by S. L. Hawke
“That’s a lot of metal.” My mind was turning at the idea that San Francisco indoor plumbing had reached here as well. “What happens at high tide? Doesn’t it back up the pipe?”
“Haha!” Jonathan said with a cigar-filled mouth. “That is where the trickery of all this comes in...”
Henry drained his glass. He looked like he was confessing to a crime. Jonathan was enjoying Henry’s discomfort, in a proud way, recognizing and appreciating, as I was coming to, Henry’s ingenuity.
“Well, I managed to be able to manufacture pipes out of redwood.” Henry ran a hand through his now fully grey hair. “I installed a pump so that the roof cistern—”
“Which also catches rainwater, no hauling required—” Jon prompted, puffing out smoke like a dragon.
“Could supply the water with a lid to control flow.”
“A flange.” I marveled at my brother-in-law. Henry looked at me with some surprise.
“Yes. Exactly.” Henry looked genuinely startled. Both men stared hard at me.
“What?” Now I was feeling the effects of the meal. I took a sniff of the brandy. Full fruit, similar to the Volant wine. It was the same grapes, I was certain.
“I didn’t know you understood mechanical things.” Henry watched me now, but Jonathan watched him. It occurred to me that Cynthia knew everything about my Marshal training. She had to, and in doing so had told her Jonathan. Then I remembered that my boss, Art, had told me that the Marshals had worked with Jonathan.
Why did this not make me feel at ease?
“Jack’s gone and gotten himself an education out in the world, Henry. He’s a modern man.” Jon took a deep draw of his cigar. “By the way, do you prefer AY Jay or Jack?”
“Whatever you like,” I said, not really knowing what to do. All I could think of was looking into my closet in my room. As if reading my thoughts Jon grinned and said: “Let us know how you find our little chamber pot experiment.”
“Which brings us to the next bit of unpleasantness—” Jon continued.
“Beth,” Henry sighed.
“You mean her husband,” I added. Both men looked down at the floor. Then Jon leaned forward and got up. He went over, grabbed another bottle and uncorked it. He made a gesture towards me with it. I put out my glass. Jon poured a red-tinged whiskey in it. Sherry casked and pure Scotland peat.
“He’s using her former husband Elijah’s money to make money, but maybe not for Beth’s best interest,” Henry said softly. He accepted the whiskey in his glass as well. “Towne went out and got Beth pregnant, then they ran up to San Francisco and he married her in a public courthouse.”
“Sophia let this happen?” That was very unlike Beth, letting a man take advantage of her like that. My mind suddenly recalled with terrible clarity some of the images from Miles’ sexual abuse class. What kind of man does that to a woman? A desperate man.
“The man is a grey coat.” Jon threw himself back down into the divan. He popped open his collar. I smelled the whiskey, then took a sip. Excellent. Smoke, salt, with a hint of honey. Sherry floated up after the alcohol left its mark in my mouth.
“You sure about that?”
“Jack, the man is part of the Knights. They go up the San Lorenzo River Road towards the Powder Works building site and harass Chinese workers on the rail line there. The main rabble rouser, they call him The Reverend. He harasses the whores.”
“Towne do anything else? “ I leaned forward and drew my legs underneath me. “Not that harassing whores and workers isn’t enough of a thing, but if he’s a business man—”
“It’s too much to risk, I agree.” Henry took a brief swig. “But I do know he’s been talking a lot lately about buying some land. But the last bit of Californio property lies between him and the building of the road to Soquel.”
Jon acquiesced. “I still think he puts on a flour sack and rides with those hooligans. I’m certain he let the MacAree Ranch burn as well because they have Asian workers. He’s in real deep with that security man of his, Mccrary? Mccroy??”
“McKenna, Ian McKenna.” Henry finished his whiskey.
“What do you mean, he’s in deep with this other man?”
“McKenna loaned Towne money to speculate on gold up in these mountains. They bought a special device from an inventor named MacAree called a ‘wash plant’. Towne tried to buy land off of the Rodríguezes, but MacAree beat them to it.”
