Sounds from the other curtained cubby made him itch for his revolver. Riot removed his hat and sat on the bench. The girl stood in front of him, breasts bared, waiting for direction. Scars crisscrossed her tender flesh. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen, but still within the legal age.
“I’m looking for information. I’m a detective; not a policeman,” he whispered. As he spoke her tongue, a dim sort of curiosity entered her eyes. “There’s been girls like you found in the bay. Do you know of anyone who has gone missing? Or anyone who has been offering to rescue you?” Slave girls weren’t free to leave, but they frequently changed hands—bought, stolen, or traded from man to man.
“How do I know if they are missing?” she asked.
Riot produced the sketches. “These girls were murdered. Tortured to death.”
A mad little smile spread over her lips, emphasizing her scarred cheek. “I am already dead.”
“There’s a way out,” he whispered, and held one of his cards out to her. “There’s a mission you can run to. 920 Sacramento Street. A brick—”
She backed away. “Fahn Quai,” she spat. White devil. There was fear in her eyes. “There is your murderer. The white women eat us; they eat our shame.”
“What do you mean they eat you?” Riot asked, taking care to pronounce the words. He wondered if he had heard her wrong.
“The men tell us. Now you tell me that girls are killed.”
“There are kind women at the mission. I know them personally. The men only say that to keep you here.”
Anger flashed in the girl’s eyes. “You just told me it is true. Girls are being killed. Why should I trust you?” She stalked out of the curtain, and called for her keeper.
Riot was on his feet when the highbinder stormed in. The man started shooing him out with hard eyes and a string of insults. Riot left. But on his way out, he glanced at the girl. She was defiant—yet resigned. There was no life left beyond those rotting walls.
Riot had seen that same look in the eyes of his mother the day before she hanged herself.
Hei Lok Lau—the House of Joy—straddled Chinatown and the Barbary Coast. It was no crib, but a well-built building bedecked with bright lanterns and a sound balcony. Riot pressed his finger to a bell beside an ornate door, and after being patted down by a man who resembled a bull, he was granted entrance.
He stepped into luxury: teak and silks and beaded doorways; rich carpets and art, and plush chairs. On one side of the room, a bar shone with polish and glass. Men mingled with the women of the house, who came in all varieties. One of the girls slunk over to him. She offered a meek bow. Although painted and powdered, and wearing the slitted cheongsam of the singsong girls, she was white. Unlike the girls he had seen earlier that night, all of the women here were free to do as they pleased. And prostitution was a profitable business.
“I’m here to see Pak Siu Lui,” he said before she offered to show him the line-up.
“I am sorry—”
“I have an appointment.”
The woman arched a perfectly sculpted brow, shattering her humble act. She asked for his name, and shuffled off on slippered feet.
While the scarred bouncer chewed the inside of his cheek by the door, Riot waited, absently watching the players at a faro table. A fast game with a lot of moving hands, and even more opportunity to cheat. The dealer’s petite hands were deft, and her rings distracted the eye. The silk stretched over her breasts didn’t hurt either.
An older gentleman, a typist by the look of his hands and slouch of his shoulders, sat at the table. His suit was tailored, but threadbare, and he kept adjusting his spectacles. The man was working up the nerve to cheat—likely a silk thread on a copper, but given the keen eyes of the beautiful ‘lookout’ the old man’s night would end badly.
In a flash, without thought, Riot’s quicksilver mind read the other players at the tables. There were some honest players, others drunk, and one fellow with a perpetual scowl who knew exactly what he was doing. He’d come away from the tables richer, and spend his winnings on women.
Atticus Riot knew these things for a fact. An intuition that he took as divine canon. He knew faces. As near-blind as he was, he had only been able to see three feet in front of him before spectacles. As a boy, Riot hadn’t looked at buildings, the ocean, the carts and their horses—he had studied faces. Details. They had made up his world until Tim had threaded the first pair of spectacles over his ears.
