Lone Star 02 (27 page)

The hood had slits cut for one's nose, mouth, and eyes, and an opening at the top, for ventilation, Jessie imagined. As she stared down at the face, carved into the leather the way a jack-o' -lantern's face is carved into a pumpkin, she began to formulate her plan...

A half hour later, Jessie heard the door to the room being unlocked. She was all ready. She'd shucked her thin chemise, and had put on the leather mask. She'd taken a kneeling position on the carpeted floor, angling her uplifted, shapely, and quite bare bottom toward the door. Her masked chin was resting between her hands upon the carpet, but she was able to gauge the reactions of her visitors by watching their reflections in the wall mirror opposite the doorway.

In came Greta Kahr, flanked by Foxy Muscat and Mrs. Fitzroy. She was the same auburn-curled, middle-aged woman Jessie had spied at the after-hours club Jordan had taken her to. Kahr was dressed in a low-cut gown of green velvet. Around her shoulders was a full-length cape of mink that matched the reddish-brown shade of her hair. As on that previous evening, she clutched a tightly furled umbrella.

Kahr's violet eyes widened in surprised glee as they feasted upon Jessie's angled and splayed bottom. Watching them all in the mirror, Jessie sardonically noted that Mrs. Fitzroy, too, was licking her lips.

“Allow me to introduce—” Foxy Muscat began, but Greta Kahr cut her off imperiously with a wave of her finely manicured hand.

“Leave us,” the Prussian commanded. “No introductions are necessary.”

“Yes, ma‘am,” Foxy said meekly. Both she and Mrs. Fitzroy left, closing the door behind them.

Jessie waited until she felt certain that the duo had reached the stairway and were out of earshot. Then she stood up.

“Ah, but I did not give my slave permission to rise,” Kahr chuckled. She set her umbrella down upon the bed, then shrugged off her cape, carefully letting it drop to the floor.

Jessie watched the woman sashay across the room, to the wall of whips and crops. Kahr selected the braided riding crop and then turned to face Jessie.

“You must be punished for your impertinence...” Kahr sneered. Beads of spittle collected upon the thick red gloss that colored her mouth. She approached Jessie. Kahr's purple eyes ran the length of Jessie's nude body, lingering on her full breasts and the golden-red thatch of hair between her thighs. “With this”—she waved the riding crop in front of Jessie's masked face—“I will teach you obedience!”

“You and who else?” Jessie shot back, pulling off her hood.

Kahr stared in disbelief. “Jessica Starbuck?” she gasped. The riding crop fell from her hand as she made a mad dash for the bed, where she snatched up her umbrella.

The umbrella!
Jessie realized.
Of course!
Jessie picked up the riding crop, moved into position, and whipped it down hard upon Kahr's hand as the woman turned, with the long, thin, gleamingly sharp rapier inside her umbrella already more than half drawn. Kahr screamed as the harsh leather bit into her hand. The umbrella-sword fell to the carpet. Jessie let the riding crop fall beside it. Before Kahr could open her mouth to scream again, Jessie knocked her cold with a right uppercut that landed flush against the Prussian woman's weak chin. Kahr fell across the bed, her violet eyes showing their whites as they fluttered and then rolled up into her head.

Jessie grabbed the woman's mink cape and clasped it around her shoulders. Lord
above,
she thought happily.
It does feel good to have substantial clothing on again!
She stared down at the sword sheathed in the woman's umbrella. Clearly this was the weapon Kahr had used to stab poor old Shanks, Moore's partner, to death.

Jessie went to the door and opened it partway, peeking up and down the corridor to make sure she could escape undetected. There was nobody around. She darted down the hallway to the stairs, and then sneaked quietly down to the second floor. Once she thought she heard footsteps behind her, but when she turned, the corridor was empty.

Inside the little bedroom, she dragged the mattress off the bed frame and tore open the ragged stiches she'd sewn. She removed her revolver and extra ammunition, stashing her spare rounds in an inside pocket of the mink cape.

She held her gun beneath the cape as she left the bedroom. She was about to make her way downstairs when a gruff male voice suddenly commanded, “Freeze!”

He couldn't have seen my gun,
she reminded herself.
I've got the element of surprise ...