“I still don’t see how all this makes Beth’s husband a grey coat.” I needed more information before I ran after a lead.
“The ranch burned down; MacAree is dead. That’s a bit more than a coincidence,” Henry countered.
“He’s giving a talk in town tomorrow. For the Confederacy that should be interesting.” Jon refilled my glass. My guts felt better. I’d survive the food here after all.
“It’s purportedly for the widows and children suffering from the War in the South.” Henry had that wide-eyed look to him, but this time he reached down and lit up the cigar. He puffed thoughtfully. Jonathan put his legs on the remainder of the divan.
“A compassionate ship that can get past the blockade. Under all that food and corsetry will be powder and guns, or he simply will pocket it all. Either way, not a dollar will reach them, I guarantee it.”
“Why do I feel this is not the real part of the conversation?” I asked carefully. Both men suddenly tensed.
“It’s why you’re here isn’t it?” Jonathan watched me as he said this, looking like a cat toying with a canary. I had to do this carefully. A strange sense of understanding came at me that moment. I could not have done this if I hadn’t followed the path I did.
“I won’t lie to you. I’m no friend to the Confederacy. And I will do anything to stop them if they are hurting folk to achieve their aims.” Both men suddenly relaxed. It could not go unnoticed. “Why? Has something happened to endanger our family?”
“No, thank the Lord,” Henry said, raising his glass then sending it back in one single shot. “But at some point our place in all of this will become apparent and then folk, powerful folk, won’t like it.”
“Henry, I’ve said before, we can handle whatever comes,” Jonathan added.
Before I could say anything, the door opened and the womenfolk entered with a gaggle of conversation, perfume, and skirts. I stood up, wavered a little, as the whiskey decided at that moment I was to become drunk.
Cynthia frowned at me, then took my arm.
“I’ll take you upstairs, little brother. There will be plenty of time for us to find out what we need to know. I can see my husband has taken liberties with you to ensure that you are incapable of polite or coherent conversation for the remainder of the evening.”
Enough said.
3
Cynthia took me up to my room. I was glad for it, because I could not remember which room or which floor I had put my saddlebags in. She opened the door and pushed me forward. Then with an agility I had forgotten she had, Cynthia closed the door and quickly went about my room, checking for holes in the walls, open vents to the outside, anything that would carry sound to unfriendly ears. Lam had turned down the bed and cleaned my clothes.
“Your valet is quite efficient.” Cynthia touched my shirts, my saddlebags. “It’s been too many years, Jack. Why didn’t you write to me? I could have helped—”
“I wasn’t exactly in need of help,” I answered, annoyed as I removed my shoes and sat down in a chair, feeling worn through.
“I don’t know — you run off to a foreign country, remain there, have a child, and return here a widower.” Cynthia crossed her arms in front of her and stared me down. I closed my eyes and leaned back in the chair.
“You married, and have a unique understanding of brothels and how to spy—” Immediately I closed my mouth. That was uncalled for. She was brave. I was the coward. “I didn’t mean to sound—”
“Oh yes you did.” Cynthia saw my journal and started to reach for it on the nightstand, then pulled her hand b
ack. She straightened and seemed to study me in a way I did not recognize. In the past, when we were children, I’d argue, call her names, storm away, or simply not speak to her; sometimes, I often remember putting her in a woman’s place, something I had seen men do to outspoken, strong women. As I grew older, I appreciated the stronger woman, the braver one, and learned to reflect on my own limitations, not blaming the woman for showing them to me.
“I should have been here to help you, Cyndi. That is something I will have to live with.” I rubbed my temples. My headaches were coming back.
“Jack, I know you are here to chase down and arrest the thieves, but I need your help to do something else while you are at this. In fact, I think they may connected.” Cynthia held herself so still I had no words but gestured for her to continue.
“Someone has been brutally murdering the prostitutes in town.”
