by Matt Braun
“I pray a lot,” Starbuck said, deadpan. “Course, I’ve got a way with the ladies. So that ought to smooth things considerable.”
“Now you’re bragging.”
“Think so?” Starbuck gave her a rougish wink. “There’s one way to find out.”
Nell laughed a low, throaty laugh. “Sounds like you’re getting fresh, Mr. Lovett.”
“The idea crossed my mind.”
“Then I suppose we’ll have to find out … won’t we?”
Starbuck put his arm around her, and she scooted closer on the divan. The curtain rose and a line of can-can dancers went prancing across the stage. She let her hand slip down over his thigh, and gave him a playful squeeze.
Late that night, Nell suggested they retire to her room. The Bella Union was still going strong, the barroom and the theater packed with a raucous crowd. Onstage a team of acrobats was performing to assorted hoots and jeers. The audience seemed unimpressed by gymnastic feats of daring.
Denny O‘Brien and High Spade McQueen were standing near the end of the bar. The action was heavy at the gaming tables, and they appeared deep in conversation. Starbuck yelled and waved, attracting their attention as Nell tugged him toward the stairs. McQueen barely glanced around, but O’Brien smiled knowingly and gave him the thumbs-up sign. Starbuck responded with a jack-o’-lantern grin, and rolled his eyes at Nell. He looked like a randy drunk, immensely pleased with his prospects for the night.
There was little need for pretense. His head buzzed from the effects of too much champagne, and he was in a very mellow mood. Several bottles of bubbly had been consumed during the evening, and Nell, who was no slouch herself, had matched him glass for glass. She was bright-eyed and giggly, and led him up the staircase with a slight list to her step. Yet, despite his muzzy look, he was reasonably sober. He kept a grin glued on his face, but reminded himself that the night’s work had really just begun. He still had to sound Nell out, gull her into revealing a name. And it had to be accomplished without arousing suspicion. Wondering about the best approach, he waved one last time to O’Brien, then trailed Nell up the stairs. The sway of her hips and the glow of the champagne brought him to what seemed a logical compromise. He thought perhaps their talk might wait until after she’d shown him how it was done on the Barbary Coast.
The rooms on the second floor of the Bella Union were reserved for the showgirls. Most of their tricks, ten dollars for five minutes’ rutting, were turned on the sofas in the theater boxes. A big spender, who wanted the full treatment, was brought upstairs. There, for the right price, he got to take his time. Fifty dollars bought him an hour, and a hundred purchased the whole night. The girls were versatile, willing to satisfy even the most exotic request, and the johns always got their money’s worth. No one left the second floor of the Bella Union wanting more.
The third floor was occupied exclusively by the house staff. Denny O’Brien’s suite consisted of a sitting room, bedroom, and private bath. Across the hall, High Spade McQueen’s quarters were comparable, though somewhat smaller. Other staff members, who included the stage manager and the house manager, were assigned somewhat less spacious accommodations. Nell occupied a corner room at the end of the hall. The view overlooked the alley.
Upon entering, Starbuck was pleasantly surprised. The atmosphere was considerably more homey than he’d expected. A tall wardrobe, with a full-length mirror, was flanked by a bureau and washstand. Opposite was a grouping of two chairs and a table, upon which stood a gilt clock and a collection of porcelain figurines. The windows were draped, a hooked rug covered the floor, and a large brass bed occupied the far corner. Quite clearly, Nell had gone to great lengths to create a warm and comfortable refuge for herself. The room seemed somehow out of place in the Bella Union.
After locking the door, she turned to Starbuck. Her hands went behind his neck, pulling his head down. Her kiss was fierce and passionate, demanding. She pressed herself against him, and he could feel her breasts and the pressure of her thighs on his loins. He stroked her back and fondled the soft curve of her buttocks, and she uttered a low moan. They parted and, in the umber glow of a lamp, hurriedly began undressing.
