It had been a hot, humid day in Memphis. Nine in the evening was no different. There weren’t a lot of people on the street, and not even many sitting on front porches. The Flynn house was right in the middle of a neighborhood going through transition. Within a decade it would be almost totally a business area. The same was true for Gayoso. Large mansions still stood proudly, but faced competition from small structures that appeared to be stores.
I glanced down the street to see if Briley sat on the porch of any of the houses then I started to giggle. Not all the homes on Gayoso were houses of ill repute. I hoped he wouldn’t barge in on one of the remaining respectable town elders demanding to be taken to wherever he was hiding a French seamstress and her son.
I didn’t see Briley anywhere - at least outdoors. I walked, head down, toward the very end of the block toward a large house that looked as though someone had gone berserk with the architectural mix. Tall columns graced the front porch, but squiggly shutters with what appeared to be a pattern of gargoyle figures dancing sans clothing, outlined every window. Turrets of Turkish design topped the third story of the place. A widow’s walk straight out of a New England fishing town ran the length of that third story.
It took me a good two minutes of staring, blinking and shaking my head before I was able to take a deep breath and climb that porch. A giant ship’s bell hanging on the front door had an iron pull that invited one to give it a nice clang. I clanged..
I’m not sure what I expected for the official greeter of a Lonely Street brothel. Perhaps a tiny, aging, primly proper lady with impeccable manners and a forbidding stare? Or a sleazy, bleached-blonde, overly made-up hussy with an extra thirty pounds oozing out of a corset and gartered hose?
Naturally, the person who answered the door was neither.
It was tallest male I’d ever seen in my life. That included my Dad who stands six-six.
Not only was this man tall, he was big. And ugly. Big face, big beard, big torso, big legs. The only things not big were his head, which was bald, and his smile, which was non-existent. Well, that was to be expected. One answers the door and instead of potential customers bearing cash, one gets a terrified woman wearing a ghastly-fitting black dress straight from Goodwill.
I went for the eyelash flutter thing as my opener. “We’el, aren’t you the foin strappin’ lad, now? Me name is Colleen O’Shea and I’m about askin’ fer work. Me brother told me that some good Gayoso residents were on the lookout for some bright lasses to be doin’ the cleanin’. I’m a good worker and I work cheap. I’m shore’ ‘tis a mite late in the day for askin’ but ‘tis a long way back to Pinch and I’d love to be takin’ good news to me Ma.”
The giant continued to stare at me. For a brief second I considered asking about the accent - “too over the top?” - but figured that’d only land me back on the street or in jail. When the man smiled at me, I started to wish he was still staring. Aside from the fact that his front teeth were missing, the smile was not a smile. It was a leer. For the first time this evening I wondered if “Colleen O’ Shea” had stepped in it big time.
He gestured for me to come inside. I really wanted to turn and haul ass, but the memory of Nevin asking me to sign the sheet music suddenly blasted through my mind. I followed the ogre into a parlor straight out of Hollywood’s idea of an Old West cathouse.
Red velvet wallpaper. Really. Red divan and red highbacked chairs and a red sofa with red velvet cushions and pillows. Anything not red was trimmed in gold brocade. Including the large mirror over a piano that put Teresa’s Baby Grand to shame.
The only other color I saw was flesh. Lots of flesh. Female flesh. Flesh poured into red or gold corsets with red negligees not covering them. Flesh flashing from shoulders and arms and legs and décolleté. In the first five seconds of viewing the parlor I saw more female flesh exposed than in an entire night changing backstage at the Follies. My face turned as red as my hair and the wallpaper.
Have I mentioned the men? Yes, indeedy, a nice crop of them all gathered around the piano; arms and legs entwined with the female flesh. Males and females were singing a chorus of "It’s a Long Way to Tipperary," played with expertise by a grinning elderly black lady who, like, my giant guide, appeared to be missing more than one molar or incisor. At least this seemed like a harmless enough activity.
