The Harlot’s Pen

by Claudia H Long

  “Rummy, anyone?”

  * * * *

  Kate watched Rose carefully. Her eyes were a little too bright for Kate’s liking, though she was glad that Rose made the effort to come to the parlor. “Bank’s closed,” she said when Jonathan approached her about Rose. He nodded, and took Lily upstairs instead. Rose looked at her, disappointed, but Kate shook her head. Not yet. She didn’t want to risk a relapse.

  Violet’s rummy table seemed jovial, though that Caleb Houston was goading Gold a little. Funny, she thought, big, handsome Caleb feeling threatened by that little Jew. But Violet seemed to enjoy the attention, promising Caleb, Gold, and even Jake, that she was in the mood for all of them. “One at a time, of course,” she said, winking. Amazing. I’ve made a whore out of a schoolmarm, when she’d make schoolmarms out of whores.

  Sharon was doing land-office business at the poker table. She’d sold more whiskey and beer in one evening than El Verano sometimes sold in a week, and the gents had lined up for her like a debutante with a dance card. That was good. A happy Sharon was a non-vindictive Sharon, and she always topped the dollars for the whole resort when she was happy. With the exception of Caleb Houston, just about every man was more than happy to get a chance with her. Her fees were even higher than Rose’s.

  Kate mused, maybe it was time to even raise the fee on Violet. She’d started it low to encourage men to choose her, and it seemed to have worked, but perhaps she could command a slight price increase. She’d think about it at the end of the week. After all, Violet had only been there sixteen days.

  Kate watched as Caleb stood up from the rummy table and approached her. “Can you spare Miss Violet for a bit?” Kate nodded, marking her pad. This time she’d let Violet keep Caleb’s tips. As long as she kept her score above the minimum, she could treat Caleb like any other customer.

  Interlude

  June 20, 1920

  From the journal of Violetta Stone

  A letter from Jacqueline arrived yesterday, but I’m only finally getting to it today. Jacqueline has no idea what I am up to here, but she has this address. When I wrote to her all I said was that I’d taken a room near Sonoma, and I was deep in research on the conditions of women’s labor up here. Boy, I wasn’t kidding!

  She was full of news on Mrs. Whitney’s case. Word has come that the appeal for Mrs. Whitney was turned down. But there’s some technicality, so it will be two years at least before it gets heard by the state Supreme Court. The only other hope is for the real Supreme Court in Washington to take the case. Francis explained that the Supreme Court only takes so many cases, but that they can decide if the Criminal Syndication law is constitutional or not. If it isn’t constitutional, Mrs. Whitney’s conviction is thrown out. This is going to take years. I can’t imagine having such a terrible fate hanging over my head. Luckily Mrs. Whitney is still free on bail, which is vastly better than rotting in San Quentin. I suspect that Francis posted for her. What a gem he is.

  I certainly hope that we don’t have to wait until Mr. Young runs for governor to get Mrs. Whitney exonerated, but if we do, I’m going to hold him to his promise.

  I also saw in the paper that Mr. Palmer, the head of the Department of Justice, who ordered all the raids on the CLP and started all this trouble, has been hauled before Congress to explain himself. Looks like the tables are turning, but I don’t dare feel safe going back to San Francisco just yet.

  It’s funny. My life at Spanish Kitty’s is more real to me now than my writing. All this business of the trial, the poem, even the night at the old police station seems like a century ago. My old life with Sam has receded to such dimness that I can’t believe it was real. Nevertheless, today I forced myself to write up a draft from my notes for the serial before I did this journal entry. It took hours to reorder, and in some places decipher, the notes that Sharon had crumpled, scrambled, and soaked. Finally, I threw out all of the coffee-stained notes, and I’ll hide the draft deep into my dresser drawer once I’m through with this writing. Ten more days in my month commitment to Spanish Kitty. I wonder how I’ll go back to the real world.

  Part Four

  A thin, keening wail rose from the back of the house. Kate felt the blood drain from her face. She called to Moses and wordlessly they ran to Rose’s room. Samantha was at the door breathing hard. Troy, his gray muzzle wide, howled at the bright blue sky. The stench of opium smoke and blood and something far worse came from Rose’s room.

