I was shaking and trying not to throw up but had to ask even if it meant the next arrow zinged into my body instead of the wall. “What’s going to happen to Denise and Nevin?”
She shrugged. “Don’t concern yourself with the Dupres. The ritual is safe. They will not be injured – if Denise cooperates. It will be a bit dirty but it won’t be unpleasant - if she’s smart. Otherwise she’ll simply end up floating down the Mississippi.”
She quickly opened the door and I caught a glimpse of Geb just outside. She turned and sighed. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
The door slammed. I heard a bolt lock into place. I was alone in a room filled with beauty created by a woman with no soul.
I had no idea how long it would be before Bachelor Number One arrived to check out the new chick. Much as I hated to do anything Madam Anna had asked of me I knew had to shuck my black dress if I planned to escape. First, my long skirts would inhibit a quick getaway. Second I was dressed far too differently from Madam Anna’s other employees. In a normal setting, one woman in a corset would stand out a Vegas showgirl. But an extra woman in a corset wandering through a brothel is not as likely to attract attention.
The outfit wasn’t half bad either. Black, lace-edged tap pants (booty-shorts) and a lacy bodice with spaghetti straps. Like a Kit-Kat dancer in the show "Cabaret." It appeared clean and it was definitely cooler than I'd been in the governess wannabe get-up. I dumped my ugly, thick stockings as well but slapped my boots on again and laced them up in case I got the chance to make a quick getaway.
A knock sounded at the door. It was loud and insistent and too damn soon. The door opened. Geb walked in, followed by my first “customer” of the night.
Geb stayed in the doorway, so hightailing it out wasn’t happenin’. I wondered if I could toss the quilt over both Geb and the client then book it downstairs while they disentangled themselves from the embroidery.
Nope. Geb turned, made a fast exit, and bolted the door behind him.
A freckled-faced kid who stood barely five-four and weighed less than a hundred and ten pounds, smiled tentatively at me from just inside the room. Then he took a deep breath and began to swagger toward me in a bad imitation of John Travlota’s strut from "Saturday Night Fever." I held up my hand to motion him to stop. He did. I took two long strides to meet him dead center, then glared down at the top of his head.
“How old are you?”
His smiled dimmed. “Twenny-one,” came the response in a broad Southern drawl.
I snorted. “Try again.”
He swallowed. “Eighteen.”
“Not! Bzzzz! Thank you for playing! You may now collect your prize. Which ain’t me. What are you really, you little twerp? Fourteen - tops?”
His flush told me I was spot on.
I shook my finger at him. “What would your mama say if she knew you were here?”
A look a terror crossed his face. “She’d whup me good. Mama don’ wan’ me doin’ nuttin’ Pastor preaches ‘gainst ever’ Sundee.”
I rolled my eyes. “Jeez. Look, kid, take the coins you no doubt earned in the open air plantin’, hoein’, or pickin’, then go downstairs. March yourself over to the mission church, deposit those coins in the poor box, then beg the good Lord your mama never finds out you darkened the door of a place like this. Got that?”
He nodded, bit his lip then looked up at me with innocent eyes. “Could I stay for a bit, ma’am? Uh, ah don’ wan’ nobody down thar to be thinkin’ ah didn’ git what I come fer.”
“Fourteen, right? Yeah. Ten minutes. Any more than that and they’ll be suspicious. That reminds me, since Geb the goon locked the door, how do they figure out when someone is, uh, done?”
“Bell-pull, ma’am. It rings downstairs.”
“Ah. Thank you.”
We chatted about the weather in Memphis and what a flood would do to the cotton crop and whether Memphis would ever have a baseball team that would rival those Yankees up north. I did not tell this farmboy I was a hostage or that the nice lady who’d allowed an underage teenager into a sleazy whorehouse was involved in kidnapping and strange ritual sacrifices. He wouldn’t be able to help me and I didn’t need to worry about somebody else.