And after, the world had been big. Too big. When it became overwhelming, he had comforted himself with familiar details: the look in a pair of eyes, the shape of an ear, the tilt of lips, the movement of an Adam’s apple. Riot read people like an open book.
The meek woman returned, and gestured towards a side curtain. “Pak Siu Lui will see you.” She parted it for him, and he followed her upstairs, and through a hallway of doors to the very last.
The woman left him there.
Riot squared his shoulders, and knocked. A call beckoned him inside. Pak Siu Lui, or White Blossom, stood in the middle of her boudoir. She demanded the eye.
Dressed in clinging red silk embroidered with dainty gold flowers, her hair was as black as ink, her eyes like deep pools, her skin as flawless as ivory. She reminded Riot of a black widow—a spider spinning her web over San Francisco. Her reach went far, and her ears were keen.
“Mr. Riot.” Her voice was like the easy glide of a hammer cocking. It put him on edge. He had known many a madam in his lifetime. There were some who were maternal, offering men their warmth and love for an hour, while others relished the power they held over a man. Then there were the women who had been emptied of humanity, as if the years spent working their way through the ranks had stripped them of genuine emotion. Siu Lui fell into this last category. It was clear as day to a man like him, but most men bought into her act with the brain between their legs.
He forced himself to relax, to assume an easy confidence as she sauntered towards him. She was sinuous and unhurried, with a bite that could fell a man.
“I’m here to talk,” he said.
Her fingers slid down his waistcoat, and those eyes of hers looked straight into his own. “Why should I speak with you?”
Riot reached into his breast pocket, and held up a gold piece worth ten dollars. Lady Liberty’s head shone bright in the lantern light.
“I already have gold,” she said.
“For your time.”
“Men pay me for my body and discretion. Not for my tongue—not in that way.”
“The Broken Blossom Murders,” he said, tossing the subject between them. “There’s been a fourth victim. She was found floating in the rubbish near the channel. I’m sure you’ve read the details in the newspapers. All four victims mutilated in a ritualistic manner.”
Her red lips formed a taut line, and she turned towards a settee. “Do you know the slavers use hot irons on the girls when they show a spark of defiance?” she asked as casually as if she were discussing the weather. “A different death, a different kind of pain—what are four more girls in a well of misery?”
The last was meant to prod him into reacting, but he was a cool hand, and he aimed to keep it that way, especially in front of this woman. She took a seat, and gestured for him to do the same. Every instinct in his body shouted at him to remain on his feet, but Riot obliged, making himself comfortable, even as she did the same.
“The police haven’t managed to identify a single girl. And neither have I. As far as I can tell no tong wars have started over these murders.”
“And you think I know something?”
“I know you do,” he said bluntly. “There’s very little that goes on in the Quarter—in this city—that you don’t know about.”
“You give me far too much credit.”
“Have you heard a story about the Fahn Quai—a white devil—who eats the girls?”
Rather than laugh, Siu Lui remained silent.
“A girl told me that the white women
in the mission eat their shame. I hadn’t heard that one before, but it sounds like a story to keep the girls from running.”
“The most convincing lies are those rooted in truth.”
“Are you implying the mission women are eating children, or that the tongs are killing their own girls to feed the lie?”
She smiled, sweetly.
Riot waited, but she was unconcerned. After a long two minutes of silence, he stood, hat in hand. “If you should hear anything. You know where to find me.”
“That gold piece covers far more, Mr. Riot.”
He stopped to regard her. With her dark eyes and full lips, and the silk over alabaster skin that looked as though no man had ever laid a hand on such purity, Siu Lui dripped with sensuality.
“I’m the son of a whore,” he said, with a wry twist of his lips. “The way I figure, every whore I meet could be my sister.” A lash fluttered, so slight he might have imagined it. “Ma’am.” He nodded politely, and left. But it wasn’t until cool air hit his cheeks that he breathed easy.
