The captain lit up when he saw the detective. “Morning Wolf. What have you?”
“Nothing,” Wolf said.
“I'm not surprised.” The captain scratched his head. “It's hard to bait a rape fiend with a woman that ugly.”
Despite a year of finishing school, Anna's mouth hung open, and her chin almost grazed her nubby dress.
Wolf said, “Especially if she passes out drunk in the middle of your operation. I had to go relieve myself. When I came back, she was on the ground. I couldn't get her up. In the end, I dragged her to the side of the road and covered her with leaves so no one would find her and uh…” Wolf noticed that Anna was listening. He lowered his voice. “Get a big surprise.”
Anna gasped, shocked that an officer would treat a woman thus, and began to question whether she knew anything at all about the world. The captain stifled a smile. “Where's our bird now?”
Wolf shrugged and sauntered toward the door. “Probably still at the side of the road.”
The captain raised a finger. “Hold on a minute. I need a favor. I'd like you to do the hiring for the assistant matron's position. Matron Clemens is…out of sorts.”
Wolf turned on his heels and raised an eyebrow. “Again? I thought that was a monthly thing.” He flashed a blinding smile. “I'll do it with pleasure.”
“You're beef to the heels, you are,” the captain said. Slapping Wolf on the back, he slipped into the station.
Wolf took to his task with enthusiasm. He scanned the line for candidates who presented well and who might act grateful later. The first twenty-five women, those with the foresight to come early, those who might actually make efficient, sensible matrons, appeared to Wolf to be sober minded—no fun at all. He glanced down the line, passing up several women in their forties, and two pretty girls with tightly wound buns who looked tightly wound.
Then, his eyes settled on Anna, backed up against the rail, her bosoms all but bursting from a frock that shouted, “Grateful!”
In a bare interrogation room, Wolf considered Anna across a table. She faced him with an overeager smile.
“What's your name?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, clipboard at the ready. She looked perplexed, as if this were a hard question. He raised his eyebrows and waited. “Holmes,” she said after a moment. “Anna Holmes.”
It occurred to Wolf that a stupid matron would be worse than an ugly matron, and he may as well pack it in now. But she was the sweetest little candidate he had ever seen. He enunciated clearly, as if she were foreign or mentally deficient. “It is Mrs. Holmes, isn't it? We don't hire unmarried women, and you're not wearing a wedding ring.”
“That's right. I mean my ring is…being fixed.” Anna felt the place where a ring would be.
He gave her a wide, encouraging smile at this prompt response. She sat up straighter, her gorgeous chest rising.
“And your husband doesn't mind if you do this kind of work?” He addressed this question to her heaving chest, as if the gaps between buttons were lips that could speak.
“No. He's overseas with the…with the…He's overseas.” Under the table, Anna gripped her purse so hard that the tiny beads made imprints on her fingers.
He nodded, drawing two round bosoms in his notebook. “How many grades have you completed in school?”
“Twelve.” She twisted the chain on her purse, straining the links until they pinched her finger. “Plus finishing school.”
“Good. Do you have any experience working with troubled women and children?” He raised his eyebrows hopefully.
“Yes. Through my work with the Orphans’ Asylum.”
He leaned forward. “So you're comfortable working in, ah, the saltier parts of town?”
“Yes, I like salt.” Anna laughed.
He chuckled with her. “And you can type?”
“Yes,” she said. “But, I'd really like to do detective work, like you.”
He shook his head in wonder. He liked this silly girl. “There are no women detectives, Mrs. Holmes, pulp novels aside. How many words per minute?”
She hesitated. “Three hundred.”
Wolf suppressed a grin and imagined her naked. “Do you speak any Spanish?” he asked.
Her mouth curved in a tentative smile. “Yes. A little. My Latin and French are better.”
“Please, say something in Spanish, Mrs. Holmes.”
“Los-An-ge-les.”
Wolf licked his lips. She was perfectly ridiculous, strange, and mouth-watering. He had to do the hard thing, the responsible thing, no matter how good she was to look at, how amusing she would be around the station, or how grateful she might prove to be in the stables behind the station while her husband, if she even had one, was overseas. He sighed and stood, straightening his uniform. “Well, I think we're done here.”