Her body was sculptured: high, full breasts, a stemlike waist, and long, shapely legs. She stood before him a moment, her clothes heaped at her feet. Then his arms encircled her, and she clung naked to his hard-muscled frame. Her hand went to his manhood, swollen and pulsating, and she grasped it eagerly. He kissed her lips, then the nape of her neck, felt the nipple of her breast grow erect under his touch. They caressed, played a game of tease-and-tantalize, until they were aroused and aching and the excitement became unbearable. At last, slipping out of his embrace, she pulled him down on the bed.
The hard questing part of him found her. She was ready for him, moist and yielding, and she took him deep within the core of herself. His hands clutched her flanks and they came together in an agonized clash. Her legs spidered around him, and she jolted upward, timing herself to his thrust. She clamped him viselike, her hips moving in a circle, and exhaled a hoarse gasp. He arched his back and drove himself to the molten center, probing deeper and deeper. She screamed and her nails pierced his back like talons.
Time lost meaning, and they crossed the threshold together.
A long while later Starbuck lay staring at the ceiling. Nell was snuggled close, her head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder. He felt her breath eddy through the matted curls on his chest, and sensed she was on the verge of sleep. Champagne and the afterglow of their lovemaking had left her sated, drifting lightly on a quenched flame. He thought there would never be a better time to pop the question. Yet, even with her defenses lowered, he cautioned himself to proceed slowly. He put his lips to her ear and gently stroked her hair.
“Wanna hear a secret?”
“Umm. I like secrets.”
Starbuck’s voice was warm and husky. “May Ling couldn’t hold a candle to you. Strictly no contest, and that’s a mortal fact.”
“Omigod!” Nell hugged him tightly. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone ever said to me in my whole life.”
“I meant every word of it—cross my heart.”
“Does that mean you’ll stay out of Chinatown?”
“Would that make you happy?”
“Would it ever!” Nell’s eyes suddenly shone, and she laughed. “Why, it would make that little pigeontoed bitch turn pea-green with envy!”
“Consider it done,” Starbuck said with a beguiling grin. “Chinatown’s seen the last of Harry Lovett.”
“You won’t regret it.” Nell squirmed around and kissed him soundly. “I’ll keep you so worn out you won’t have strength enough to eat.”
“Hell, why not!” Starbuck chuckled and settled back on the pillow, watching her a moment. “Now that I’ve told you my secret, you tell me yours.”
“Ask away.” Nell gave him a sassy, nosewrinkling smile. “I’ve already shown you most of my secrets, anyway.”
“Well—” Starbuck hesitated, his features sober. “I was wondering why you’re afraid of Denny O’Brien.”
“Denny?” Surprise washed over Nell’s face. “What gave you the idea I’m afraid of Denny?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Not on your tintype! Denny’s not nearly as tough as he puts on. Besides, if he ever tried any rough stuff with me, he knows I’d take a hike. And p.d.q. too!”
“You could’ve fooled me.”
“Honeybunch, you just lost me. Fooled you when?”
“Earlier tonight,” Starbuck replied, “when I asked you why Denny hasn’t taken over Chinatown. You clammed up tighter than a drum.”
“So what?”
“So I’d say you’re scared of him. Damn good and scared!”
“No—” Nell’s voice skipped a beat. “Not Denny.”
“Who, then?”
“The blind …”
Her words trailed away, and she stiffened in his arms. Starbuck studied her with open curiosity. “Go ah
ead, finish it. The blind——?”
There was an awkward pause. “Harry, take some good advice. While you’re in Frisco, don’t ask too many questions. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”
“That bad, huh?”
“You just take my word for it … okay?”
“Hell, forget I asked!” Starbuck laughed jovially. “No skin off my nose.”
“And let’s keep it that way.” Nell burrowed deeper into the hollow of his shoulder. “I like your nose just the way it is.”
Starbuck dropped it there. He knew he’d learned all he would for one night, and there was no need to push it further. He pulled her to him in a tight embrace, saying no more. Yet the words stuck in his mind, and he found himself genuinely baffled. He lay very still, silently repeating something that seemed to make no sense.