After ten minutes of chitchat, he pulled the tapestry bell. Within seconds I heard the bolt draw back. I gave the teenager a big hug and a kiss on his cheek and mouth, so he’d at least be wearing the scent of Aunt Teresa’s Chanel Tabac Blond I’d borrowed (feeling much envy for the women of 1919 being able to wear it since it's damned hard to come by now) and have nice rouged lips to show he’d achieved “what he come fer.” As soon as he left, Geb twisted the lock again.
I scurried over to the one window in the room and was surprised to see it was only about a foot away from the widow’s walk that surrounded this house. If I swung myself away from the window I could reach the balcony fairly easily. I had one leg out the window before the door flung open again and in walked a gorilla.
Monkey man was hairy and huge. He must have been six foot seven. His beard was probably four inches long. His hair hung loose around his face and neck and collarbones.
A real gorilla would have smelled better than Bachelor Number Two.
Shame had worked as a deterrent to conjugal relations with the farmboy, so I thought I’d stick with that. “What’s your name?”
“George” he grunted.
“George. How nice. Um. Are you married, George?”
“Yep.”
Good. Marriage vows. Could be a winner in the shame game. “Wouldn’t your wife be upset over you being in a place like this?”
A leer crossed his face. At least it looked kind of like a leer. It was hard to tell with all the hair hiding his features. He took a step toward me.
“Wife don’ care. Matter of fact, missy, ma wife is morndn’ happy to be relieved of her duties. Frigid ol’ biddy.”
Ouch. Oh-kay. Shame was a non-starter. Maybe a nice conversation about crops? Politics? Prohibition?
“Well, I haven’t been in Memphis long, but I’ve sure noticed this town is a hotbed of wild politicians. Isn’t Boss Crump just one wild major player?”
“Don’t give a shit one way or the other. And I’m losin’ patience. Les git on with it.”
Oh-kay. Not a political junkie. Maybe the truth – or some semblance of it – would work? Worth a shot.
“Look, uh, George. Madam Anna was supposed to hire me as a maid, but decided I should be in service instead. Well, let me just point out that I’ve always heard that called white slavery. Can we say illegal, illegal, illegal! And nasty. You don’t want to end up on cable tv, do you? So, howzabout pullin’ the bell and tellin’ them you’d prefer another girl? One a bit more accommodating? I’m sure you don’t want to use force here.”
George of the Jungle growled. “Bitch, I didden come here to chat. I don’t give a damn whether you’re a regular or not and I like ‘em red-haired and there ain't none 'ceptin' you. Now, I’m up fer a li’l less talk, and a lot more action.”
Dang! It was nearly a direct quote of one of my favorite Elvis songs, "A Little Less Conversation/ A Little More Action." I started singing it, hoping he’d think I was either too entertaining to just pounce on or too crazy.
He yelled, “Shut up, an’strip it down it, you slut! Paid my damn money, I’m ready, and I ain’t got all day.”
“Well, in that case, I’m simply going to have to refuse. I am not providing you with sex. Not today. Not ever. Got that?”
“Just say no” wasn’t in George’s limited vocabulary. He slapped me across my face and then flung me to the side of the bed with one yank of my forearm.
I went into shock. No one had ever slapped me before. I repeat - ever. Any leftover amusement vanished.
George got busy unbuttoning his shirt. It gave me enough time to jump up away from the bed. A standing position gives a girl much better fighting stance than lying down. Even though George was much bigger and taller, I figured I could s
till find a way to take him down. Savanna’s older male siblings had taught me a few tricks from their own playbook of Fighting Dirty for Dummies and Younger Sisters.
George unbuttoned the shirt and carefully hung it across the only chair in the room. For one very brief moment, I felt sorry for the man. I’d bet this was his only decent shirt and he wanted to be sure it wouldn’t get dirty or torn.
All misguided sympathy vanished when I realized I’d been given an opportunity to find a weapon since George was now facing away from me. I silently ran to the stove then grabbed a pan.
George turned. He growled, “Get over here. I didden come for no cookin’.”
That comment spurred me to grab the can of olive oil and toss it at his head. It only delivered a glancing blow. Oil spilled across the floor.