She whirled, bringing up her Colt.
“You
freeze!” she retorted, snapping back the hammer of her double-action .38.

Jordan Moore laughingly held up his hands.

“How'd you get in here?” Jessie sighed in relief. She lowered her gun and gave him a big hug.

Moore squeezed her tightly. “Hey,” he chuckled. “You don't have anything on under this fur.”

“How
did
you get in here?” Jessie repeated, smiling up at him.

“I'm a very important client,” Moore reminded her. “I just put on my ‘Oregon wastrel' outfit, and dropped by for some fun. I hired one of the girls to take me upstairs, and then I began to search for you. I heard the commotion, and followed you down to your bedroom.”

“How do
you
rate the
fourth
floor?” Jessie teased.

“Well, they do want to make me happy,” Moore smiled mischievously. “They're trying to butter me up. They were so apologetic about not being able to deliver the slaves my daddy wants.” The detective winked. “Seems that somebody sank their expensive old boat.”

“I heard about that,” Jessie giggled. “You said you were with some woman. Won't she sound the alarm about you wandering around unescorted?”

“Don't worry about Ruthie,” Moore replied. “I left her bound and gagged on the bed.”

“That's awful!” Jessie scolded him. “She must be petrified.”

“Ruthie loves being bound and gagged. It's her specialty.”

“I don't want to hear it,” Jessie sighed. “Come on, let's see what's going on downstairs.”

The duo crept down the stairs, to the landing just above the first-floor-front parlor. The big sitting room was now empty of both girls and clients. The bartenders were gone, as was the kindly black piano player. Mrs. Fitzroy and Foxy Muscat were both seated on one of the long, black leather sofas. Guarding the door to the room were two Tong bodyguards armed with pistols shoved into the belts of their long blue cotton tunics. Sitting on a straight-backed wooden chair in the center of the room was a quite unhappy-looking Commissioner Smith. His hands were tied behind his back. Standing above him was Chang, the Steel Claw, leader of the Tong.

“I swear it, Chang!” Smith whined. “I told no one about tonight's shipment.”

“That's not true!” Foxy called out. Her childish voice made her sound like a tattling schoolgirl. “He told one of my girls all about it while he was drugged on opium.”

Chang nodded to the bordello's madam as he shrugged off his suit jacket. The gaslight chandelier's bright glow was reflected slickly from his bald yellow skull. His expressionless black lizard-eyes glittered like wet coal. The Tong leader's thick shoulders and chest were even more impressive now that he was just in his shirtsleeves. The gleaming, five-taloned claw that was his right hand seemed to have some evil life of its own as Chang thrust it beneath the petrified Smith's quivering nose.

“She says you told what you knew of our plans to a girl,” Chang hissed. His voice was dry and husky. It rattled in his throat like ancient ivory dice in a leather cup. The Tong leader glanced at Mrs. Fitzroy and Foxy Muscat. “Could this girl have informed on us?”

“The girl is just a child,” Fitzroy said from her place on the couch. “She's talked to no one since serving
him.”
She pointed an accusing finger at the weeping Smith. “Now she's with Greta Kahr.”

Chang nodded, chuckling. “Punishment
enough,
in any event.”

“My God,” Smith moaned. “I don't even remember the girl.”

“Yes, I know,” Chang said. “Your brain has become so riddled with opium smoke that you remember nothing. So. You
could
have told our business to others. How would you
know,
Commissioner?” He prodded his victim with his claw.

“Oh, please, Chang, don't...” was all the broken man could whimper.

Watching it all from their hiding place, Jessie and Moore exchanged horrified looks. It was evident that Smith was about to die. Jessie had to remind herself that this poor, frightened man was one of the enemy. But still—how could she let him be murdered?

“Jordan,” she whispered. “We've got to do something.”

Moore began to nod, but before he could reply, Chang once again addressed the commissioner.

“You have outlived your usefulness to my Tong!” he cried. He raised his steel claw—then thrust it into Smith's chest!