5
The Girl
Sunday, March 3, 1900
A steady sheet of rain fell outside the ferry building. Riot stood under the stone archway with a crowd of despondent travelers who had not brought umbrellas. He stared into the night. Carriages and cable cars glistened under the rain, and the cobblestones ran with water. Thick drops fell, illuminated by electric lights, and the usual thunder of bells, whistles, and rattling tracks was muffled by the rain. But Riot hardly noticed; his mind was trapped in events that had transpired three years before.
After his skull gave a mighty throb, he shook away melancholy and consulted his watch. It was well past ten o’clock. He wondered how Bel had occupied herself while he was tying up the last strings of the Pacific Street Case. She could be anywhere: at her boat, chasing a story, working at the Call building or in the Ravenwood office. And wherever she might be, who was she tonight? Was she masquerading as Miss Bonnie, Mr. Morgan, or was she using an entirely different persona? Isobel was an elusive woman. And extraordinary. More than likely she would find him.
With that hope warming his heart, Riot tucked his watch in its pocket, and began buttoning his overcoat, preparing to head home when he noticed a small figure in the crowd. A girl stood holding an unopened umbrella. There was a suitcase at her feet, and she stared at the blinding city lights. When a cable car pulled up to the terminus, a crowd of newly docked arrivals surged towards it, but the girl remained.
Riot dropped back to observe the child. She looked to be about twelve. Dark hair, an upturned nose, and a confident tilt to her chin. She seemed unattached to the few men and women who were left waiting under the ferry building arch. Her blue coat was buttoned and bright, but it was her knuckles that gave her away—she clutched her umbrella so tightly that they had gone white.
Tired, hungry, and skull throbbing, Riot came near to cursing his protective nature. Shoving down his own discomfort, he approached the girl, and tipped his hat.
“Excuse me, are you lost, miss?” he asked.
The girl looked at him evenly, with an unafraid, self-possessed gaze. “No, sir. Unless this isn’t the San Francisco ferry building.”
“It is.”
“Then I’m right where I’m supposed to be.” She had a nasal sort of twang to her words, and a habit of dropping her R’s.
“Might I ask what has brought a young lady from Tennessee to our silver city?”
The girl frowned, instantly on guard. She took a small step backwards. “How’d you know I was from Tennessee?”
Riot produced a card. “I’ve a knack.” He introduced himself, but her eyes were on the bit of pasteboard in her hands. It seemed to put her back at ease.
“Miss Sarah Byrne.” She offered her hand, and he shook her fingers lightly.
“A pleasure. Are you waiting for someone, Miss Byrne?”
“Yes, my uncle, sir.”
“Did he leave you here to get a newspaper, or secure a hack?”
“I’m to meet him here. Though I was told he’d be waiting for me.”
“You traveled alone from Tennessee?” he asked, keeping the surprise and worry out of his voice.
“I did.”
“And how long have you been waiting for your uncle?”
“An hour, or so.”
“Did your parents put you on the train?”
“I’ve got no kin left. My uncle is taking me in.” And instead of traveling to meet his orphaned niece, this uncle had her get on a train and travel over two thousand miles. Alone. Riot had no children (as far as he knew) but he could not imagine sending a child on such a journey.
“Did your uncle give you an address?”
Sarah handed him a letter from her pocket, and he bent it towards the light to read. The penmanship was crude, the contents impersonal, containing little more than step-by-step directions, and an obligatory social salutation and regards from a Mr. Lee Walker. It was written by a man bound by responsibility with no care or notion of what a child needed.
“I think we should summon the police, Miss Byrne.”
“With respect, no, sir. I ask you kindly to leave me be.”
“Is there a reason you don’t want the police involved?”
“My uncle will be here,” she stated. But there was a hint of desperation under her words. Sarah Byrne had to believe it; she had to believe that this man, her uncle, would not abandon her. Alone, with one lifeline, she couldn’t consider the possibility that he wouldn’t show.