Then I inhaled like a coke addict taking a last snort. I recognized the tall man adding a nice baritone sound to the choir. Briley. I whirled around to run and found my nose imbedded in the large chest of the large ugly goon who was stuck to me like flypaper to one’s thumb.
I quietly said, “We’eel, bless you, sir, for givin’ me this teeny tour. It appears thar’s a party goin’ on. I’m not about wantin’ to disturb the festivities, so I’ll be takin’ me leave, now.”
His mitt-sized palm clamped down on my shoulder. He growled at me with a heavy accent, “I tink not, Missy. We haf no need for maid. We haf otter needs. You see Anna.”
Oh, crap. His English stunk but I knew ‘otter’ did not mean the swimming mammal.
I debated yelling, “My Daddy didn’t raise me to be a hooker, you demented, giant, toothless creep!” I curbed the impulse. Aside from not wishing to have a fist thrust into my mouth - leaving me in a state identical to the butler and the piano player - I didn’t want to do anything that would attract the attention of Briley McShan and ultimately end up in a battle that would leave us both toothless and still clueless as to where the Dupres were stashed.
So I smiled and tried a different tack. “Sure and I’d be wantin’ ta meet your employer, but perhaps tamorra twould be a more fittin’ time? I’m not one to be interferin’ with a party.”
He didn’t bother to respond. He merely grabbed my arm and forced me to follow him out of the relatively safe area around the piano and up a staircase that was more twisted than a spy thriller.
I considered my options while trying not to get my skirt caught underneath me as I was hauled up the steps.
Option one. Scream, which would bring Briley to my aid. But it would get us no closer to finding Denise and get us both kicked out.
Option two. I could act excited that I was going to be given a job. I dismissed this as a non-starter. The "employer" might just employ Miss Colleen O’Shea to begin performing non-cleaning services for some low-life male who expected a little entertainment for his dollar.
Option three. Pretend ignorance of what “job” the owners of this house on Lonely Street had in mind for the Irish idiot. Ask for a real tour of the place. Option number three seemed the safest and the most hope of having the net result of talking to one or more of the hookers who might have seen a young Frenchwoman and her child recently.
All options disappeared when Baldy the Giant opened the door to a room that was obviously meant for pursuing amorous activities in privacy and comfort. The bed was a four-poster that featured lace hanging from each post. An ivory quilt with a wedding ring design covered the bed up to lacy pillows. I almost forgot my predicament with the joy of seeing bedding that was handmade and quite beautiful.
Baldy nodded toward the only chair in the room. “Sit. Vait. Anna comin’ soon.”
He left. The key turned in the lock.
I had no idea what to do or whom to expect.
I paced, not wanting to comply with the order to sit and needing to work off some of the nervous energy that had engulfed my system. Out of the blue I found myself singing,
“’Memphis has a whorehouse in it - Lord send Briley to my side!’” in a parody of one of the songs from The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.
For a whorehouse I guess it wasn’t bad. Not that I’ve had experiences in such places but I’d envisioned a nasty dive straight out of a film noir set. Aside from the gorgeous bed and the cushioned chair, the room featured a claw-footed tub I craved to have installed in whatever bathroom I called my own in either century. The wall opposite the bed featured a painting big enough to qualify as a Follies set piece.
A sm
all gas stove took up space in a corner. A hot plate sat squarely on top. I peeked into the paper bag sitting beside it and discovered a loaf of fresh bread. I’m ashamed to admit I was instantly hungry. There was a jar of olive oil on the floor beside the stand, plus a can of coffee and pans for toasting and heating water. I actually contemplated making a little toast and downing some caffeine to get me through this night. Then I decided I didn’t want to consume any foodstuffs left in a room devoted to - what this one was obviously devoted to.
I turned my attention to the dresser next to the bed. It was birds-eye maple, as was the bed itself. This suite would be worth thousands in a few years when not only would it be considered antique but when true birds-eye maple became almost obsolete.
