trouble here, Flo? Molly was near hysteria, running half-clothed down the street. That kind of thing don’t make a good impression on the bigwigs visiting town.”
“To hell with them! And to hell with you, too!” shouted Flo, sounding more and more frantic. “I sent for the doctor. Where is he?”
The Hatchet dropped his voice, which still had volume enough to carry into every straining ear in the narrow alleyway. “Too late for the doctor, Flo. I told Molly to get the undertaker. Now give me that pistol.” He held out his hand.
She dug the business end of the small revolver further into her victim’s neck. He coughed, spraying blood and mud onto the knees of her skirts. “Fuck you, Hatchet.”
“Flo, don’t make this worse than it is. You’re disturbing the peace. Don’t add murder to it.”
Flo turned on him, teeth bared. The look on her face put Inez in mind of a cornered dog, fear and madness warring in the eyes. “You dare take his side!”
She jerked the pistol away from the prone man and toward the city collector. The shot echoed off the boards and bricks of the surrounding buildings.