Lone Star 02 (12 page)

“No.” It startled Ki, but the dishonorable jealousy he always felt concerning Jessie and other men seemed somewhat less than usual. “Not at all,” he promised her now, his mind on the girl he was going to see in Chinatown.

Chapter 7

Jessie's dinner with Jordan Moore went marvelously well. The smartly dressed private investigator had called for her at eight, as he'd promised. Jessie had decided to wear her copper-kissed blond tresses up, to expose her long, graceful neck. Instead of a string of pearls or a gold necklace, Jessie had fastened around her neck a snug black ribbon. Where another woman might have affixed a cameo or brooch to the band of black satin, Jessie had pinned at her throat a small ivory
netsuke.

Netsuke
were carved decorations used by the Japanese as fasteners for the wide sashes, or
obis
they habitually wore. The one Jessie had chosen to wear this evening was of a tiny figure of a kneeling woman bringing a long, thin, flutelike instrument to her lips. The carving was just minutely raised off the oval of ivory that formed the background. One had to look closely at the small
netsuke
to make out the figures, but any Japanese who did so would have instantly recognized it.

The significance of the carving was very special, and only very special women could wear it, as a badge of merit. The
netsuke
had been given to Jessie by her housekeeper, Myobu, years ago. Jessie, while still an adolescent, had spent arduous hours under Myobu's tutelage, learning the arts of the geisha.

Jessie had laughed to herself when she'd decided to wear her
netsuke,
thinking that if the detective was really good at his profession, he'd notice, and ask her about her throat decoration...

Long ago, Myobu had taught her that a man's “size” could be discerned by the size of his hands and feet. Jordan Moore, a slender man of middling height, had rather small, delicate-looking hands and feet ...

Well, Jessie had decided, should Jordan be clever and curious enough to ask her what the
netsuke
signified, he would find out, and get more than he'd bargained for!

And in that way, Jessie could satisfy
her
curiosity, as well.

Her blue velvet evening gown was cut daringly low, to reveal the tops of her alabaster breasts. She'd daubed perfume in her cleavage. It had made her smile to think how wicked all this would seem to the folks back in Texas. Here in San Francisco, it was just the sophisticated thing to do. A brocaded shawl of matching velvet, lined and collared with mink, would protect her from the evening's chill. She carried a larger-than-normal evening purse to hold her Colt.

By the look on Jordan's face when she'd entered the lobby, Jessie had known that the detective was pleased with her appearance. He'd eyed suspiciously the odd-bulge in her purse.

“Is that what I think it is?” he'd asked.

“Yes, just in case,” Jessie replied.

“Well,” Moore sighed, “as beautiful as you look tonight, I suppose I'd have needed
something
to remind me not to be too forward.”

Jessie had been surprised to see that the driver of the cab Jordan had waiting for them was Thaddeus Simpson, the elderly cabbie Arthur Lewis kept on call. Moore explained that Lewis had offered Simpson's services that afternoon, when Moore had deposited with the Starbuck executive the evidence Ki had gathered at the waterfront.

Moore proved himself a man who knew his way around his city. He first entertained Jessie with his anecdotes concerning the variety and quality of the food served in San Francisco's restaurants, as Simpson's cab made its slow way along the cobblestone-paved streets.

“San Francisco was settled by the natives of many different countries,” Moore told her as the hack swayed down the bright, gaslit avenues. “All of them kept the customs of their home-lands, including their native cookery. Also, you must remember that San Francisco was a gold, and then a silver town. Until recently, there weren't many females around. The lone-wolf miners had all their meals in restaurants, and had the gold and silver to pay handsomely for the exotic foods they craved.”

“Where are we dining this evening?” Jessie asked, as excited as a little girl.

Moore grinned. “We're going to the finest French restaurant in the city, the Poulet d‘Or. There are dozens of French establishments, but the Poulet has been around since 1850, starting out as a shack on Dupont Street. The miners back then liked the food fine, but they couldn't handle the French. They dubbed the place the Poodle Dog, and that's been the restaurant's unofficial society name ever since. Of course, it's no longer a shack, but a big, fancy place on Bush Street, just a stone's throw from its original location.”

The Poodle Dog featured snow-white linen, sparkling crystal, and a clientele dressed for the most part in expensive suits and gowns. More than a few men wore formal evening attire. Jessie confessed that it was difficult to imagine a bearded hard-rock miner clomping across the plush carpet in his muddy boots, setting his pickax and Winchester across the linened table, and snapping his grimy, callused fingers to summon a liveried waiter.

“It might be difficult to imagine, all right,” Moore replied. “But if that miner came in, he'd be given a table. Men like that built this place, and this city, as well. And for all its veneer of sophistication, San Francisco is still a rough-and-ready, violent town.” He paused to taste the wine proffered by the steward, and after pronouncing it satisfactory, he waited for the man to pour them each a glass, and take his leave, before continuing on. “As far as your miner's Winchester, consider what you've got stashed in your purse. I'm armed, as well, and nine out of ten of the gentlemen here have a gun somewhere about their persons.”

Jessie looked about the room. Ki had instructed her in what to look for to spot concealed weapons, and now that she was doing so, she could indeed see here and there, the telltale bulge of a shoulder holster or the gleam of leather showing between the tails of a gentleman's evening jacket.

Their meal lasted for hours, but Jessie was having such a fine time that it only seemed like moments. Moore handled their ordering with aplomb. Jessie, who had learned to speak several languages at college, knew that his French was fluent, as were his poise and self-confidence in greeting those people who stopped by their table. Moore, it turned out, was well known. He did not introduce Jessie to any of his well-wishers, despite the fact that they were plainly curious.