“Then at least permit me to help you. We’ll take a hack to the return address, and see if we can’t find him.”
“But what if he shows here?”
“We’ll leave a note at his residence. And if we still don’t get results, we’ll put an advertisement in the papers.”
Sarah frowned down at his Ravenwood Agency card. “Are you like Sherlock Holmes?”
“I am, although not near as brilliant,” he said. “Now I won’t hold it against you if you refuse my offer, Miss Byrne. It’d be the cautious thing to do, but you strike me as an astute young lady and you must realize that I can’t leave you here unattended. Your safety is now my concern. You’ll have to choose between me and the police.”
She looked from the card to him. “I’ll go with you.”
Riot nodded, and stepped to the curb to hail a hack. When one pulled over, he opened the door, and handed her up.
“Salmon Street, off Pacific,” he told the driver. It wasn’t in the Barbary Coast, but it was near enough. As the wheels rattled over slick cobblestones, he turned to Sarah. “Have you ever met your uncle?”
“Once, I think. Don’t remember him. He was a relation of my mother.”
“Does he have a wife and children?”
The girl thought a moment. “I don’t think so.” Riot was liking this ‘uncle’ less and less.
Salmon Street was a narrow lane off Pacific with cramped Stick-style houses standing shoulder to shoulder. Saloons and bagnios lit up the street a few blocks to the east. Number forty-three was a well-maintained home, but the windows were dark and it looked uncomfortable squashed between its neighbors. A single light shone on the porch under the second-story turret window.
“If you’ll wait here, Miss Byrne. It’s cold, and there’s no use in both of us getting wet.”
The girl was frowning at the house, and she looked relieved by his offer. He ordered the hackman to wait, and walked up the steps to the door. Riot knocked, and waited.
He was about to give up, when the door opened. A silk-clad Chinese man with pock-marked cheeks and a long queue stood inside the door. He bowed politely, and stared at Riot with innocent eyes. The look immediately put Riot on guard.
“Is Mr. Walker at home?”
“No, sir.”
“When is he expected?”
“Tonight, maybe.” The word was heavily accented, pronounced ‘toenight.’
“I’m Atticus Riot.” He watched the man for a reac
tion, but there was no recognition in his eyes. “Was Mr. Walker expecting company?”
“What you want?”
“A relative of his came into town tonight, but he wasn’t at the ferry building as they agreed. Would you tell him his guest is safe, and to contact me as soon as possible?” Riot handed over his card. The servant looked at the black raven on the heavy paper, and then at Riot.
“Understood?” Riot asked.
“Understand.” The servant nodded, and closed the door.
Riot didn’t trust any of this. He climbed back into the hack and looked at the stray he had acquired. “Your uncle wasn’t at home. I left my card with a servant with instructions to contact me.”
“Is there a reasonable hotel nearby, Mr. Riot?”
“A number, but not any in which I’d stay. Is there any particular reason why you don’t want the police involved?”
“I figure they’ll send me back to Tennessee, or put me in an orphanage. After my gramma died, that’s where they were keen on sending me. Then I remembered my uncle.” Her voice was slow and easy, but there was a tremble in the twang.
“And you wrote him?”
“I did.”
“Do you know how he makes his way?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
“What did he use to do?”
“Gramma said he ran off and joined a circus.” Sarah pulled her suitcase onto her lap, and opened it. She handed Riot a photograph. A thin young man stood between a man that couldn’t be more than two feet tall, and a woman who towered over the both of them. She had a beard. Sarah pointed at the man in the middle. He wore a swimsuit type garment that showed off his bony structure.
“Uncle Walker was an escape artist.”
“Can I keep this until we find him?”
She nodded, and Riot tucked it safely away. “If I take you to a hotel, the police are sure to be involved. But I’ve a house in Pacific Heights. There’s other children there, and there’ll be a warm fire and a hot meal.”
Record of Blood Page 3
