Going Where the Wind Blows
By Jan Christensen
Copyright 2013 by Jan Christensen
Cover Copyright 2013 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Also by Jan Christensen and Untreed Reads Publishing
Artie and the Brown-Eyed Woman
Artie and the Green-Eyed Woman
Artie and the Long-Legged Woman
Artie and the Red-Headed Woman
http://www.untreedreads.com
Going Where the Wind Blows
By Jan Christensen
It wasn’t that she liked whoring. But what else could a gal do? She’d come to San Francisco with a man who promised to marry her right after they arrived. He had the temerity to be shot dead in the lobby of the Occidental Hotel where they were staying, quite properly, in separate rooms.
She’d watched it happen, and the scene ran through her mind over and over again. They’d just descended the grand staircase when a man stepped from behind a pillar in the lobby. He was crouched low, so it was hard to see how tall he was. He wore a red bandana across his nose and mouth. He’d shot Bill twice—once in the stomach, and once in the head—then ran out the front door. The only other person in the lobby was the room clerk. She’d known right away that Bill was dead, but she pretended to try to help him while she checked his pockets. All empty. The clerk stood in shock. No one chased the gunman.
Soon the sheriff arrived, bent over Bill and pronounced him dead. He’d straightened up slowly, looked her up and down, then led her over to a corner of the lobby were they sat facing each other while he questioned her.
He was one of those skinny men who grows a paunch as they get older. She thought he was perhaps forty. He wore scuffed boots, tan pants with gun holster on his worn belt, a blue shirt with no collar, a navy vest, and a cowboy hat rimmed with sweat, which he held on his knee as they talked.
“Name?”
“Rita Mae Wilson.”
“You’re new in town. Where you from?”
“Denver.”
“Name of the victim was Bill Reynolds. You came to San Francisco with him?”
“Yes. We were going to get married next week.” Rita Mae took an embroidered handkerchief from the cuff of her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. She noticed the sheriff wore a gold wedding band.
He gave her a skeptical look. “What was Mr. Reynolds planning to do in San Francisco?”
Well, she couldn’t tell the sheriff that Bill and she planned to rob a few banks. Thou shalt not steal. Her mother’s voice was counterbalanced in her head by Bill’s. But it’s so much fun, isn’t it? “We were on vacation,” she told the sheriff primly.
“What did Mr. Reynolds do while not on vacation?”
“He was in banking.”
“Uh huh.” The sheriff pulled an old, worn metal pocket watch from his vest and checked the time. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay in town until I learn more, Miss Wilson. I’ll be in touch.” He stood and went to talk to the desk clerk.
Bill had held all the money, and none of it was on him. What had happened to it? Until she found out, she was stuck here, stuck whoring, and mad as hell. Almost mad enough to try holding up a bank on her own. But something held her back. Some cautious little voice in her head told her to take it slow, to see if she could recover the money and get the hell out of San Francisco. No one else would hire her. At best, she might bring bad luck, or at worst, they thought she might be a murderess.
Her first client of the evening had not had a bath in who knew how long, his teeth were rotting, and his beard the scratchiest she’d ever felt. At least he didn’t want anything kinky. Just straight sex. She took the money he handed her when he’d finished, no tip, she noticed, and was glad to see his back as he left her pathetic little room at the top of the stairs in the whorehouse. Sure, it was the best whorehouse in town, and she had the best room, but it was still pathetic.
After getting dressed, combing her hair and putting on her red high heels, Rita Mae made her way downstairs to the bar.
Miz Halley stood in her usual place behind a tall desk. There were only three other working girls, usually not enough for the number of customers. None were in the bar, so they must be busy. Miz Halley neither smiled nor frowned at Rita Mae, just gave her a slight nod. A short, stout woman, her round face had two chins and the beginnings of a third. Rita Mae found her to be businesslike and practical. No warmth, but no censure, either.
Jimmy gave her his usual hound-dog look, and Rita Mae gave him her usual faint smile, not wanting to encourage him in any way. Without her asking, he poured her a Martinez. Jimmy had stolen the recipe from Jerry Thomas over at the Occidental Hotel. She particularly liked the cherry at the bottom of the glass, nicely coated with the gin and sweet vermouth.
She’d been here a week, and had learned almost nothing about what had happened to Bill. The sheriff wouldn’t tell her anything, and the other men tended to cluck her under the chin or pat her on the head when she asked questions. Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. Her mother’s voice, quoting the Bible, rang in her ears. Well, Rita Mae had asked and asked, but nothing she wanted had been given to her until Bill came along, and now he was dead.
If only she weren’t so damned cute. She hated her “button” nose, huge blue eyes, the full lips, and the dark blond hair which had a curly mind of its own. Of course all that and her curvy figure made it easy to ply the whore trade, but no one took her seriously. The education her father had been so insistent she have, and all the reading she’d done all those years, had been of no use in her present situation, nor had it been since her parents died in a carriage accident four years ago, leaving her educated, but penniless.