“I hope you don't mind,” he apologized to her, “but I'd rather it didn't get around that Jessica Starbuck is in town. Your name is well known, as is the fact that you are your father's sole heir, but nobody knows what you look like, or anything else about you. For example, even though I'd been working for the Starbuck organization, until Arthur Lewis said you were actually his employer, I had no idea you directly controlled the empire.”

“But what about your identity getting around?” Jessie asked, changing the subject. “Aren't you concerned that being so well known will spoil your ruse of being a rich wastrel from Oregon? What if Smith and the others—”

Moore shook his head. “It is a rather large city, Jessie. The odds of our running into Smith are slim, and if we do, I'll simply take on my guise. My being with the loveliest woman in town would only add to it. The only person who might recognize you is Greta Kahr. But, again, the city is large and there are many night spots. Unless we want to keep you cooped up in your hotel room, it's a risk we have to take.”

“What about Chang, the leader of the Tong?” Jessie persisted.

“Stop worrying!” Moore commanded. “Let me handle things. Tonight we are not employee and employer, but just a man and a woman.” He winked. “To prove it, I'm not even going to charge this dinner to expenses when I submit my bill.”

“Oh, thank you!” Jessie laughed. “I'm so grateful!”

“You will be, when you get my bill,” Moore told her merrily.

Jessie smiled and kept silent, but she couldn't help worrying. She respected and trusted Moore's expertise, but her instincts told her that this time the brash detective was being overconfident.

After dinner, Moore instructed Simpson to drive them to Russian Hill. During the ride, he told Jessie how the hill had come by its name: during the 1820s, a Russian crew of seal hunters had buried their dead on that spot. Once, only the richest people were able to live on the hill, for horses were required to negotiate the steep grade and act as pack animals to keep a home supplied with necessities and luxuries. But all that changed with the advent of the cable car.

They stopped at a stone balustrade located in a peaceful cul de-sac just beneath the hill's summit. Simpson waited with his carriage a discreet distance away, while Jessie leaned against the stone railing to gaze down at the sparkling, moonlit bay. Cypress and sycamore trees rustled in the night breeze, and the air was filled with the scent of daffodils.

Moore was standing close by her, so close that just by shifting a little, Jessie found herself pressed against him. A moment later his arm was around her. She turned to face him.

“I wish this night would never end,” she breathed.

“It hasn't yet,” Moore chuckled. “What we need now is champagne.”

“But it's so late!” Jessie protested.

Moore kissed her lightly on the lips. Jessie felt weak in the knees as his hands caressed her back, vulnerable and bare, due to the low cut of her gown. “There's no such thing as ‘too late' in San Francisco,” he said, his jade-green eyes pinning hers, heating her to her very center. “Before anything else happens,” he continued, his voice husky, “we can take our time, and have our champagne.”

They went to what Moore described as a “private sort of club,” hidden away on a dark and dismal street on the outer fringe of the notorious Barbary Coast. The place was called the Pink Slipper, according to Moore, but when they arrived at the address he'd given Simpson, Jessie saw no sign to tell them that they'd reached their destination.

“This sort of place doesn't advertise,” the detective grinned as he escorted Jessie to the stout-looking, plain wooden door of the windowless building. She shivered, feeling awfully deserted as Simpson's cab rolled away. Moore had dismissed the cabbie for the night, confiding to Jessie that this was not the sort of area for the elderly cabbie to wait in, all by himself. The management would provide a cab for them when they were ready to leave.

Moore extracted from his wallet and showed to Jessie a pink calling card, upon which there was no writing, but simply the likeness of a ballet slipper gracing the meticulously drawn and detailed, shapely contours of a bare female leg. The detective rapped on the door and held the card up for inspection by the pair of eyes that appeared in the quickly opened peep-hole.

Once they were inside the dark and smoky place, a husky, bearded man who looked ludicrous in his too-tight, formal dinner jacket, led them to an intimate booth for two.

“Dis is one of our ‘love nooks,'” he grumbled. “Would it be satisfactory?”

Moore assured him that it would be, and tipped the man a dollar for his trouble, asking that champagne be sent over as soon as possible.

“‘Love nooks'?” Jessie giggled as soon as they were alone.

“Actually, this place stole the term from the Poodle Dog,” Moore explained. “Before the Poodle got so fancy, it used to have an upstairs for drinking. The married pillars of society and the business world would take their mistresses and courtesans there, so the little booths came to be known as ‘love nooks.'”

“Why all the secrecy about getting in?” she asked.

“Well, a few years ago, the more staid segments of society decided that San Francisco needed a little taming.” Moore paused. “Say, do you mind if I smoke?”

“Not if you let me have a puff now and then,” Jessie bargained. “Someday it'll be all right for women to smoke.”

“Propriety doesn't stop Greta Kahr from smoking,” Moore observed as he fired up one of his slender cheroots.

“Let's not bring her up,” Jessie scolded. “Finish what you were saying about these after-hours clubs.”

“Those staid church and civic groups lobbied their representatives to set closing hours for the bars. They did, and the police enforced the rules and, of course, turned a blind eye to the clubs that promptly sprouted, so they'd have a place to get a drink when they went off duty.”

Jessie sipped at her champagne. It was icy cold, and tasted of strawberries. Its bubbles tickled her nose. “It's all so complicated,” she marveled. “Police and politicians flouting the law. Aren't they afraid of getting caught?”