There were several things that came to my mind at this moment. One, prostitutes lived dangerously. Two, someone was desperate enough to cover up some sort of secret. The problem was, which was it?
“You think someone is trying to send a message of silence? What does the Sheriff say?”
“That’s just it! He doesn’t even investigate the murders. It’s almost as if he’s part of it.”
“Why do you think that?”
“The girls are left outside the cemetery, like garbage. He instructs the sexton to simply bury them, right there, outside the fence.”
“Okay.” Here I held my hands up. “First of all, this is a local problem and not connected with whatever is going on with the Confederates—”
“Jack — they could be related.”
My sister stole the words right out of my mouth. Her dark eyes searched my face.
“Maybe — so you think whoever is killing the girls is also a Confederate? Maybe, but maybe not the ones I need to find.” Still, this was a new development. I suddenly remembered I wasn’t alone, and Andrew, who already had a connection inside a brothel, might be able to help.
“I’ll look into that as far as I am able, but the real problem is—” Here she cut me off.
“The thieves are hiding in the mountains, out near Watsonville. I don’t know exactly where. I’ve done all I could to tell people here that the young Marshal was escortin’ you here. You think you can convince our brother-in-law to trust you enough to allow you into his inner circle?”
“So you are convinced he’s the key here?” I shook my head then looked up at her. “Does Beth know what you really do?”
Cynthia shook her head. The pleading look in my sister’s eyes was more hurtful than any wound I could remember.
“There’s talk, in the two brothels I visit.” She swallowed hard. “The women there, they are forced to endure things no human being should have to.” She went over to my saddle bags, then the closet and ran her fingers over my dinner jacket. She smelled of lemon oil. “But John Towne, our brother-in-law, visits regularly.” Here my sister did something that shocked me. She held her hands up at me as if to calm me in some way. “Now don’t misunderstand me, Beth is pregnant, a man has needs and yes, some if not all married men go to a whorehouse to find relief, but—”
We regarded one another in surprise. Me, surprised at the ease of which she spoke of these things, men’s needs, the life of whores, and she, surprised at me for not interrupting her or challenging her on any of the observations she was presenting to me. She continued: “He beats the girls. Granted they have girls who specialize in that sort of thing, but John, he—” and here Cynthia went quiet again, straightened her hair and adjusted her bodice. “Well, let’s just say he likes his horsewhip a bit too much. So much so, the girls call him the ‘Whipping Man’.”
“Does Beth know?” My voice cracked with disgust. “You think he might be murdering them, or someone near him might be murdering the girls he uses?”
“I don’t know.” Cynthia came over to me with her hands palms together as if she were about to plead to me for help.
“This is a lot more complicated than that, I think.” I finished the thought for her. Then I held my head in my hands.
“How do you mean?”
I got up and started to take off my neck tie and my collar. I looked out the window as I chose my next words.
“He’s a man of the public. To leave that obvious a trail might lead to unwanted scrutiny.”
Cynthia got suddenly very animated. “Do you think someone is controlling him? Perhaps threatening him with exposure?” She looked so satisfied at her illuminations I wasn’t sure what to say.
“How are the whores — um, girls, killed?” I asked as I began to take off my shirt. She was my sister, and married. Japan had made me less shy of many things. My sister was as well since she simply ignored my undressing.
“They are found cut to bits. And strips of skin are pulled away.”
I turned around and stared at Cynthia. Her face had lines on it from seeing this hardship, knowing of these horrible things, and having the strength to overcome it.
“They’re tortured.”
Cynthia nodded and looked away, taking out a lace handkerchief from her sleeve.
Fatigue finally held sway. I sat down on the edge of my bed and sighed.
“Whatever I do, whatever direction this goes or how you think it might go, you have to trust me. That’s all I can tell you right now.” I placed my cuff links on my night table.
“I know, Jack.” Here Cynthia sat down beside me. “And you need to know that I can be counted on in times of trouble. I don’t need protecting.”