He lunged at me again, grabbed my throwing arm and threw me onto the bed. I closed my eyes, unwilling to believe I was about to be raped. I heard a cry of pain. I opened my eyes and discovered that George, in his haste to get to the bed, had slipped on the oil. He’d landed headfirst on the side of the clawfooted tub. He was alive but woozy. Blood dripped from his right temple.
Playing fair with this goon was not an option. If I had to damage his reproductive organs I would. I sprang up and delivered a kick to his back, close enough to the kidneys to be painful, but far enough away to allow George to spend his remaining years without the need for dialysis.
I wasn’t satisfied. The anger I’d bottled up toward Denise’s kidnapper combined with my hostility toward Anna and her nasty client. I added the sparks of fear and desperation and rage buidling within me the moment I realized George intended to take what would not be given.
I quickly ran to the stove again and grabbed that pan. Returning to George’s prone body I walloped him across the back of his skull, hoping to injure without killing the beast.
The door flung open. Geb and Anna. Neither looked happy. Geb leaned down then carried Jungle Man out of the room.
Anna stayed. She shook her head and sadly stated, “Melody. That wasn’t nice.”
“Gee. So sorry. Wasn’t in the mood to tango with anyone that ugly, stupid, and mean.”
She slapped me right where George had delivered his opened palm gift. Then she slapped me on the other side of my face. My first reaction was to slam my fist into her delicate little chin, but as I was preparing to do just that, Geb reentered the room. He held the crossbow Anna had cradled less than thirty minutes ago. I let my hands fall to my sides.
Anna nodded. “Wise decision. Melody, I am sending up another gentleman in five minutes. You will accommodate him or you will not like the consequences. I will be watching.”
I nodded. I had no intention of complying and copulating with Bachelor Number Three but five minutes would just give me enough time to throw myself out the window. At this point, with my face smarting and being certain Anna was serious, I didn’t much care how I landed.
Chapter 20
I waited until Anna had gone and the familiar sound of the bolt shoving tight in the lock was heard. Then I ran back to the window and opened it wide enough to stick one leg and half my body out. I stopped. A diversion of some kind was needed if I was to escape unnoticed. I carefully brought my leg back inside the room then stared outside trying to figure out what my options were. At least the view was nice. I could see parts of the downtown area, including the train station and an old mission church that didn’t exist anymore in the 21st Century.. That was the church I’d suggested my teenage wannabe sinner client visit for forgiveness of intent.
I stood upright. I knew what I needed to do.
I must interject that while my mother was the Elvis fan, my dad loves Elton John’s music. There was always a sheet or two of Elton’s works on the piano at home. One number Dad especially loved to hear his only child bang out on the ivories was "Burn Down the Mission." The song started drifting through my brain the instant I saw the old church outside. The idea had occurred to me earlier as a joke but now it was firmly planted as a course of action.
I was going to burn down the whorehouse.
Turning arsonist hadn’t been one of my goals in life and I didn’t like the idea of anyone getting hurt, even Anna or Geb - that’s what a nice girl I am. I looked around the room for anything that could send smoke signals to the Memphis Fire Department without actually setting anything instantly ablaze – at least before the whorehouse clientel had a chance to flee.
No dry ice. No smoke machine. Just quilts and chairs and a nightstand, the bathtub – and a hot plate sitting on the dresser.
I picked up the discarded black dress and discovered matches in the pocket. A sign from Fiona Belle Donovan Winthorp that my mission was indeed to burn down the house?
I lit the hot plate and dumped several tablespoons of olive oil into a pan, then set it on top the hot plate. It should take about five minutes before ugly, black, oily smoke seeped under the door. Which should give me enough time to do my acrobatic routine onto the widow’s walk then swing to the large tree shading the balcony area before the arrival of the next jerk.
The door burst open. A man’s broad back appeared accompanied by sounds of thumping. It was Geb dragging something. He turned and half-flung the something, which I immediately recognized as Briley. A conked-out, hands-bound- behind-his-back Briley. Geb shoved his body onto the rug then growled at me. He grabbed the door handle again.
“Wait!”
The door slammed.
