Jo Goodman (8 page)

"Hmmm."

"Don't you have to go to work?"

"I only just went to sleep."

"I don't think that will matter to Howard. He'll want you back at the Palace before the noon crowd tries to get away from him."

Ivory Edwards rolled over. She pushed the blankets down to the level of her breasts. A view of her naked shoulders was as much as she was going to allow Grey Janeway. As far as she was concerned, this was a new day, and he hadn't paid for anything else. Muted sunlight glanced off her fair skin. Her deliciously full mouth was pulled thoughtfully to one side. "What do you think of Ivory DuPree?" she said.

"Who's Ivory DuPree?" Grey asked absentmindedly. He straightened the cuffs of his jacket and brushed a piece of lint from the sleeve.

"I am," Ivory said somewhat indignantly. "Do you think it sounds better than Edwards?" She repeated her name first one way then the other. When she saw Grey wasn't paying her the least attention she sat up and kicked out at him. She connected solidly with his booted shin.

"Ow!" He dropped the lid of the trunk he was searching, barely getting his hand out in time. "What was that for?"

Satisfied, Ivory withdrew her weapon under the blankets again. "For taking me for granted," she said emphatically.

"I took you for a hundred dollars last night," he reminded her. "That means I don't have to pay attention to you today." He sat on the trunk lid, raised his right leg, and rubbed his injured shin. He felt the outline of the weapon he kept there. "It's less complicated. Now, what's this about your name?"

Ivory was too established in the working life to let Grey's comment sting her heart or her pride. He rarely requested her services, and from what she knew, he rarely requested them from anyone else. There were still forty men for every woman in San Francisco. She would have known if he had been regularly going somewhere else for his carnal pleasures. "Edwards or DuPree?" she asked. "I'm thinking of changing it. DuPree has a certain...
je ne sais quoi
..." She giggled when she saw one of his dark eyebrows arch dramatically. "You didn't think I knew any French, did you?"

"You're a source of constant surprises, Ivory." It was not usual for his flinty, blue-gray eyes to be touched by his smile. They were now. He held out his hand to her, and Ivory rocketed into his lap, blankets snapping around her like a clipper's sails caught in an updraft. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. "DuPree is a good choice. Were you thinking of an accent?"

"But of course," she said deeply, imitating as best she could the throaty accents of two or three Frenchmen she'd met. "Foreign girls get more." Ivory looked to Grey for approval.

"Not bad." He set her off his lap suddenly as something teased his memory. He concentrated to retrieve it but it proved as elusive as all the others that had ever come to him over the last five years. Was it the accent? he wondered. The woman? Or both of them together that prompted the sensation that this was a familiar scene? There was a mild throbbing in his head now, and Grey realized Ivory was looking at him oddly. He stood and laid a hand lightly on her bare shoulder."Use DuPree. It has such an abundance of
je ne sais quoi
I won't be able to afford you."

Ivory was genuinely pleased by the possibility. Her cheeks flushed becomingly. In spite of current living conditions, Grey Janeway had amassed a fortune, even by San Francisco standards. If he couldn't afford her, she'd be a high-priced whore indeed. "You going to the wharf?" she asked, as he removed his hand. Ivory wished he had allowed it to linger there a bit longer. It wasn't often that she was touched with any sort of affection. His fingertips on her shoulder had felt a little like that. She was sorry to have the moment pass.

Grey nodded. "I'm expecting things to be delivered any day. I want to make certain I get them."

Ivory knew it was always possible that someone would try to take Grey's orders by bribing the cargo master. "That's some fancy palace you're building, Mr. Janeway. I've heard about the mirrors. Folks say you plan to put them right above the beds."

"Folks say that, do they?"

He sounded amused, Ivory thought. He was very handsome when he offered up that small, half smile of his. The problem was, he didn't make the sacrifice often. Her short, glossy black curls bounced as she nodded. "That's what I hear. It will be as splendid as any bawdy house back East."

