Bones of the Barbary Coast (Cree Black Thrillers)

by Daniel Hecht

  I was much moved by Dr. Mahoney's concern for him, for without having seen the creature his view was certain and unquestioned: this was a pitiable freak or a victim of disease, now in dire need of benevolent intervention.

  "Why do you come to me, Dr. Mahoney?" I asked.

  "Mrs. Schweitzer, I was certainly born Irish and quite possibly born stupid, but I was certainly not born deaf and blind. You know something of him. You have asked after him too many times, with too keen an interest." His red eyes fixed me remorselessly, and though I did not speak he had his answer.

  "Know something of whom?" a voice asked pleasantly from behind me, and there was Deacon Skinner, stepping up from the street.

  He took the handbill from me and read it quickly. In an instant, I saw understanding come into his face, perhaps as he recalled my questions about Darwin, or the "old man" beneath the stairs, or the fate of innocents damned by God for the innocence He had inflicted upon them. He looked at me with affection admixed with concern; he and Dr. Mahoney then gazed at each other, two men sizing each other up and for all their differences finding some common sentiment.

  "I have always suspected our Lydia has aspects unseen and too little appreciated," Deacon Skinner said. A flush came to my neck, and I felt as if his bright hawk's eyes could see all my night-time walks and fears and secret, heretical thoughts. "How do you know this is not just another wild man done up hairy for the show?"

  I stuttered out: "Because I have seen him."

  "Well, then, is he a man or a wolf?" Dr. Mahoney asked.

  Both men scrutinized me as I thought how to answer, how to sum up a month of tireless questioning and pondering. "I could not say. I have seen his physical aspect, but have no experience of his nature. And it seems that not everyone agrees upon just what qualities make us human."

  Deacon Skinner looked at me shrewdly and favored me with a bitter smile. "Oh, Lydia. What a dead-eye shot you are for the precise center of the question." He glanced again at the handbill and caught Dr. Mahoney's eye. "Well, I for one am willing to risk The Red Man to get a glimpse of this rare creature. My rig is nearby, Doctor. Perhaps between your expertise and mine we can answer some of these questions."

  "I want to go," I said.

  "Never!" Dr. Mahoney said instantly.

  "Lydia, it is out of the question," Deacon Skinner concurred. "Thursday is Independence Day, and there are ten thousand ruffians come to town for the celebrations. They will be drinking hard and every criminal sort will be out to prey. It will be dangerous enough for Dr. Mahoney and myself. But a good Christian woman—"

  "Acts upon her beliefs," I finished for him. "And is not deflected from her duties. If you don't take me, I will have to walk or send for Darby to take me."

  So we went in the deacon's carriage, both men quite put out with me. It was just dark when we arrived in the vicinity of The Red Man, and my companions grew silent and watchful. Dr. Mahoney took a small revolver from his jacket pocket and checked its workings with a grim expression. Deacon Skinner reluctantly left his horse and rig, hiring a young man idling nearby to watch and telling him there was two dollars for him if it was still here in an hour. Then doctor and deacon each took one of my arms and walked with me held tightly between them. I had donned my gray cloak and put up the hood, to attract as little attention as I might.

  The Red Man takes its name from the Indian, and maintains the conceit in its decor and furnishings. A carved wooden Indian, dour and savage, stands in front, and inside there are souvenirs of native life: buffalo skins, tanned hides with pagan designs on them, rows of scalps hanging on a string, bows and spears and battle axes. There is even a mummified or desiccated Indian tied up against the wall, horribly shriveled so that his lips are drawn back from his teeth. It is a foul, shabby place of smoke-darkened board walls, gas flames fluttering dangerously from fixtures without globes, wired-together wooden chairs and deeply scarred tables scattered on a floor more dirt than board. The pretty waiter girls wear only an Indian's loincloth, and endure whatever fondling or insult to their persons the drinkers give them; they are constantly leading men up the stairs to assignations in the second-floor rooms. As we wedged into the crowd, we were suffocated by the stink of unwashed bodies, rotting teeth, stale alcohol, spoiled food, and worse. Moments after we arrived, a fight broke out in the far corner, although in the press we could not see it, only hear breaking glass and the shouted encouragements of watchers.