My sister’s hand was bony and thin, but I squeezed it anyway. We were thick as thieves once, plotting, creating fortresses, finding ways to catch fish, or building rabbit traps. We dreamed of traveling the world and reading as many books as we could lay our hands on. I trusted my older sister to keep secrets when I could not, even if it were once, long ago, finding solace in the arms of a black ex-runaway slave girl as young as myself who taught me the joys of being a man for the first time.
“I’m going to need you to be,” and here I turned to face my elder sister and looked in her eyes, a moment I had been dreading since I came ashore here, “the sister I left behind in Ohio.”
Cynthia blinked at me. The moment was so thick I felt unable to move.
A grin, bigger than any one I had ever known to grace her face, broke across it like sunshine through storm clouds. Cynthia slowly then tightly embraced me. I held her close, letting sobs escape from her. Jonathan had better be a good husband to my sister tonight. She deserved a man who could properly comfort her. This burden of war’s secrets was something we all carried.
Daylight did come and with it an infernal pounding. Thud, thud, thud. The noise seemed to be coming from within the wall itself. I stood up, reached over to a window and opened it. The noise was even louder, not to mention the horrible smell that wafted up from below. I looked down and saw the muck out from the livery being shoveled into a wagon across the alley way, but the Chinese worker was silent in his movements.
Thud, thud, thud. The light felt like knives to my eyeballs. I leaned out, not caring that I had no shirt on or that my hair was standing up on end from that infernal pomade I was forced to wear. Desperate to end the knocking and grating noise that threatened my sanity, I squinted against the morning sun and looked for the source of that grating, head-bashing noise. Dangling out of the window, I leaned far over, knowing if I vomited, it would run straight down onto the cobblestones below. Checking to make sure the path was clear for my possible spew, I saw down in the alley way below a young girl in a bright blue dress bouncing a ball against the wall. Thud, thud, thud.
“Hey! Go do that somewhere else!” I yelled, grimacing at the sound of my own voice. All this made my head feel like it was about to cleave apart. Cobblestones down below were very close to getting covered from the contents remaining in my gut. Two older women, clad in their Sunday frill, ran over to the child and looked up at me. One gasped and shielde
d her eyes for some reason, while the second of them stared up and scowled as she took her child’s hand. Huffing and puffing like an overstuffed grouse, the ample-bosomed woman pulled her child off down the alley way. Both women were gone in a matter of minutes. I closed my windows only to face Lam. The chamber pot called me.
“You should be careful. It is a very small place.” He handed me a towel and opened the closet that contained the chamber pot basin.
What an invention indoor plumbing was when one had to relieve oneself. The only problem was the smell, but Lam placed a stick of incense inside the closet and left my windows open for a bit. Still, the stench outside wasn’t much better. I marveled, as I did in San Francisco, how well Henry’s lavatory worked. I used old newsprint to wipe myself (after reading it, though I daresay its contents deserved the fate I decided for it), and the whole mess simply got pushed down the bowl’s large pipe hole and disappeared.
My head still hurt. “I hear there is a rally today. I’m assuming I must attend.”
“Yes, and I think you will find that your sisters have planned an outing to see your mother.” Lam changed the water in my face bowl and helped me into a clean set of clothes. I’d shave later. “There is some rice with tea.”
I closed my eyes for a moment. Aimen Sensei’s voice seemed gone. But I believe it was due to the presence of Lam, and as I slurped and used my hashi, I was grateful for the comfort of his presence. I grabbed my hat. Rice steeped in green tea was a cure for all ailments.
“Is the young Latina in the stable?”
“Yes, and Juan, as the groomsman is known, will be your helper today.” Lam put his arms inside his sleeves. He looked tired, as if he had been up all night. “Your sister awaits you in the kitchen. Remember to honor the secret of Juan. Of this only I request of you.” Lam looked down at the floor. I bowed. There was honor in this request. My curiosity of the Latina increased tenfold.
“You have my word,” I said quietly. I was about to leave when I remembered the group of horsemen that rode off yestereve.
“Let me know if any of the Chinese workers are harassed by white men.”