The place was almost empty, and Rita Mae had almost finished her drink when a rather short, slender man sat down next to her at the bar and ordered a whiskey. Then he turned to her and said, “You look lonely.”
She stared at him. That was a new line. Most men weren’t looking at her to try to figure out how she might be feeling. Certainly, none of them cared. Of course, it might be because of where she hung out.
She didn’t know how to answer him, so she shrugged. But she inspected him under lowered lashes. He had interesting hazel eyes, light brown hair, a slightly crooked nose. And nice lips. Her gaze lingered on those lips, then she looked down at her cocktail.
“You’re also new here,” he said.
“Got into town about a week ago,” she answered. “But I haven’t seen you before.”
He stared at her, and she realized she’d spoken too boldly, as usual. Avoiding his stare, she took a sip of her Martinez.
“I travel a lot,” he said.
“Oh, a drummer?”
“Sort of.”
He’s lying, she realized, and her guard went up. “What does ‘sort of’ mean?”
His smile was easy. “It means
I sell myself—I’m an actor. Came into town with the Cisco Players. We’re doing Taming of the Shrew.”
An actor. She’d met a few. Full of themselves and always broke. She returned to her drink, all interest in the man gone.
When she glanced back at him, she saw his puzzled look. Perhaps he was used to women falling all over him. She was too practical for that.
“What brought you to San Francisco?” he asked.
“I came with my fiancé. He met with an unfortunate accident.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”
She shrugged. Until she had another customer, she had nothing else to do. She didn’t imagine he’d be a customer—he probably got all the women he wanted. “He was shot in the lobby of the Occidental Hotel. You may have heard about it.”
“No. Is he all right?”
“He’s dead.”
His eyes widened slightly, then he looked away from her. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah. So was I. He had all our money on him, and it’s disappeared.”
“That’s too bad.”
The guy was full of platitudes.
“I thought so,” she said. “That’s why I ended up here.”
She watched his face. First he swallowed hard, then he frowned, then he tried to make his face a mask. To cover, he took a sip of his whiskey. Not a great actor. She wondered about that.
“When’s the first performance of the play?” she asked.
“Um, Friday night.”
“And what part do you play?”
“Um, Petruchio. You know the plot?”
She couldn’t hide her surprise. “The lead? Yes, I know the play. Petruchio marries Kate to tame her. It’s not clear whether he loves her or not, or just considers marriage a convenience.”
“What do you think?”
“Well, I’m a woman, so I think he loves her.”
He nodded and signaled Jimmy for another drink. “And that’s the way we play it. We think the audience is more satisfied with that interpretation.”
Maybe he really was an actor. Maybe he did better on the stage than in real life.
The bar doors swung open and a huge man Rita Mae had never seen before walked in, his footsteps loud on the wooden floor. He stopped just behind Rita Mae and put his hands on her shoulders. “You’re new,” he said, his voice rumbling in her ear. “Let’s go upstairs.”
She turned toward him. “Buy me a drink first?”
“I don’t work that way,” he said. He took his hands off her shoulders and took her arm.
Rita Mae slipped off the barstool. For some reason, she couldn’t look at the actor. I’m not ashamed, she told herself. She had to do this to survive.
“I’m Jake,” the man said as they climbed the stairs. “Been out prospecting, but first thing I do when I get back to town is get a bath, a shave, and a haircut. Next thing I do is come to Miz Halley’s for one of her delightful women. Then I have a drink. If you’re nice, I’ll buy you one. After.”
A man who had his own set of priorities. She was thankful he’d had a bath.
She got a better look at him after they entered the room. Seductively, she began to remove her clothing. He stood, arms crossed, leaning against the door. A slow smile crossed his lips when she removed her corset. He was ruggedly handsome, and she suppressed the slight tingle she felt when he let his eyes roam over her body. When she was finished undressing, she sat on the edge of the bed and watched him undress. He placed his gun on the nightstand first, removed his boots and the rest of his clothes and got into bed, pulling her close.
He surprised her when he took her gently, even trying for a bit to arouse her. He gave up soon enough when she didn’t respond. When he finished, he rolled off her to lie on his back. She eased herself off the bed and began to get dressed.
“You promised me a drink,” she said. She felt thirsty and suddenly very tired.
He grunted.
When finished dressing she looked at him and saw he’d fallen asleep. She sighed and shook his shoulder.
He came awake with a start and went for his gun on the nightstand. She took a step backward, then said, “It’s only me. How about that drink?”
Jake looked at her with bleary eyes. “Sorry. Haven’t slept in a bed in so long, forgot how comfortable they are.”
He stood up and stretched. He was one hunk of a man, even unaroused. She looked away and went to the vanity to comb her hair. Stop judging by mere appearances, and make a right judgment.
Quiet, Mother.
She heard Bill’s faint laughter in her head, saw his smiling face.
When they arrived downstairs, she was surprised to see the actor still at the bar. He wouldn’t look at her when she sat down next to him. His eyes were bloodshot, and his words slurred when he ordered another drink.