  At the rear, a wide doorway leads into a second room with a raised stage along its back wall, where for the gratification of the customers women are frequently subjected to degradations I cannot bear to write of. Through this doorway, we could see what must be the wolf-man's cage, a canvas-draped rectangle that filled the width of the stage and was painted with a lurid illustration of a werewolf. It was not yet time for the "performance," and with the crowd distracted by the fist-fight, we were able to push through without too much difficulty.

  A pair of large, menacing men stood at the door, one of whom moved to bar the way, telling us, "Fifty cents each to stand, dollar for the chairs up front."

  Deacon Skinner opened his purse and handed over the money. When the bully stepped aside, we pushed our way in and were able to find three chairs in the second row. I kept my hood pulled well forward but sneaked glances at the cage. My apprehension grew and grew, and I was not sure I could bear to witness him again. I could not say whether it was the sheer hideousness of his appearance that caused me such distress, or the prospect of seeing ferocity from him, after I had imbued him with hopes of a gentle nature. Perhaps it was simply the prospect of seeing any creature confined and in such degraded and unhappy circumstances. At intervals the canvas shook and vibrated, as if something were moving inside, and my uneasiness mounted each time.

  "Courage, Sister," Deacon Skinner whispered.

  "Two dollars for her, after the show," the man in front of us said. He had turned and now gave a demanding, surly look to the deacon.

  "I beg your pardon!" Deacon Skinner said indignantly.

  "Oh, he begs my pardon," the awful man said to his companions. Heads turned toward the three of us, faces eager for entertainment. "A gentleman, is it? I said, pardon me, two dollars for yer whore, that's double her worth. Upstairs after the show. First or after yer done, I don't care."

  Dr. Mahoney stood suddenly bolt upright, a short Irishman of middle-age, now flushing red to match his hair. "Ye airen't speakin' o' me saister now, are ye?" he inquired, cheeks trembling with outrage. I don't know if his brogue had come up so strong by itself, or whether he let it show on purpose. I hid my face, afraid of what would follow.

  "What, and a fightin' mad mick, too!" By the twisting of his legs, I could see that the man was craning further around to face us. "A mick the size of my dick."

  The man's companion laughed, saying, "So that'd make him a fightin' cock, hey, Bill?"

  Dr. Mahoney's eyes never left his tormentor. "Step out wi' me fer two minutes an' you'll have no dick at all, Billy-boy."

  But the men at the door were barking out for the customers in the other room to pay now or miss the show.

  "Have to wait, Mick," the big man said. He made a derisive noise and turned front again, elbowing his chum in amusement. When Dr. Mahoney at last took his seat, I felt his panting and trembling against the side of my arm.

  Soon the room was packed and the air was thick. The doors closed, and three men positioned themselves at the front of the room, each standing ready with a pistol in his belt and a determined expression. Then a man who was surely Silas Singer himself came up to announce the night's proceedings in a most theatrical way. If a man could be part mantis, I thought, he would look like Silas Singer: angular, jerky in movement, hands held up before him, mouth biting off the words. Leering continuously, he told a poorly contrived tale of how he and his men sought the famous werewolf, perpetrator of so many murders, and how they caught him at last after arduous pursuit. The means of his capture was a noose of silver wire, whi
ch also arrested his transformation back into a man. Singer explained dramatically that the desperadoes standing now to either side of the stage were there for the crowd's protection, should the monster break free. The werewolf would be revealed shortly, after which dogs would be admitted to the cage and he'd fight them. Finally, they would noose and muzzle him and men could volunteer to fight him, if any dared.

  Then the canvas was pulled aside to reveal a metal-barred cage, as at a zoo or circus. For a moment it seemed nothing was inside, but then I saw a hunched form, far back where the light was not as good. It looked to be a naked man, head down between his knees, hair hiding his face, sinewy humanlike arms tightly wrapping his legs. The audience made a hiss of whispered disappointment, but only a moment later Silas Singer emerged from the wing to jab the wolf-man forcefully with a staff put through the bars. The creature sprang away to half-stand, closer to the front of the cage, in a posture of reluctance. When the better light caught him, the sound of the audience changed to awe, astonishment, and revulsion. Deacon Skinner and Dr. Mahoney uttered identical gasps.