Anna's face fell ten stories as if she realized the significance of his words. Wolf fell with her. She seemed desperate. She'd be grateful. She was scrumptious beneath that ugly dress, and he could tell that she wanted it so badly. He racked his brain for any reason to hire this girl, a reason he could justify to Matron Clemens.
“Thank you, Detective Wolf,” she said, her voice unsteady. She kicked the table by accident as she stood. She dropped her purse onto the floor and bent to pick it up, the scratchy fabric of her dress straining against her little behind.
Wolf sincerely regretted disappointing her. He was disappointed. She might be a bad liar, but she had nerve, and she was a luscious little peach. “Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Holmes,” he said. She caught her trembling, rosebud lip between her teeth and extended her hand. He shook it. It was as soft as petals. She let him hold it a moment too long, and took a deep, sad, quivering breath. A button popped off the front of her frock, revealing an oval of creamy white, and before he could stop his mouth it said, “You're hired.”
Sweat beaded on Wolf's brow as he led Anna among the desks to meet the man in charge. His lips stretched in a tense smile, his skin a little paler than before he had hired Anna. “Captain Wells, may I present Mrs. Anna Holmes, our lovely new assistant matron. She types, speaks Spanish, but most importantly, she's nervy. I say that's a vital quality for a matron who will be venturing into unsavory territory.”
Unlike Wolf, the captain looked Anna straight in the eye. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Holmes.”
“Likewise,” Anna said with the hint of a curtsy.
“You'll report to Matron Clemens.” The captain gestured toward the woman he'd been fighting with earlier.
Matron Clemens narrowed her eyes at him. Anna bobbed her head and sent her new boss an unreciprocated smile.
The captain exhaled. “Don't mind her. She'll come around. In the meantime, if you have a question or the men offend you, you can talk to me or to Detective Wolf.”
The captain smiled broadly over Anna's shoulder. “Look Wolf, here comes our lost bird. Aye, she is a little bent.”
A man in his early twenties, dressed as a female, hung on the station door. He had a cleft chin, a dimpled smile, and a green complexion. Leaves stuck to his bonnet and a twig hung from his drawers, which were visible above his blonde, hairy legs as an inch of his skirt was tucked into his lowers. His blue eyes squinted against the light. Under his breath he sang. “Shine on, shine on, harvest moon, up in the sky. I ain't had no lovin’ since January, April, June, or July…”
Cheers and whistles rose from the station. Someone shouted. “Nice pegs, Singer!” He curtsied and rallied himself for the journey across the floor.
Wolf's conversation with Captain Wells on the stairs began to make sense to Anna. This drunken creature belonged buried in leaves at the side of the road.
Captain Wells held up a bottle and shook it. “You can do it, lad. I've got a little hangover cure here. You'll be right as rain.”
Officer Singer headed toward the bottle like a hungry toddler just learning to walk. Anna stared. As he wobbled past, his big booted feet stepped on his hem and he fell, grabbing desperately at the a
ir for support. His arms found Anna's tiny waist, and he held on tight. He grinned up at her. “Nice feather.” Just inhaling his breath made Anna feel drunk. She pushed him away with all her might, sending him flat against a nearby wall. Their audience laughed.
Reaching up in horror, she felt the perky feather clip and flushed a deep rose red. She was ashamed to have accessorized so incongruently. She hurried to unclip it and stuffed it in her pocket. By the time she returned home, the feather would undoubtedly be as bent as the young police officer.
While Anna was distracted with her hair clip, Officer Singer's mouth opened and he started to gag in the style of a dog that had eaten too much grass. Before she could dodge it, he sprayed the station with whiskey and whatever he had eaten for dinner the previous night, which apparently included spinach and corn. Green, corny chunks of sick stuck on the hem of Anna's ugly frock and on one of her lilac shoes, clogging the filigree on the elegant silver buckle. Officer Singer wiped his mouth on his ruffled sleeve and, feeling the full force of his hangover, slid down the wall. “Oh, God.”