I hadn’t worn a watch and there was no clock standing on the one table in the room, but I knew I’d been waiting at least fifteen minutes before the knock came at the door. I wasn’t sure if this polite tapping was a good sign or a bad one. I got my answer when the key turned and Baldy flung the door open wide to reveal a small, stunningly beautiful woman, wearing a bizarre nightgown in a lion print, and sporting a hairdo out of a 1965 Vidal Sassoon design book. It resembled a giant pretzel stuck through with an arrow.
The interview was about to begin.
Chapter 19
She gestured for me to sit, but I stubbornly remained on my feet until Baldy “helped” me to the chair. I wanted to stand. I wanted to intimidate the lady with my height, which was over a foot more than hers.
“You are Miss O’Shea, so Geb tells me.” Her voice was soft, sultry and commanding. It sounded odd coming from a mouth overly made up with enough red rouge to achieve those full, cupid-shaped lips. I guessed her age to be somewhere in her mid-thirties, yet her air of authority was that of a much older woman.
“Geb?”
“My manservant. He is not one for conversation.”
I saw no reason to abandon my Irish maid pretense. I responded with, “We’ell shore and that’s a foin name it ‘tis and a foin strappin’ lad you’ve got to greet your guests tonight.”
She nodded, then waved her hand in the air in a gesture of dismissal for the “foin strappin’” ugly toothless manservant. (Manservant? What the . . . ? Even in 1919 I was sure employers did not refer to employees with that term unless they were part of English royalty.) Geb bowed to the lady and left. I was not reassured by his absence.
I decided to take the offensive in the conversation.
“Shore and I’m lovin’ this foin quilt ya got covering the bed. Lovely needlework, it ‘tis.”
Her expression brightened. “I made it myself. I’m a great admirer of beautiful crafts. Thank you for noticing. “She smiled. It was not a friendly smile. “But, please, let’s drop the pretense now and call you Miss Flynn. Or Melody. Such a pretty name.”
I started to protest. One look from the lion queen silenced me.
“You, my dear, are not one of the riff-raff that haunts the shores of Memphis over in the Pinch district. You are Melody Flynn, a chorus girl from New York City. There is a very handsome young gentlemen downstairs who accompanied you from New York City but who is currently unaware of your presence in my house.”
I couldn’t speak. My mouth was dry; my armpits were not. I sat stupidly in the high-backed chair with the elegant embroidery and waited for sentence to be pronounced.
She nodded regally at me. “I do apologize. Where are my manners? Let me introduce myself. I am Anna, owner of this house and sister to the man you and your misguided friend have come to find.”
Damn. Did she have a GPS tracker aimed at Briley and me? I looked carefully at her features. They did seem familiar – well – at least what I could see under the pound of carefully applied cosmetics. Had she been in New York this past week? Perhaps at one of the Follies parties? I’d thought Geb looked familiar too but couldn’t place him.
“Sister,” she’d said. I strained to place masculine features on this tiny woman’s face but failed.
She smiled, then softly stated, “Melody, when the handsome gentleman, who is now singing in a lovely baritone by the piano in my parlor, came to my door earlier, Geb was in the process of removing a pair of recent guests from New York. Guests who babbled about their rescue being soon at hand by Briley McShan, Follies stagehand. Guests who kindly pointed him out to me when I asked whom they were yammering about.”
“Denise and Nevin.” There was no point in trying to maintain my fictional Irish maid character. Anna, Geb and whoever the head of this trio was, were about three steps ahead of Briley and me. “How did you know about me though? My name?”
“Denise was squealing in delight at seeing Mr. McShan but you have an ardent admirer yourself in the little brat, because he kept rattling on about what a great, tall, beautiful, wonderful dancer his redheaded friend Melody was. He wondered if you’d accompanied his hero.”
“Cute kid, isn’t he?”
She shrugged. “I’m not fond of children. But he’s a necessary part of my brother’s ultimate plan, so I tolerated his presence.”
“And that plan is . . .?”
“None of your affair.” She smiled. “Unless you become part of it at some point, which is a possibility. A very strong possibility. I had heard your name before you came waltzing into my establishment. My brother has mentioned you. He . . . likes you.”
