Lone Star 02 (19 page)

“Hungry, are you?” Mrs. Fitzroy chuckled. “Imagine! expecting me to believe that a young slip like you was twenty-three—”

“I
am
sorry,” Jessie sighed.

“Well, see that you don't lie to me again, child, or I'll turn you over my knee and show you what hiding things from me will earn you!”

Jessie shivered. There was something very ominous in the woman's tone, despite the light-hearted nature of her threat. Jessie wondered what might happen to the poor girls already trapped into the bordello by Mrs. Fitzroy. What did this kindly-looking woman do to punish them for lying to her?
She'll be as sweet as can be until she's gotten you inside the bordello,
Moore had told Jessie over their breakfast that morning.
Old Fitzy's job is to lure the girls in. She's not the madam, but then, Foxy Muscat herself couldn't go out in broad daylight without attracting a crowd. Fitzy acts as the madam's assistant. She sees to the girls' needs—their health, linens, things like that...

Jessie pondered Moore's final caution:
Don't let Fitzy's “grandmother” act fool you. Word has it she's slit the throat of more than one girl who didn't “fit in” at the bordello.

Jessie thought about how helpless most young women would be, once they were ensnared in the web spun by this black widow spider. She herself was lucky. She was only pretending. But how many before her had had to live out their years locked into this little farce? How many unknowingly sold themselves for the price of a cup of tea and a blueberry muffin? This time, Jessie did not find it difficult to wring the tears from her eyes.

“And now why are you crying?” Mrs. Fitzroy asked. “Don't tell me that my rebuke has frightened you?”

“No. It's just that my own mother used to say that to me ...” Jessie sniffled wetly into her hanky. “And not so very long ago.”

“Why did you leave home, Annie?”

Mrs. Fitzroy had sounded only mildly curious, but Jessie had a glimpse of the matron's piercing gray eyes. Jessie's instincts told her that what she said next would influence the course of events. Her story had to convince Mrs. Fitzroy that she was vulnerable, but not so fragile as to be useless in the bordello. If the woman decided against her in the next few moments, Jessie would have lost her only chance of getting in to spy upon her enemies.

“My father worked for a warehouse in Chicago,” Jessie began. “He and my mother were very happy together. Then one day we got a message ...” Jessie lowered her eyes along with her voice for the next part. When she spoke, it was in a hushed, shamed whisper. “The police had gone to the warehouse, and many people had been shot. They said my father had tried to hurt a policeman. But I don't believe it! Not for one minute! Anyway ... it turned out the warehouse was filled with stolen things. But if it had been, my father certainly didn't know about it!”

“Of course not, child...” Mrs. Fitzroy sipped at her tea. Her eyes, above the rim of her cup, looked thoughtful.

“I had a beau,” Jessie said. “But things between us became strained after ... after the incident. Mother was so ashamed that she refused to leave the house. I got a job as a laundress, but then Mother began to get sick, and I wasn't making enough money for us to live on, let alone pay for doctors. So she ... died ...”

Mrs. Fitzroy was silent for a moment. “Well,” she finally said, “I'm sure you did your best. So you decided to come to San Francisco to start anew?”

Jessie nodded. “None of my friends wanted anything to do with me after what had happened to Father. We had no other family, so that once Mother had ... passed on ... I found myself all alone. I sold our furniture and used that money to pay for my passage west. The bank took our house.” Jessie looked up at Fitzroy, and then shrugged. “So here I am.” She smiled tentatively.

“Yes, and almost too good to be true,” Mrs. Fitzroy said softly.

Jessie froze. Had she come on too strong with her tale of woe? Well, all she could do now was wait.

“I must say, I'm quite impressed with your strength, Annie,” Mrs. Fitzroy remarked. “Have another muffin, child. You know, many girls would have crumbled after what you've been through. But you went out and found yourself a job, and tried to keep your home together. Yes, I'm very pleased.”

“Thank you, ma‘am,” Jessie modestly lowered her eyes.

“And you say you're looking for work?”

“Oh,
yes,
ma‘am!” Jessie said hopefully.