Anna couldn't decide if she were lucky or unlucky, whether God was rewarding her for providing blankets for the Orphans’ Asylum or punishing her for corrupting the Widow Crisp. She crouched near the front counter, scrubbing her shoe so hard the lilac polish came off, leaving a regrettable brown streak that would have to be fixed. She had abandoned the ugly vomit-covered frock for a crisp new matron's uniform, which Matron Clemens had provided, though the cost would be deducted from Anna's pay.
The skirt was sensible, unflattering, and white. The blouse, which wrapped around her neck like a boa constrictor, was also white, as was the mannish necktie. It was more ugly than a nurse's uniform, but it looked nicer than anything from the Widow Crisp's trunk and gave her bosoms a little more wiggle room. Anna felt both honored and horrified to wear it.
A girl about Anna's age, with hair the color of a clementine, peeked in through the glass doors of the station, blushed her freckles into oblivion, spun around, and went clipping down the steps. Officer Wolf swept past Anna and out the door in fervent pursuit of the spy. He was grinning.
Behind the counter, a clerk minded his own business, hiding behind thick spectacles. He had ruddy, shiny skin and a mouth so tiny it could belong to a child. He hadn't even looked at Anna, though everyone agreed she was very nice to look at. She needed friends at the station and so cleared her throat to address him. “Excuse me, Mr….”
“Melvin,” he said in a librarian's hush.
Anna glided over. He leaned away from her. It surprised Anna, but she took a step back and found her most harmless smile. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Melvin. I'm Miss Bl…I mean, Assistant Matron Holmes.” She bobbed. When he said nothing, she said, “I don't understand why that drunken officer is wearing a frock.”
He peered up from behind his cola bottle glasses and spoke in a butterfly whisper. “It's an undercover operation, Matron Holmes. Joe Singer's trying to catch a criminal who…” He lowered his voice until it was barely audible. “…does unspeakable things.”
Anna tried to imagine “unspeakable things” but was interrupted when Matron Clemens appeared, her face frozen in a professional mask of aloofness. “Matron Holmes. There's been a suicide at one of the parlor houses. Detective Wolf says you're familiar with all the cribs and parlor houses from your charity work, and that you are quite intrepid. Is that correct?” She looked hard at Anna.
“Yes, ma’am,” Anna lied. A parlor house must be a teahouse. She wasn't sure what a crib was or where she could find one, but clearly it had something to do with babies.
“Good. Go down to Canary Cottage, collect the orphan, and take him to the Orphans’ Asylum.”
Anna blinked. Matron Clemens dropped a file and two coins into Anna's hand and glided off without further instruction.
“Yes, ma’am,” Anna said to the woman's retreating backside. She opened the file and saw the names Peaches Payton and Georgie Payton typed on a document.
She turned to Mr. Melvin and spoke, one butterfly to another. “Would you kindly refresh my memory? What is a crib?”
He looked up and mouthed the words, “A low-class brothel.”
Anna burst out, “She wants me to go to a brothel? Jupiter!”
Matron Clemens and Wolf looked her way. She flashed them her most competent smile, and turned back to Mr. Melvin with a look of desperation.
He spoke quietly to Anna, staring down at his necktie. “You'll have to go from time to time. They don't allow brothel girls to raise children once they're weaned. Some of the girls farm them out, but if not, the matrons have to go get them and take them to an orphanage or reform school.” His words were directed at his tie. “Don't worry. You won't even see the girls. The brothels on New High Street keep their curtains drawn. There's a city ordinance to that effect.”
Anna leaned closer. “I see. Where can I find them?”
Matron Clemens, unsmiling, was on her way over.
“You better go,” he said.
“Thank you.” Anna slipped out the door with her file and her coins. The wind had died down to a hot puff. She paused on the landing with no idea where to go, her brow wrinkled in consternation.
Joe Singer slouched at the top of the steps beneath a pepper tree, holding up the wall and smoking a cigarette. He had replaced the frock with a police uniform but hadn't removed the bonnet. He sang to himself. “I have loved lots of girls in the sweet long ago, and each one has meant heaven to me.” He stopped singing and addressed her as if reading her mind. “Go left on Main, left on Commercial, right on New High Street. Look for the Esmeralda Club. Canary Cottage is the third brothel after the Esmeralda Club on your right. Three stories high. Green trim.”