The waterfront commissioner shrieked as the needle-sharp talons pierced his flesh. Slowly, Chang locked his elbow and began to raise his arm, lifting Smith, still tied to his chair, up into the air. The commissioner hung suspended upon the metal hooks dug into his body. Chang held him aloft like some awful trophy, until the man's moans faded and his head lolled loosely upon his neck. Only then did the Tong leader set the dead man's chair back upon the carpeted floor. He braced his foot against Smith's slack body to wrench his claw out of the dead man's flesh.

Moore looked at Jessie.
“Strong
son of a bitch,” he murmured thoughtfully. “I think we should get out of here—”

“It's a bit late for that,” Greta Kahr sneered behind them. “Put up your hands!”

Jessie felt the cold, sharp point of the woman's rapier tickling her ear. Slowly she raised her hands. Her Colt was snatched out of her fingers by the Prussian, who dropped it on the landing.

“I can't believe you didn't tie her up!” Moore hissed to Jessie, as Greta herded them down the stairs.

“I forgot,” Jessie shrugged.

“You had every kind of bondage implement known to mankind in that room. What do you mean you forgot?” Moore insisted.

“Look,” Jessie retorted impatiently, “my mind doesn't work that way!”

“Silence!” Greta Kahr commanded.

“What is going on here?” Chang demanded as he eyed Moore and Jessie. “Greta? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“That's the girl I mentioned,” Foxy Muscat offered helpfully. “Her name's Annabelle Willis—”

“Fool!” Greta Kahr cut her off. Her jaw was discolored by an angry purple bruise, the result of Jessie's punch. As she spoke, she winced in pain. “This woman's name is Jessica Starbuck.”

“B-but how could
I
have known?” Foxy simpered, before glaring at a perplexed Mrs. Fitzroy.

“It is beginning to make sense,” Chang smiled. He wiped his bloody claw upon Smith's suit jacket, and then turned his reptilian face toward Moore. “And you are not who
you
have pretended to be, correct?”

Jessie thought quickly. No one had yet searched Moore for his gun. If she could manage to distract them, she might be able to keep them from remembering to do so. “Jordan, that rapier is the weapon Kahr used to kill Shanks!” she said.

“Ah, so you are Jordan Moore, the detective...” Chang nodded in satisfaction. “The late Mr. Shanks's partner...”

Moore was too busy glaring at Greta Kahr to answer the Tong leader. His face paled with anger as he looked down at the sword in her hand.

“I am surrounded by fools!” Kahr ranted. “Chang! How dare you kill Smith without my permission!”

Chang scowled. “I need no permission! I kill who I please, woman! This is my town!”

Kahr could not meet the Tong leader's icy gaze. “But we still need him. Or someone like him.”

“It will be no problem to buy another official,” Chang said. “But why do we quarrel, Greta? Tonight we have lost a battle, but won the war! Jessica Starbuck is in our control!” He threw back his head and laughed.

“Perhaps,” Kahr mused. “But there is still the Japanese to contend with.” She gestured with her rapier toward Jessie. “Wherever
she
goes, the Japanese is not far behind.”

 

 

Ki cautioned Su-ling to remain quiet. They were crouched behind the bannister railing of the staircase's landing. It was the same hiding spot recently vacated by Jessie and Moore. Ki was so intent on gauging the scene in the parlor below he did not notice Jessie's Colt lying in the comer. Su-ling, however, kneeling behind him, did see the gun. Silently she picked it up, to clutch it behind her back.

It was Smith's death cry that had drawn them out of their room on the fourth floor. Ki had given Su-ling his cotton shirt to wear. It was big enough to quite modestly cover the diminutive Chinese woman. He himself was wearing just his jeans and his sleeveless leather vest.

Ki now removed two
shuriken
throwing blades from his pockets. “Su-ling, stay here, and keep yourself covered!” he warned. “I shall dispose of the two bodyguards, and then attack Chang. I suspect that Jessie and Moore can handle that sword-wielding bitch!”

“Before you begin,” she whispered into Ki's ear, “I want you to remember something—”

“Nothing shall happen to me,” Ki impatiently interrupted. “We will have much time later to talk.” He stood up, his hands rising to hurl his deadly blades.

“Remember that my honor is as precious a thing as yours!” Su-ling cried, standing up beside him and aiming at Chang with Jessie's revolver. “Steel Claw! I avenge myself upon you!”