"It would be
more
splendid," he said dryly. "If that was my intention."

"You mean the mirrors aren't going to hang above the beds?"

He almost laughed outright at her disappointment. "Why don't you wait and see?"

"Does that mean you'll be needing some girls like me, Mr. Janeway?"

This time Grey tapped Ivory on the tip of her upturned nose. It was a pretty face, he thought. With the exception of her well-shaped mouth, her features were not refined or exotic. She was just plainly pretty, but that was still worth something in San Francisco. "I believe I will, Ivory," he said. "But don't tell your friends. I intend being very particular about who works for me. And there will be certain conditions. You may not like them." She looked as if she was going to ask him to explain them now, so Grey shook his head before she opened her mouth. "Later, perhaps. I have to be going."

He ducked out of the tent into the bright morning sunshine.

* * *

The bay wharf hadn't been enlarged in spite of the demands placed upon it since the gold strike. In the past it could accommodate a vessel or two few unloading, but now it wasn't possible for a ship to get that close. Scows and rowboats were used to bring cargo in from where the clippers anchored farther out in the bay. It was probably possible, Grey mused, to walk to an incoming ship on the bows and beams of all the abandoned ones. He doubted such an undertaking would even require getting one's feet wet.

A few enterprising souls saw the potential in the ghost ships. They turned them into gaming dens and brothels and hostelries and did a fair business until the underbellies rotted out. The June fire had claimed almost half the hulks. Bright orange and yellow flames leaped from mast to mast like a hellish Jack Frost, icing the bowsprits and taffrails with an eerie, glowing light. The capricious wind carried the fire so one ship might become a torch and its neighbor might be largely spared. The bay waters reflected the scene, magnifying the destruction, not diminishing it.

It wasn't a sight Grey thought he was likely to forget. Unless, of course, someone kicked him in the head and chest a dozen or so times. That might put it out of his mind. Tipping the brim of his hat back a notch, Grey smiled thinly at his own black humor.

He casually leaned sideways against a pyramid of empty barrels and lit a cheroot. He savored the flavor of the tobacco and exhaled slowly, his eyes wandering the wharf through a blue-gray wreath of smoke.

There was considerable traffic crowding the small wharf, but Grey kept coming back to the boy. The only thing more rare than a woman in San Francisco was a child. Male or female, it didn't matter. Shooting stars were more frequently sighted than children. The influx of harlots and mining-camp followers hadn't produced many burgeoning bellies. The abortionists were kept busy while figures were kept slim and profitable.

The boy looked old enough to take offense to being called one. He might accept the vague "young man" distinction, Grey thought, but he wouldn't like it. He was of a scrappy appearance: denim trousers belted by a frayed length of rope; a faded flannel shirt with shoulder seams that hung several inches below his shoulders; and a popular slouch hat that covered far more than just the top of his head. Most of the boy's face was hidden in shadow, but there was a hairless chin that jutted forward from time to time, leading the way as the boy paced the length of the wharf.

At least Grey thought he was trying to pace. It was the sort of activity that could not be accomplished easily on the crowded dock. Flicking ash from the tip of his cheroot, Grey watched the boy dodge carts and hurdle a cask that rolled in his way. He avoided obstacles like the fishmonger's wagon, a dray sagging with its load of lumber, and a stack of crates that kept shifting location because the owner couldn't decide where to unload them. The boy agilely skirted the pyramid of barrels that Grey was leaning against and neatly stepped over a tabby cat basking in the sunshine. At the end of the wharf the boy paused long enough to scan the horizon, then he did an about-face and started his worried journey back again.

His shoulders were hunched and his eyes downcast as he passed in front of Grey. He kept his hands in his pockets. Occasionally he paused to kick a stone into the bay. Once he stopped long enough to pet the tabby. The cat followed him after that.