Anna launched herself down the stairs, taking them two at a time to get away from the reprobate faster.
“You're welcome!” he called after her.
Anna rode the trolley down Main Street, shaded by towering brownstones. It was easily six cars wide and buzzed with carts, bikes, people, horses, and Model-T Fords. She turned on Commercial, passing furniture stores, hatters, and factories. The motion of the trolley amplified her jangling nerves. Brothels were Beelzebub's parlor, vile pits where bad things were done that she didn't understand. Women were never supposed to be in them. Anna caught herself biting her nails. She rested her hands in her lap and tried to think up excuses in case anyone she knew saw her in Satan's parlor, but quickly realized it wasn't necessary. No one she knew would ever be in a brothel under any circumstances. She was venturing where no civilized person had gone before, like Marco Polo, Christopher Columbus, or Dr. Livingston. She inspired herself.
Visiting Chez Lucifer was not the only challenge of the day. She would have to get the child to the Orphans’ Asylum without encountering the witch or, worse yet, Mrs. Curlew Taylor.
On New High Street, Anna pulled the trolley cord. The bell dinged and the streetcar lurched to a stop. She followed Officer Singer's directions, wandering past storefronts with bright awnings, which offered everything from dripping blocks of ice to prickly cactus paddles. As she moved down New High Street, the awnings began to sag and the vendors along the hot cement walk became fewer, replaced by saloons with signs that read, “Closed.” She heard the whistle of a nearby train.
Anna walked over broken glass and into a cloud of stale beer fumes and urine stench. She stepped around a red lace garter soaking up mud in the gutter. She stepped on something and felt it crunch and roll under the sole of her shoe like sweet gherkins.
A disembodied voice howled. Anna sprang off and, to her horror, saw fingers. Her eyes followed the smashed hand to the arm of a little man sprawled behind a fraying potato sack full of empty whiskey bottles. He was nursing the smooth glass top of a bottle. Anna could see his slimy white tongue wiggling inside. He didn't seem bothered about his crushed fingers. They were the least of his injuries. His lips swelled into a bloody pucker and a plum of flesh hung under each eye. He'd been soundly trounced. Al
l the same, he leered at Anna with surprising energy.
Anna quickened her step. She stumbled to a stop in front of two arched windows that looked like eyes. A sign in gold letters read, “The Esmeralda Club.” She peered down the street, looking for brothels. She spied an empty beer mill, a vacant pool hall, a silent dance hall. The drunken officer had said that Canary Cottage was the third brothel, but Anna didn't see a single “Devil's Lair” sign, and most of the buildings looked sinful. How could she tell where the brothels began or ended? There was no one to ask this early in the morning. The reprobates were all still asleep.
A city ordinance, Mr. Melvin had said, forbade houses of ill repute to leave their curtains open. Anna proceeded until she found a building with the curtains drawn. It was a large stone edifice that rose from the street in three layers, ornate and decorated like a cake. It might have belonged to a prosperous family, had it been in a different neighborhood and had it featured sheer lace curtains at windows open to let in the breeze on this gruesomely hot day. But the windows were hung with heavy velvet drapes, pulled closed. She counted one.
Anna passed two buildings with no curtains, which she thought might be ordinary saloons. She skipped those. She passed a complex of small, grungy apartments encircling a courtyard where several pairs of drawers dried on a line. Raucous snores drifted from a window. The curtains were dark, heavy and closed. She counted two.
On down the street, a three-story building had bright green window trim and closed scarlet drapes—the third crib. It was neat, but garish, in a color combination that would offend Christmas. The proprietor, whoever she was, could clearly use a decorator. Even the wicked must have an aesthetic.
In front, a thin, angular man sat behind the reigns of a coroner's wagon hitched to a pair of shiny black horses. He looked like a mantis saying his prayers, eyes closed, mouth active. Anna stopped in her tracks. He seemed vaguely familiar, like the cousin of an acquaintance met once and forgotten. One of the horses swished its tail. She held the file up to shield her face and tiptoed past.
The Secret Life of Anna Blanc Page 6