  On the floor, in a repetition from the week before, lay Rose, again naked, again with blood on her neck, but this time there was no doubt that Rose had done the job right. She stared at the ceiling with vacant, dead eyes. Feces smeared the floor, and vomit caked the side of her open mouth. But there was no question, Rose was dead.

  “Cover her,” she said to Moses. His mouth pressed in a grim line, he stepped around her and pulled a sheet off the bed. He laid it over the once-beautiful body. He looked down at her, and then walked quickly from the room. Outside, Kate could hear him gag.

  “What happened?” she said to Samantha. “Take a deep breath—no, outside—and tell me.” Samantha leaned against the door post, and Moses, wiping his face with his kerchief, squatted next to her.

  “I went to the door, like you said. She hadn’t come out for supper, and I could smell trouble. She didn’t answer when I called out. I know I should of come and got you first, especially since I could smell the drug, but I opened the door anyway, and there she was.”

  Kate reached down to stroke Troy’s head. He pushed his warm face against her hand.

  “Did you see her at all before that?”

  “We all saw her last night. She was fine, I thought. She took a piece of pound cake to bed with her, which is good, I thought, since when Rose is eating she’s less likely to have a spell. And though she didn’t come to breakfast, that’s normal. So no, I didn’t see anything else.”

  “Any of the other girls come around?” Kate hated to ask the question, but she had to. Moses rose slowly and walked away. “Where’re you going?” Kate asked. “You all right?” He nodded without answering and walked as far as the kitchen door. Kate looked after him and thought she saw tears. But Samantha was speaking.

  “Sharon brought her a glass of lemonade, nice and sweet, earlier today. You should ask her.”

  Kate closed her eyes. “Moses,” she said, opening them again. “You need to get Doc Simmons. Now.”

  “He’ll need to get the sheriff,” he answered with a glance at Samantha.

  Kate nodded. “Samantha, go inside and drink a glass of cordial to steady your nerves. Then get Sharon for me. Don’t let on anything’s wrong to our guests. Tell me who’s upstairs, who’s in the parlor, too.”

  Moses nodded back and walked over to the small stable at the back. For once, Kate wished that they had an automobile, but after that fleeting thought she turned her attention to Rose’s room. She needed to find the opium and get rid of it before the sheriff got there. Running a whorehouse was one thing—everyone turned a blind eye, and most of the men patronized one of the many houses in Sonoma at some point, but running a drug den would get her shut down faster than she could say her name to the judge.

  Gingerly she made her way past the body. Poor, beautiful, troubled Rose. Poor girl, what a story. Kate wondered what had brought on this particular spell. She was in a better place now, Kate thought, and surreptitiously crossed herself.

  She quickly found the pipe and the little tin of sticky opium, now empty, and she saw that Rose had wiped it out with a bit of cloth and seemed to have tried to smoke the cloth. The lemonade glass stood on her little dresser, sugar grains pooled in the bottom. Kate put the pipe and tin in a blouse and wrapped them up. She picked up the glass and headed to the door. Then she stopped. She raised the glass to her nose and sniffed. Then she stuck a finger into the sugar and tasted a tiny bit. It was sweet, as sugar was, and bitter and granular too. Rose had put some headache powder into her lemonade. She looked ar
ound. There was no little apothecary bag of powder. Maybe Sharon had brought her some headache powder, too. Kate felt a cold pit in her stomach.

  * * * *

  Samantha came back out the kitchen door. “Sharon must be upstairs. There are no girls at all downstairs.”

  “What? No girls at all?” Kate handed the bundle and the glass to Samantha. “Put those somewhere. Don’t wash the glass. Just hide all of it. I can’t have customers in the parlor with no one there. Oh, sweet Mary mother of God.”

  Kate took a deep breath. She must not show that there was anything wrong. “And then go and guard Rose’s door ‘til Moses gets back with Doc Simmons.” She headed back to the parlor, smoothing her skirt with her damp hands. Before pushing open the door she licked her index finger and ran it over her black eyebrows. She could taste the bitterness even now.

  Jake and Jonathan were playing a desultory game of poker, the Victrola was silent, and the dice were idle. “Gentlemen, you’ve been left all alone!” she said brightly. “How about a drink on the house!”