Shaking his head at the sight, Grey flicked what was left of his cheroot into the bay. The tip of it arced brightly before it fell in the water. Grey unbuttoned his jacket, reached inside, and withdrew a small telescope. He extended the length of it and held it up to his right eye. Adjusting the sight, Grey also scanned the horizon, but with a lot more power than the boy had had. Seeing nothing like a Remington clipper, Grey folded the scope but didn't put it away. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the young scrapper was watching him. Grey turned his head in that direction, but the boy ducked his head immediately and moved on, almost tripping over the cat, which was wending in and out of his legs.

Noticing the youngster slowed as he made his next pass in front of him, Grey considered offering the telescope to him to use. He thought better of it when he realized he would probably have to chase the boy all the way up Montgomery Street to get it back. Grey wasn't of a mind to expend that much energy this morning.

He tapped the scope lightly against his leg as he waited. He could afford to be patient. The man he had hired as foreman for the Phoenix construction was doing a good job. Grey almost regretted pitching his tent across the square to keep an eye on the progress. Donnel Kincaid's attention to detail and his firm approach to managing the laborers gave Grey more time to devote to his other enterprises and oversee some things personally.

A movement on the horizon caught Grey's eye. He raised the scope again and held it in place until the object in the distance was fully in focus. The clipper's white sails were fully extended. Men lined her yardarms waiting to take them in as she came toward the harbor and prepared to drop anchor. Grey straightened, lowering the scope, and caught sight again of the boy watching him. He spoke just loud enough for his voice to carry to the youngster. "She's flying an American flag," he said. "And the purple-and-gold banner of the Remington line. Could be it's what you're waiting for."

The boy hurried on without giving any indication that he'd heard Grey. Grey watched him go and saw trouble coming right at him.

The Sydney Ducks were the primary reason Grey was at the wharf himself this morning. The Ducks were a loosely organized gang of felons who had tickets-of-leave from the English penal colony in Australia. They had served their time in Van Dieman's Land and the tickets-of-leave gave them opportunity to get out from Down Under—as long as they didn't try to return to England.

It was hard to know what manner of crime they had committed to receive transportation as their punishment. Grey knew firsthand that some had offenses no more serious than stealing food to feed their families. There were others, though, who had learned how to use a shiv before they knew the proper use of a fork and spoon. Highwaymen and murderers, forgers and sneaksmen, the Sydney Ducks had someone of experience in every aspect of the roughest criminal trade.

In response to the gold strike, the Ducks began arriving in just enough numbers to cause problems. Feared and shunned at the outset, the Sydney Ducks capitalized on it, turning it into their strength. They organized, set up shanties and tents near one another, and moved about town in pairs or groups, but never alone. There were exceptions, but in the main the Ducks didn't fare well in the goldfields. Mining didn't come naturally to men who had been felling pine as punishment on Van Dieman's Land. They tended to look for something less physical, or at least some trade that required them only to use their fists.

The Sydney Ducks specialized in extortion and theft, and when these couldn't be accomplished with finesse, they fell back on brawling.

A pair of Ducks were patrolling the wharf now, waiting to see what cargo would be unloaded today, and how their fortunes might be increased by permitting the rightful owner to collect it. They had seen the Remington ship and knew they had time before she put down her anchor. They were at loose ends till then. That's when they decided to have fun with the boy.

The first thing they did was close ranks as the boy tried to slip between them. When he attempted to skirt them, they parted. The dance frustrated the boy and amused the men. Above the general commotion of traffic on the wharf, Grey could hear them laughing.

He looked around to see if anyone else noticed what was going on. He sighed. Where a number of people on the dock had been interested in the boy's antics for the better part of a half hour, they were now studiously avoiding looking in his direction. In general, because of their rarity, children were afforded the protection of the community. Grey once heard of a miner who paid fifty dollars in gold dust simply to hold a baby in his arms. Traffic halted on Pacific Street, in the heart of the roughest quarter of town, to permit a wayward toddler to cross the street without harm. This boy, however, wasn't an entirely defenseless child, and Grey imagined that's what the others were telling themselves. No one wanted trouble with the Sydney Ducks.