“I might know of something,” the matron mused. “However, I'm afraid you've given me cause to be suspicious, to doubt your word ...”

“I have?” Jessie's stomach did a sickening flip-flop.

“You lied to me about your age.” Mrs. Fitzroy shrugged. “Before I could possibly recommend you for the position I have in mind for you, I'd have to see proof of your age and name.”

Jessie smiled in relief. “Oh! That's easy! I have my birth certificate with me. It's the only identification I have. I do hope it is enough.” She retrieved her change purse, and took from it a worn-looking document folded into quarters. This was the birth certificate Moore had supplied her with. It had turned out that the detective had a stack of blanks in his desk, along with other forms of bogus identification, including the carefully preserved and alphabetically filed business cards of the various individuals he met in his day-to-day activities. Moore would often use the cards to pretend to be those professionals. It was just amazing, he'd confided to Jessie, how often people would accept a proffered business card as gospel.

The detective had carefully inked the name Annabelle Willis onto one of his blank birth certificates. Next he'd sprinkled a mixture of water and lemon juice onto the fresh, crisp paper, in order to yellow it. He'd gently crumpled the damp sheet, and then set it by the hearth to dry. By the time their breakfast was over, the frayed document appeared at least as old as its new owner purported to be.

Jessie unfolded the certificate and handed it over to Mrs. Fitzroy. Now the thing to do was to try and figure out a way to distract the matron as much as possible from a close examination of the document. Moore had promised that the aging process would pass a cursory examination, but a too-careful inspection would reveal his handiwork. Her eyes fell upon the plate of muffins still on the table.

“Do you mind if I wrap these last two in a napkin, for later?” she asked bashfully.

Mrs. Fitzroy looked up from the certificate. “What?” she asked. “Oh, the muffins!” she chuckled. “Go right ahead, Annie.” She did not hand the certificate back to Jessie, but left it on the table, beside her teacup.

Jessie wondered if it would be more in character to straightforwardly ask for the identification back, or to say nothing. She decided to say nothing, for the time being.

“Well then, I think you might do nicely for the job I have in mind,” Mrs. Fitzroy beamed. She summoned the waiter, and asked for their check. “A very wealthy lady I know has need of a servant. I happen to be the lady's companion and business secretary, so if you should accept the job, it would mean seeing a lot of me.” She smiled widely.

“That would be lovely!” Jessie exclaimed. “I'd be an excellent worker, Mrs. Fitzroy. I can cook and sew and clean—”

“Yes. Well. We shall see.” Mrs. Fitzroy handed the waiter some money, took back her change, and slipped it into her purse—along with Jessie's “birth certificate.”

“Um, excuse me,” Jessie murmured, “but that's the only identification I have. May I have it back?”

“Come now, dear,” Mrs. Fitzroy said brusquely. “I'll need to present this to my employer—and your
prospective
employer—if you're to get the job.”

Jessie purposely looked doubtful. “Well ... I ...”

“It includes room and board, by the way,” Mrs. Fitzroy added offhandedly.

“Really?”

“And if you like, you can come along with me right now for your interview.”

“Yes, thank you!” Jessie cried happily.

She followed the woman toward the hacks waiting on the other side of the Ferry Building. The trap had been sprung, Jessie thought. But then she wondered: who had caught whom?

 

 

The carriage ride to the house on the comer of Dupont and Washington Streets, just on the outer fringe of Chinatown, did not take very long. Mrs. Fitzroy kept Jessie distracted by chattering on about what her duties would be, her hours, and so on. When the cab finally pulled up in front of the rambling, four-storied, ramshackle house, Jessie felt a wave of panic wash over her. She had to remind herself that she was not really Annabelle Willis, but Jessica Starbuck, and that she had a gun in her bag, and capable friends who knew of her whereabouts.

Jessie also had to remind herself that all of this had been her idea—and that, maybe, in the future, she ought to keep her bright ideas to herself.

Then Mrs. Fitzroy was herding her up the walk, up the front steps, and through the front door. Then Jessie was in.