  Jake stood up. “Now there’s a first! In my whole life!” He walked to the bar, passing in front of Kate. He stopped and looked at her more closely. “In fact, Miss Kitty, let me pour you a drink, and buy it as well. You look a little peaked,” he said, his Scottish brogue slipping out.

  “Thank you, Jake. You’re a real gentleman,” she said, taking the whiskey from him. Its burn warmed her, steadied her hands. She looked over at her pad. When she’d left the room, all three girls had been there. The first to mark the pad had been Violet. She’d noted that she had gone up with Gold. Then Lily had gone up with Mike McCarthy. But where had Sharon gone? Nothing showed on the pad.

  She had to ask her question in the right tone. Even though Jake had been coming to her Resort since she’d opened more than ten years, she still had to preserve the illusion. Even with a dead girl in the back. “So, where did Sharon run off to? Who’s the lucky gent?”

  Jake cocked his head. “I can’t say I’ve ever been left alone here before, but Sharon went off with your doorman, Moses. Said she was sorry, but she had to make a quick run into town, but that you were just, er, refreshing yourself, and would be back in a moment. Took off like a wild hare, she did.”

  “Ah, well, girls get flighty sometimes,” Kate said. “I’m sure Lily and Violet will be down soon, give you a good game of rummy if nothing else.”

  “Oh, I’m sure Violet and Lily will be ready for more than rummy!” Jake answered. “Such high-spirited girls sometimes!”

  “Indeed,” Kate said. She never thought of Violet and Lily as particularly high-spirited, but to Jake, with his measured, kindly speech, they probably seemed like wild fillies. Grateful as she was for his stab at normal brothel conversation, her thoughts stayed on Rose. What had put her over the razor’s edge that she lived on, day after day?

  Sounds from outside distracted Kate from her consideration of Rose’s griefs. They were over with, in any case. Doc Simmons drove a car, so that must be his, she thought, and rose to peer out the window. Moses should be right behind on the horse, presumably with Sharon. But coming up the drive in front of her house were three cars, including the sheriff’s. Madre de Diós.

  “Excuse me,” she said. She walked briskly out of the parlor and down the steps of the porch.

  The dust clouds caught the early evening sunlight of this longest day as the three dark automobiles parked in the circular clearing before her. Kate tried to temper her dismay as Sheriff Cabrera headed towards her, flanked by his deputy, a pimply young man with a serious overbite. Of course the sheriff had come—Rose was dead.

  Behind him, Doc Simmons got out of his car, stretching his long legs, and hoisting his black bag. He stood in for the coroner more often than not, when the patient was beyond his plasters and powders.

  Kate squinted as, from the third car, three men in dark suits emerged, hands on holsters. Who the hell are they? Before she could ask, Moses came galloping up behind them all. And finally, climbing carefully out of the strangers’ car, came Sharon, her color high, with a pleased smirk creasing her face.

  “Evening, Miss Kitty,” the sheriff said. “You’ve got trouble here?”

  “Come around the back,” she said, glancing at the men in suits. They didn’t look like customers, even if Sharon was with them, and gentlemen didn’t wear holsters to a whorehouse. As they rounded the house she whispered to the sheriff, “Who are they?”

  “Federal agents. I don’t like them being here, but they were waiting outside my office for Miss Sharon all evening,” he whispered back.

  “Sharon? Why?”

  “Dunno. So what’ve we got?” he asked in a normal voice.

  “Rose. She had another spell and…” Kate felt her throat close. She’d seen dead girls before, but never one of hers.

  “Moses says she’s dead. True?” Kate nodded. “So sorry, Kitty. Let me have a look.”

  Samantha was still at her post and looked wide-eyed at the parade of people coming around the side of the house. “Go on back to the kitchen, Samantha. Put together a nice tray of sweets and take it to the parlor. There’s just a few gents there, but Lily and Violet should be down any minute. Stay in the parlor ‘til one of them comes down. Then tell the girls to stay in the parlor until I get back.” Samantha nodded and, looking over her shoulder at the men in suits, scurried away to the house.

  Kate didn’t look at Sharon. Federal agents waiting for her all afternoon? What in God’s name was that about?