The blind …
CHAPTER 9
“Tell me about Mr. Lovett.”
“I do not trust him, master.”
“Please explain.”
May Ling was seated across the table from Fung Jing Toy. A hatchet man had escorted her into his chambers only moments ago. Earlier that afternoon, when the one named Harry Lovett had departed her lodgings, she knew she would be summoned to the house on Washington Street. She had spent the balance of the afternoon in deep reflection, artfully phrasing the report she would deliver to her master. Now, under Fung’s benign gaze, she began what seemed to her a perilous journey. She dared not to be wrong.
“I believe he is an imposter.” Her voice was soft and troubled. “One who pretends to be what he is not.”
Fung stared at her in a mild abstracted way. “Did he abuse you?”
“No, master,” May Ling said quickly. “He was very gentle for a fan kwei.”
“How did he differ from other white men I have sent to you?”
“He was not impatient or crude. Nor was he cruel in his demands. We joined three times during the night, and each time he took me without harshness. Today, when we returned from the auction, we joined once again. He was even more considerate … gentle.”
Fung weighed her words a moment. The white devils, even the wealthy ones, were renowned for their coarse sexual habits and their lack of sophistication in bed. Yet, just as there were brutal Chinese, so might there be gentle white men. To think in absolutes was to cloud one’s judgment.
“So then,” he said quietly. “Your suspicion was aroused because he did not treat you in the manner practiced by white men?”
“I thought it strange, master. You told me his plan was to open several brothels, and such men are known for their barbaric customs. He was not what I expected.”
“Very well,” Fung nodded. “Mr. Lovett apparently has attributes uncommon to brothelkeepers. Is there more?”
“Yes, master,” May Ling noted seriously. “His behavior at the auction was most revealing.”
“You followed my instructions?’
“Oh yes! As you ordered, I asked no questions and gave him no reason for alarm. When I suggested attending the auction, he was very excited, very curious. He believed it was something I had thought of only then. A small inspiration to make his tour of Little China more enjoyable.”
“What happened then?”
“At the auction, I observed him closely. His curiosity quickly turned to an attitude of disapproval. He held his tongue, but it was there to see, nonetheless. He frowned, and suddenly became very thoughtful.”
“Perhaps he is a thoughtful man.”
“Perhaps,” May Ling said tactfully. “Quite, soon, however, a circumstance arose which allowed me to test him. I led him into a discussion of slave girls who are unsuitable for auction. His questions enabled me to speak of conditions in the cribs … and the hospital.”
“Ah!” A pinpoint of light glittered in Fung’s eyes. “You trapped him!”
“I merely deceived him, master. He betrayed himself.”
“In what way?”
“He was shocked,” May Ling remarked. “When I explained how the crib girls end their days, his expression was one of loathing. The very idea of the hospital was abhorrent to him.”
“He told you that?”
“Not in words,” May Ling said, her eyes downcast. “I sensed it, master. His reaction was that of a white devil missionary. He felt sadness and compassion for the crib girls.”
“We were informed that this is his first venture as a brothelkeeper. According to O’Brien, he was what the whites call a con man. Perhaps he has not yet acquired the dispassionate nature necessary to such work.”
“Certain things cannot be hidden, master. Whatever his designs are, the man named Lovett is not what he claims. He is an imposter.”
“You speak now of intuition, things you divine rather than fact itself. Is it not so?”
“A woman knows,” May Ling said, looking directly at him. “How she knows cannot be explained, but that makes it no less real. This man is dangerous, and I fear he will bring evil to your house. I must say what I believe to be true, master.”
For a protracted interval, Fung was silent. He steepled his fingers together, considering both the girl and her statement. She was young, but wise beyond her years. Several times in the past he had used her to gain insight into men who sought to do business with him. Her intuition was a mystic thing, and a force not to be regarded lightly. Then, too, everything she’d told him merely served to reinforce his own sense of disquiet. Something about Lovett bothered him, and it was for that reason he had arranged the liaison with May Ling. He examined the alternatives, and quickly decided to heed her warning. The sale of a hundred virgins was, after all, a thing of no great consequence.