The things Moore had told her about were nowhere in evidence. Jessie had expected to see loitering girls garbed in flimsy lingerie, a black man at the keyboard of a honkytonk piano, and a bar manned by a beefy bouncer. What she did see was a modestly decorated foyer, and a flight of wide, curving stairs that led to the upper floors. Perhaps the bordello part of the house was reached through another, more discreet side entrance, Jessie mused.

“Now, before you meet the lady of the house, why don't you let me show you upstairs, to what may well turn out to be your room,” Mrs. Fitzroy said. “I'll have a bath drawn for you so that you can freshen yourself after your long journey.”

Jessie was led upstairs to the second floor of the house. She was shown a small but tidy bedroom, complete with a single bed, a dresser, and a washstand. Jessie noticed the sturdy lock on the door, as well as the fact that the single window was barred with a decorative but strong iron grate.

Mrs. Fitzroy supplied her with a thick cotton robe and told her to get undressed, while she saw to the bath. Once Jessie was alone, she hurried to search the room for a place to hide her gun. She had no doubt that her belongings would be rifled while she was in the tub. There was no closet in the room, and in any case a closet, the dresser, even the space under the bed, would be searched as well. Jessie knew that she could not be the first girl brought to this room who had tried to conceal something—a piece of jewelry or a bit of cash—from the owners of the house.

Jessie heard footsteps coming down the hallway, and froze fearfully, thinking that she'd run out of time.

But the footsteps went past Jessie's door, to fade gradually into the distance. All was not yet lost, but she had to move fast!

Jessie eyed the narrow, single mattress on the bedframe.
Yes,
she thought.
That just might work. But I've got to hurry.

She dug into her valise to find her sewing kit. With it in hand, she yanked the mattress off the bed, stripping away the blanket and sheets. She used the tiny scissors in her kit to cut a horizontal, five-inch slit into the edge of the mattress that had been against the wall. She jammed her gun and ammunition through this slit, and then used needle and thread from her kit to rapidly stitch the slit more or less closed. It was a ragged job, but it was all she had time for. Jessie hoped her sewing would keep telltale bits of mattress ticking from falling to the floor.

She quickly placed the mattress back into position, and then remade the bed. She'd shucked her dress and undergarments, and wrapped herself in the robe, just as Mrs. Fitzroy came knocking at her door.

Jessie was soaking in the steaming tub when she heard the door to the bathroom open. She turned in time to see a hand snake into the room and steal away the cotton robe.

She sat—as she assumed she was supposed to sit—in the fast-cooling water. Every now and then she called out plaintively, “Mrs. Fitzroy!” gradually increasing the need in her voice as she grew even colder.

Ki had long ago taught her meditation techniques that could help an individual to combat the ill effects of debilitating cold. These techniques Jessie now practiced, so that even though she was pretending to be thoroughly chilled and terribly uncomfortable, her mind was still clear and sharp. The effectiveness of what the bordello's proprietors were attempting to do was not lost to her, however.

Jessie knew that any other girl would very likely be close to hysteria by now. Bone-weary, undernourished, and now naked and cold in a strange house, in a strange city, with no one to turn to except Mrs. Fitzroy, a stranger, most girls would be at their wits' end. Such a girl might well agree to anything in exchange for a bit of warmth, food, and a chance to sleep ...

They left Jessie alone like that for over three hours. Once she'd tried the door, only to find it locked from the outside. The window was nailed shut, as well. Its outer side was covered by another of those wrought-iron, decorative versions of prison bars.

Jessie sat cross-legged on the icy cold, tiled floor. She kept her back straight, her hands folded in her lap, and her eyes half closed, just as Ki has taught her. She pictured in her mind the radiant, sunlike energy pulsing up and down her spine, and the white, glowing ball of warmth that smoldered in her middle like coals inside a potbellied stove. Her ears, sharpened by the hours of meditation, picked up the sound of footsteps approaching the bathroom door. Jessie quickly came out of her trancelike state, and scampered on her hands and knees into a comer of the room.

Mrs. Fitzroy opened the door to see a huddled, shaking, and apparently very frightened girl. The matron was now wearing a plain gray skirt, a high-necked white blouse, and a workman's sort of blue cotton apron. Her gray hair was pulled back into a tight bun.