  The sheriff pushed the door to Rose’s room open. Poor Rose still lay there, but Samantha had tidied the room somewhat. It was a warm evening, and it was starting to smell. Kate put her hand gently over her nose and mouth and followed the sheriff in.

  “One of her spells, then?” he asked. Kate nodded. “Jeff, check the body.” The deputy looked wild-eyed at his boss. His pallor made the pimples glow red. “Go on then, get going.” The boy tiptoed towards Rose, then bent to remove the cloth that was covering her. The gash on her neck grinned like a devil’s mouth. The boy stood up sharply, flapped his arms and ran from the room. Kate could hear him retching out by the oleander.

  “Gotta learn sometime. She used to harm herself when she was in her mood, didn’t she?” the sheriff said.

  Kate nodded again. Doc Simmons knelt by the body.

  “Same cut as before, and again the cut doesn’t look deep enough to kill her. It looks to me like she passed out, hit her head, and died.” Doc Simmons pulled the sheet back up. “She fell last time, too. Looks like she relapsed. Often times that happens, a second knock on the head will kill you, sort of a cumulative thing even if it wouldn’t have killed you on its own. Looks like Rose was following her old pattern, and it took a bad turn. Accidentally.”

  Kate was thankful for his stress on the last word. A death was bad enough, but a suicide was a disaster for a business.

  Then Doc Simmons bent down and looked more closely at the dead girl’s face. He wiped some white grains from the side of her mouth. With a sidelong glance at Kate, he put his hand in his pocket.

  “I’ll send Jeff for the coroner’s wagon,” the sheriff said. “He ain’t good for much else. I’m so sorry Kitty.” He turned to the rest of the group. The men in suits were inside the door, looking quietly around the room. “Nothing more to see, gentlemen.”

  “On the contrary,” one of the agents said. “Federal Agent Gerald Macondo here. The smell of opium is very obvious here, over the smell of death. Surely you’ll conduct a thorough search of the room and the rest of the house.”

  The sheriff walked up close to the agent, looking down on him. “I don’t smell anything. These girls were heavy on the perfume, and maybe you don’t get to be around whores much, but their scented water would choke a horse.”

  Doc Simmons laughed, but the agents did not. “You can conduct the search or we can, Sheriff.”

  The sheriff looked at Kate. “I don’t have a warrant, ma’am.
Would you like me to come back with one?”

  Kate and the sheriff held a long conference in the silence of a second’s glance.

  “No need, Sheriff. You won’t find any drugs in my house, or on my girls.” Sharon turned away from the door. “Sharon!” Kate added, her voice sharp. “Show the sheriff around.”

  Sharon, her color gone from her cheeks, nodded.

  “And we’ll be happy to accompany the sheriff. According to this young lady, you are also harboring communists, and we don’t look too kindly on them, or on the drugs they sell and abuse, either. Shall we start with this room?”

  Communists? Before Kate could reply, the lead agent, Macondo, dapper with his slicked-back hair and sharp suit, stepped across Rose’s supine body and pulled the top drawer from her armoire. He dumped the contents on the floor. “Madam, you will stay here with me. Carson, Spires, go with the girl. And young missy, there’s a fine reward for your patriotism waiting for you if we catch those commies. Go!”

  Sharon turned away, and the two agents followed her. The sheriff sent Kate one last glance, a small nod, and followed them out.

  Sharon sold us out. But communists? Oh, my God, Violet and Gold? “Wait!” she called out and started after them. The lead agent grabbed her arm. They stood eye to eye, glaring. “Oh, no you don’t, you harlot. Laws may be pretty lax out here in the country, but we’ve got a murdered girl, obviously killed over some drug sale, and a couple of traitors in your house. I think you’ve seen the last of your little enterprise.”

  Kate spoke very slowly. “I don’t know who you really are, or what you’re insinuating, but you’d better let go of my arm this instant.”

  Macondo snickered, and produced a pair of cuffs from his pocket, still keeping a close hold on Kate’s arm.

  “Well, to hell with you, buddy,” Kate said, and swung her free elbow into the agent’s nose. The resounding crack was mighty satisfying as he crumpled to a heap beside Rose.