“I have learned,” he said at length, “that Mr. Lovett will sleep with O’Brien’s whore tonight.”
“Nothing escapes you, master.”
“Quite so,” Fung agreed loftily. “I have eyes everywhere, even in the Bella Union.”
“Will the Kimball woman also attempt deception?”
“No,” Fung said without inflection. “O’Brien is blinded by greed. He suspects nothing.”
“A shame,” May Ling commented slyly. “But then, no fan kwei could be expected to have your wisdom and foresight.”
A wintry smile lighted Fung’s eyes. “You have performed the task well, and I am pleased.”
“I live only to serve you, master.”
“Leave me now. Other matters require my attention.”
May Ling obediently rose, placed her hands together, and dipped low in a bow. She stepped backward to the door, then turned and walked past the dogs. Fung snapped his fingers, and one of the hatchet men appeared in the doorway. He took pen and paper off the table, and laboriously scrawled a note in English. Then he folded it and looked up at the waiting hatchet man.
“You will deliver this message to the blind white devil.”
The Snug Café was located on O’Farrell Street, in the heart of the Uptown Tenderloin. Shortly before midnight, a closed carriage rolled to a halt in the alleyway behind the café. Wong Yee and Sing Dock stepped out of the carriage and inspected the alley in both directions. There was no one in sight.
The hatchet men assisted Fung down from the carriage. He walked directly to the back door of the café and knocked. He was expected, and the door swung open almost instantly. Knuckles Jackson, a pugnosed bruiser who served as bouncer, waved him through and closed the door. Wong Yee and Sing Dock exchanged a look. Only here would the master dispense with their services and enter unguarded. Neither of them thought the order odd, for only here was he safe without them. Still, it did nothing to lessen their concern.
Inside, Knuckles Jackson led Fung through a storage room and up a flight of stairs. There he stopped and rapped twice on a door. A muffled voice responded and he ushered Fung into a lavishly appointed office. The furniture was black walnut, intricately carved, and upholstered in plush velvet. Logs crackled in a black marble fireplace, and a crystal lamp bathed the room in dim light. Beyond the fireplace, cl
oaked in shadow, stood a massive walnut desk.
The man seated behind the desk was in his early fifties. He wore a frock coat and striped trousers, and a black cravat with a pearl stickpin. His features were lean and angular, and his gray hair was complimented by a neatly trimmed mustache. His eyes were all but invisible behind dark tinted glasses. He gestured toward a chair, and smiled.
“Do come in, Fung. Have a seat.”
“Thank you, Mr. Buckley.” Fung took the chair, folding his hands in his lap. “It was kind of you to see me on such short notice.”
“Not at all.” Buckley dismissed Knuckles Jackson with a nod, and waited until the door closed. “Now, what can I do for you? I daresay it’s nothing inconsequential at this late hour.”
“That is so.” Fung’s tone was curiously deferential. “A problem has arisen, and I felt it should be brought to your attention immediately.”
“Well, well, that does sound serious. Suppose you tell me about it.”
“I regret to say it involves Denny O’Brien.”
“Oh?” The smile faded and a shadow of irritation crossed Buckley’s features. “I trust you and Denny aren’t at one another’s throats again?”
“I have not overstepped my boundaries. To my knowledge, neither has O’Brien. As you directed, we have worked together in a spirit of cooperation.”
“And now?”
“There is no dispute with regard to territory. O’Brien confines himself to the Barbary Coast, and I do the same in Chinatown. In that respect, we have both honored your wishes.”
“Diplomacy has its place, but let’s dispense with it for the moment, shall we? Please come to the point.”
“Yes, of course,” Fung said promptly. “O’Brien sent a man to me three days ago on a business matter. I now have reason—”
“A white man?”
“Indeed, so,” Fung said with no trace of resentment. “A white man by the name of Harry Lovett, who purports to be a whoremaster from Colorado.”