She ordered a Martinez again. Jake sat on her other side, and she could feel his body heat.
She turned to him. “Have much luck with the prospecting?” she asked.
“Not lately. Did a couple of years ago, but blew it all on gambling and women. I can feel my luck’s about to turn anytime now, though.”
That’s what they all say, Rita Mae thought.
The sheriff came through the swinging doors, looked around, and approached Rita Mae. She stiffened on the bar stool.
“Where’s Miz Halley?”
“I…I don’t know. Around, I guess. I haven’t seen her in awhile.”
The sheriff looked at Jimmy who shrugged. The sheriff walked down the back hallway, boot heels loud on the wooden planks. Rita Mae noticed he had new boots, all shiny. Was that snakeskin?
A few minutes later he came back, his skin pale. He wiped his face with a red bandana, stuffed the cloth back into his pocket and walked right over to Rita Mae. “Where you been all evening?” he asked.
“Why, right here, Sheriff. What’s wrong?”
“Miz Halley’s dead. Shot in the head.”
Rita Mae gasped and put her hand over her open mouth. She felt suddenly sick and almost toppled off the barstool. Jake caught her and held her.
Two of the other girls came clattering down the stairs, heads bent together. When they reached the last step they giggled, but stopped abruptly when they saw the sheriff.
He gave them a glum look. “Where have you ladies been?” he asked.
Both hunched their shoulders slightly, and their eyes darted around the bar. “We were upstairs,” Lulu said. She had a doll-like face and blond hair, which she curled into an intricate fashion. Rita Mae often wondered how she kept it looking so good after all the time she spent in bed.
“Together?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes. Miz Halley gave us the evening off, it being so quiet an’ all.”
“Miz Halley won’t be giving you any more time off. She’s dead. Murdered. You know anything about that?” The sheriff leaned casually against the bar but Rita Mae noticed he still looked rather ill. He had everyone’s attention, and the room was the quietest Rita Mae had ever heard it.
Jimmy gave the bar a swipe with his cloth and glared. Rita Mae suddenly realized they were all out of jobs. What was she going to do now? With four of them out of work, it was going to be hard to whore somewhere else.
Tinkling laughter broke the silence. At the top of the stairs, Fanny stood with Homer, their arms entwined. Rita Mae had taken an instant dislike to Fanny when they met, and she was pretty sure Fanny felt the same way about her. Homer was a regular who preferred Fanny, but if she was busy, he would go with any available girl. So skinny he looked frail, Rita Mae had felt his strength the one time he’d bedded her. He’d been crude, and she’d had to tap down the sudden flair of hatred she’d felt toward him when he’d grabbed her arms and pinned her to the bed, then kissed her roughly. He’d been rough as he rode her, as well, and she gritted her teeth for awhile, but then she said, “Be careful with the merchandise. It’s all I’ve got to survive.”
He paused for a moment, then gave a ba
rk of a laugh and continued on as if she hadn’t spoken.
As she looked at Homer and Fanny now, she decided they deserved each other.
She almost felt sorry for the sheriff. He looked a bit lost. She saw the effort it took for him to pull himself together. “I want to know where each of you was every minute of this evening,” he said, his voice louder than it needed to be.
No one spoke.
He looked at Rita Mae who suddenly wondered if there was a connection between this murder and Bill’s. She closed her eyes, rocking on the barstool.
What, after all, did she really know about Bill? Other than he was the most exciting man she’d ever met, and the most handsome? He’d entered the general store in Denver where she was clerking after her parents’ death and changed her life. He’d never spoken much about his past, only that he’d been born in Manhattan and that he’d been roaming around the country since he’d turned sixteen. It hadn’t taken him long to lure her into helping him with the bank jobs. The excitement gave her an incredible high. She’d known since she was sixteen that her father was a small-time crook who robbed people when the opportunity came along. The rest of the time he tutored rich people’s children. Perhaps the thrill of thievery was in her blood. Bill had made her feel more alive than she ever had. A wave of grief coursed through her as she sat in the grimy bar with three whores, their customers, a bartender, the sheriff, and the murdered madam in a nearby room. She shuddered and felt a strong need to flee.
The bar doors crashed open and one of the deputies rushed in, out of breath. “Sheriff, there’s a gunfight down by the corral. You better come quick.”
Scowling, the sheriff barked, “No one leave the bar,” and ran out with the deputy.
Everyone remained quiet. Glances darted towards the hallway. Rita Mae felt an insistent pull to go see for herself. She climbed down from the barstool and walked toward the doorway leading down the hall. She felt someone behind her, but she didn’t bother to look. She stopped abruptly as soon as she could see into the madam’s office. Feathers were everywhere. They covered the floor, the desk, and stuck into Miz Halley’s hair. As Rita Mae put her hand up to cover her mouth, a feather flew lazily down from a picture frame and landed on Miz Halley’s outstretched hand.
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