  He was as I have described before, but now appeared in a most miserable way: streaked with filth, hair knotted and crusted, skin scabbed and reddened with cuts and abrasions. But what struck me most forcibly was his solitude: a creature knowing only danger from the world, a creature with no other of his kind, unless we were they; and we had put up bars to assure his separation.

  He was the most alone creature I have ever seen or could ever imagine.

  Unthinkingly, I stood up so vehemently that my hood fell off and my chair tipped back. From behind came angry calls for me to sit, but I barely heard, for the wolf-man had bounded to the front of the cage and now stood fully upright, arms wide above his head, and short, clawed fingers clinging to the bars. He stared wild-eyed out at the room. In that position, every feature of his anatomy was plain to see, and in all ways he seemed half human and half canine. His male member was fully a man's, but hung between narrow, forward-bent thighs more like a dog's. It was a dog's muzzle he raised to scent the air, but his dark blue eyes were precisely those of a terrified human child. He seemed to stare straight at me just as I stared at him, and I believe without a doubt that he recognized me.

  Two men appeared, dragging two tightly leashed, snarling and straining curs, at which the wolf-man let go the bars. He dropped to all fours, moved in two long lopes back to his corner, and crouched again, looking left and right as if seeking a way to flee. When the men pushed the dogs into the cage, the wolf-man crowded against the bars at the far side, showing every indication of extreme agitation and unhappiness.

  I could not witness more. I stumbled out of the seating area, followed immediately by Deacon Skinner and Dr. Mahoney. They took my arms tightly again and we burrowed through the standing crowd. Behind us, I vaguely heard the sound of snarls and scuffling. As we arrived at the door, a sound pierced the noise of the crowd: high, pitiful yelps that became a throbbing, ghastly warble that was quickly throttled to silence.

  42

  FRIDAY, JULY 5, 1889

  YESTERDAY BEING INDEPENDENCE Day, all the city celebrated most extravagantly, with bunting draped from every window and cornice, every flag bright and high, throngs of people filling the commercial streets. The weather was nothing short of splendid. The air crackled as every boy in San Francisco lit caps and little bombs; all the cable cars rang their bells at every opportunity. Hans and I joined the Schultzes and the Pizagallis on Market Street to watch the parades, sun winking brilliant on the brass of the marching trumpets. On the way, riding in the carriage, Hans beamed with pride in his adopted country and leaned again and again to whisper in my ear and point out every building he had some hand in constructing. Seeing the stately facades and proud cornices and snapping banners of Market Street, it seemed inconceivable to me that only forty years ago there was nothing here but swamp and empty dunes. Nor did it seem possible that only a few blocks to the north lies the exotic labyrinth of Chinatown, and, just beyond, the Barbary Coast with all its treacheries and perversions. To think of our city's queer disparity or doubleness disturbed me greatly, as if emblematic of the very nature of humankind.

  Throughout the day, I could not help myself but scanned the faces of the crowds, searching and searching but never finding the face of my sister, and at times it required some effort to conceal my sorrow from my companions.

  It was a noisy and colorful day, but wearying, and in my unrelenting concern I could not take as much pleasure in it as I ought until after dark, when the fireworks began. These made such lavish, luminous flower gardens in the night sky that I shed some of my preoccupation with my troubles and cheered along with the others.

  When at last we came home and took to bed, Hans became amorous and his attentions soon aroused the same response in me. We are both bolder in this now, to the point that our intimacy has grown to include words as well as caresses. Neither of us shows any trace of these moments in our daily life, nor makes any reference; it is a secret between us.

  That thought became a sweet revelation: Here in the safe enclosure of our dark bedroom, we are building a shared secret life.

  Afterward, in the dark, he played idly with my hair as he does, and talked candidly.