I stood. I could take this little witch down in a heartbeat. I was taller, stronger, and had fifteen martial arts workout DVDs at home. A nice roundhouse kick aimed at her jaw could shut her up for the next year. I was about to deliver said kick when she withdrew a small crossbow and arrow from the folds of her lion costume.
“Don’t tempt me, Miss Flynn. Now, sit back down like a good girl while I explain your situation in full.”
I sat. I had no desire to discover whether or not Anna was a crack shot with a weapon straight out of a classical tale of mythology. I tried to speak without letting my voice go up a full octave in fear. “There truly is a plan? Can you share, oh, even a teensy smidgeon of it?”
She laughed. “Melody! I see why my brother is fond of you. You have spirit. That’s very good. You may yet end up substituting for that little French coward tomorrow night.”
“For what? Road show of the Follies?” I asked with more bravado than I felt.
“For a ceremony that will allow my brother to attain the status he richly deserves.”
“No offense, Anna, but that’s pretty cryptic. Care to elaborate?”
“Let me ask you this. How familiar are you with Egyptian history? Specifically Memphis gods? Those that provide mortals with rebirth?”
I almost choked. Next thing I knew I’d be asked to take place in fertility ritual to ensure the reincarnation of some god who needed a little help with his karma.
“I’m not exactly up on my Egyptology, Anna. Did see "Death on the Nile" and thought "The Mummy Returns" was a way fun flick thanks to that wild bus ride across London but when I’m not sashaying across the Follies stage or designing costumes I'm not exactly digging pits in the sand. And while I remember some ancient history from freshman year of college, I haven’t been zeroing in on pyramids and scarab and ankhs lately.”
She smiled again, a slow, sly smile that made me forget it was ninety degrees in the shade outside and nearly that hot inside. I felt chilled down to my toes. The smile kept growing as my bones kept freezing.
“Costume designs? How interesting. That could definitely change the current situation.”
“What are you talking about?”
She shook her head. “That’s enough information for now. Let me briefly tell you what will happen in the next few days. First of all, your sweet beau will not be given the opportunity to try out any of the lovely ladies who work for me because Geb will shortly be escorting him from the house after he discovers alcohol in his vest pocket. We do discourage breaking the current Tennessee laws of Prohibition. So, your friend will not be reaping the benefits of our – wares.” She laughed su
ddenly. “Although, I might be revising my plans for Mr. McShan and taking him for myself. I’m quite attracted to tall, dark-haired young men with strong physiques and some modicum of intelligence. I would not be adverse to putting his – gifts – to good use.” Her lips almost twitched. “Starting with a session or two with me, of course.”
I stayed silent instead of spitting out, “Damn! You have one major high opinion of your 'goods'." There was no way I would give this woman the satisfaction of knowing how much I cared about Briley, a little realization that hit me quite fiercely the instant Anna first threatened his well-being, then allowed her lust to show.
Apparently Anna was in love with her own voice. She continued tormenting me with the scheduled events for my immediate future. “Whether McShan stays or goes, you, Melody Flynn, will remain. I have more than one patron who will be quite intrigued by such an exotic, tall, beautiful, red-haired young lady while I take the time to inform my brother of your presence and consult with him as to how best to put your many talents to good use.”
I jumped up. I couldn't stand this anymore. “No way in hell, bitch! I didn’t come all the way from New York to become a whore in the middle of Heartbreak Hotel. You try sending one of your slimy customers up my way and he’ll discover this exotic, tall, beautiful, redhead has a temper that matches that hair.”
She narrowed her eyes. Within seconds, something whizzed past my ear. A small, but lethal looking arrow now protruded from the wall. It was less than an inch from my head.
“That was a warning shot, Miss Flynn. Please understand that you have no choice in the matter. And if my prowess with a bow doesn’t scare you, let me assure you that some of my customers can be a bit – rough. If their overtures are refused, they will have no qualms about leaving bruises on that pretty face. There’s a very lovely outfit in the wardrobe just about your size. I’d suggest you don it after I leave, then prepare yourself for visitors.”
Haunting Melody Page 13