I left my post by the window and ran to Briley’s side. He opened one eyelid and glared at me. “What are you doing here? Wearing that, that . . . get-up?”
I glared back. “I was going to ask if you were hurt, had a concussion, had been shot, slugged - whatever. I thought you were unconscious. But obviously it takes more than a fist to knock sense into you.”
He sat up. “I’m a little dazed and I’m going to have a headache for a week, but a tap on the jaw by a large, moronic thug is not enough to put me out of commission. I was playing unconscious precisely so the man would have to carry me somewhere in this benighted residence so I could get access to a room upstairs without having to escort a young lady, pay her, then tell her I wasn’t interested in her wares. Mel, you haven’t answered me. Why are you in this room dressed like a cheap hooker?”
“Not cheap. This is expensive French lace, McShan.”
He growled, and I quickly added, “I’m here because, like you, I was trying to track down Denise and Nevin. I took a guess based on Elvis’ music and decided this was where they’d be.”
“So you dressed up in your underclothes and offered yourself up as a new recruit? Was that your plan?” he yelled.
“Stop yelling at me! No, that was not my plan.” I pointed to the black dress on the floor. “I tried to gain entrance by pretending to be an Irish immigrant looking for a job as a maid. Unfortunately I was spotted by none other than the very pair we came to rescue - Denise and Nevin. As were you. Now turn around and let me untie you, okay?”
“What?”
“Turn around.”
He did so but continued to talk. ”I meant what was that about us being spotted?”
“Holy Simba! Geb put lion skins around your wrists! That’s creepy?”
“Oh, terrif. I am now rapidly getting nauseous. Look, Mel. Please, tell me how they knew I was here. I mean as a rescuer, not a customer.”
I untied him. “Denise and Nevin apparently were on their way out as you singing. Nice baritone by the way. They heard you. They saw you. Nevin was delighted, and Nevin wasted no time in telling the mistress, uh, the madam, of this house that his buddy was here, hopefully accompanied by his favorite chorine - me. Not to mention that apparently the guy behind whatever this is is someone from Manhattan. I’d wager someone very familiar with Follies.”
Briley groaned. “Aha. That explains the love tap the ugly butler bestowed on my chin after first telling me I had to leave because I was carrying booze. He’s not good at reverse pick-pocketing by the
way. Tried to sneak a flask on me. I grabbed his hand assuming he was trying to steal my wallet. That’s when the altercation began. Next thing I knew he’d socked my jaw; someone else knocked me over the head with some object that fortunately wasn’t heavy enough to kill. Then I was tossed over the ape’s shoulder like some sack of potatoes and dumped here to be greeted by your smiling face and lack of clothing.”
“Hey! Not my first choice in fashions, Briley.”
He paused for a second. Then he yelled, “Are you insane? Sneaking in here. You could have gotten into serious trouble. Damn it! What in blazes possessed you to try to play detective? You could have been killed by that idiot – or worse.”
He stared into my eyes. I stared back.
Briley grabbed me. He pressed his lips to mine. Our arms slipped around each other. He ran his hands through my hair as we clung to one another. Then his hands began caressing my cheek, my neck, my collarbone. I shivered but this time not from fear. His lips nuzzled my ear, which sent tingles down my spine all the way to my toes. I nuzzled him right back, sniffing in the delightful fresh scent of him. I inhaled deeply, then realized I was detecting an odor other than this Eau de Briley.
I shrieked. “Blazes! Smoke! Oh shit! I forgot! I started one.” The pan on the stove was now expelling rancid-smelling smoke into the air. Briley leaned away from me.
“You set the place on fire?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
A scream sounded from behind the mirror opposite the bed.
“What the heck was that? How can they tell I’ve torched the place already?”
Briley stood and crossed to the mirror with quick strides. “Oh, hell. This is sick. Mel, I bet this is a two-way mirror. Someone’s watching this room.”
I stared at him. “And us.”
“Exactly.”
“Gag. Something tells me that would be Anna. She was making comments about your gorgeousness earlier. And she threw out this cryptic little remark about how she’d be watching. I guess that was meant literally? I may throw up.”
Haunting Melody Page 14