  "My father," he said, "did not want me to go to America. He was afraid for me, and also he needed me to help with the work. So many good reasons to stay, only one to go, which was my wanting. He was angry at what he thought a selfish and willful desire."

  "What was it you were so wanting?"

  "I said it was only to make money to send home. But I was not so truthful. I wanted to escape from our little village. And from my father, yes. I wanted to have an adventure. I had read adventure books, though my father forbade it. Pirates and bandits and brave seafarers and treasure seekers were in my mind. I was just a boy. I thought to try it out."

  "How did you ever manage to leave?"

  Hans sighed heavily, sadly. "We argued often. I was . . . not obedient. One night he told me he would beat me if I persisted in talking about it. I said, yes, go ahead and try, I am not so little anymore. He did not make good on his threat. It was a sad victory for me. I left the next day. I had a ride on a turnip cart and I cried for many miles. I knew my mother would be heartbroken. I was not a good son."

  I had never heard these details before, and I was quite touched. "Even a good son must choose his own path at some point," I reassured him.

  "Later I wrote letters to my parents, but they never replied. Then I wrote to our minister, but got no answer. I do not know if they are dead, or simply refuse to acknowledge me. I still write a letter sometimes. I tell them I am wealthy now and will send them money if I am sure where to send it. But still no reply."

  He rearranged himself uncomfortably on the bed and his breathing was irregular and deep, as if he were struggling with himself. I was silent, letting him approach his trouble and choose his words.

  "Lydia," he said after many minutes, as if it were a matter of grave importance.

  "Yes, my love?" I expected a deeper intimacy, and welcomed it wholly.

  "I have been thinking." He paused a long time. "I have been thinking to get the electricity put in. McGuire has it now and is very pleased with it. It is an expense we can afford. And the trunk wires are not so far now as they were. I am thinking we should have the electricity."

  I was unprepared for this tangent. His taking it and my expectation of something so different seemed to sum us up so well, the two of us caught in a photographer's flash, that I could not help myself and I laughed out loud. In a moment he began laughing, too, and we both lay side by side, laughing hugely, for many minutes. And I am sure neither of us could have said precisely what we were laughing at.

  SATURDAY, JULY 6, 1889

  I have spoken of the wolf-man to Hans. My intent was to do so in a way that would be familiar to him and would not overly tempt his curiosity. I told him that Deacon Skinner and I had learned of an unfortunate who was being ill-
treated by The Red Man, and that I planned to plead with Rev. Wallace and the Mission Council to adopt his cause and to try to free him from this immoral exploitation. It will not be the first time I have made such a plea on behalf of some suffering person.

  But Hans persisted in inquiring about the wolf-man, asking me to describe him, and I answered as honestly as I was able, presenting his appearance as a deformity only. We were upstairs as Hans prepared for his day, trousers on but shirtless and suspenders down as he trimmed his beard. When I described the wolf-man's characteristics, Hans's face in the mirror darkened.

  "And how is he being mistreated?" he inquired.

  "He is in a cage and is tormented by his captors. He is made to fight dogs. They are calling him a werewolf. It is a ridiculous hoax and very cruel."

  The face in the mirror grew darker still, and then he turned to me. "A werewolf is not a thing to take lightly. Perhaps he is best left in the cage."

  "Surely you do not believe there is such a thing!"

  His eyes wandered. He turned back to the mirror but did not resume his grooming. "Our village knew of werewolves. From the time I was little, my father would tell me of a famous werewolf from near Koln, Peter Stumpf was his name, in the old days. Three hundred years later and still people did not forget, how terrible the things he did. And when I was six years old, the full moon turned the color of blood, I saw it myself and was very frightened. After, there was much whispering, that such a moon begot werewolves. The next day, the miller's daughter was murdered only two miles from our house. The whole village was frightened of what walked among us. My mother did not let me out of the house until the new moon had come."

  "This is no werewolf. This is a man."

  "Who can be so sure?" he muttered ominously.

  All my fears rose again, that I would expose my secret world and bring disaster on myself by helping the wolf-man. And at Hans's words, a feeling of dread horror crept suddenly over me: that there might be truth in the old legends, that we should not forget them so readily. But I would not show my doubt.