City of Angels (The Trials of Kit Shannon #1)

by James Scott Bell

  "I listened to what he had to say," Kit said, her anger rising to the occasion. "I simply do not agree with him. Please forgive my boldness, but Mr. Sloate's principles suggest women are incapable of reasoning and logic. But look at Madame Curie, for instance."

  "I do not see Madame Curie gracing the tables of our select society."

  "Perhaps she should," Kit fired back. "There are many more women like her, all of whom are making wonderful contributions to the world. You, as well as your friends, will no doubt benefit from their work."

  "I will not argue what I know to be true," Freddy said, taking up her tea. "You have an obligation to me as your sponsor. You must trust me to know what is best. You must also trust that Mr. Sloate knows what is best, and he says—"

  Aunt Freddy was interrupted by an entering butler holding a small silver tray. "A letter, Madam," he said.

  "Letter?"

  "For Miss Shannon."

  Aunt Freddy's mouth dropped open, then quickly shut. She sat in frozen awe for a moment, then snapped, "Well, you'd better give it to her." Then a knowing smile spread across her face. "Perhaps you won't have to choose after all. Perhaps a young man has chosen you."

  Kit frowned and lowered her gaze to her plate. This was all such nonsense. Pick a young man, read books of etiquette, build a wardrobe—ignore her heart!

  The butler bowed and walked dutifully to Kit, holding the tray out to her. Kit took the letter gingerly. Her name was written on the front of the envelope. Nothing more. Puzzled, she turned the letter over.

  "Hurry up, won't you?" Aunt Freddy said. "Perhaps it's an invitation for this afternoon, although that would be in poor taste."

  Slipping the paper from its envelope, Kit unfolded the letter and read, in an immaculate hand:

  Miss Shannon,

  I request your presence at my offices at 321 South Spring Street tomorrow morning at eleven thirty o'clock. The purpose of this meeting is professional in nature. Until then, I remain,

  Very truly yours,

  Heath W. Sloate

  "Well, what does it say?" Aunt Freddy demanded.

  Kit read the letter out loud. Aunt Freddy let out a disconsolate sigh. "I can't understand that man," she said presently. "I'll call him on the telephone and give him a piece of my mind."

  "Please don't, Aunt Freddy." Kit rose and went to her aunt, putting her arms around her. "Let me at least hear what his proposition is." She wondered what it might be. But he said professional. Had he seen something in her after all?

  "I can't stand by while you throw away your life!" Aunt Freddy said, a whimpering tone to her voice. She frowned and looked away. "Still, if Heath believes the proposition to be worthy, perhaps I shouldn't fret. He always knows best."

  Kit embraced her even more firmly. "It will be all right," she whispered. "You'll see."

  ———

  " 'New Book of Etiquette,' " Kit read aloud. She had found the book on her bedside table, just as Aunt Freddy had promised.

  She opened the blue cloth-covered volume and read, Men are not willing to have society ignore the establishment of rules. Judgement by appearance is not only properly acceptable, but demanded.

  Kit shook her head. Did her aunt truly want this book to dictate her actions?

  Just then Corazón knocked and entered with a tray. "Madam sent this."

  She positioned the tray on the table beside Kit's bed. Kit noticed the cup of tea, complete with slices of lemon. "Thank you."

  "And I bring you this," Corazón said, reaching into her pocket. She held out an orange and gave a quick glance over her shoulder. "I show you how to eat?"

  "Oh, yes," Kit said. She patted the bed and set the book aside. "I've been trying to read about ways to better my appearance and actions."

  "Sí. Madam say this book is muy importante."

  "I'm not convinced. I––" Kit watched in fascination as Corazón peeled the orange, even as the memory of her previous conversation with Aunt Freddy weighed heavy on her heart. Corazón handed her a slice of the fruit and smiled.

  "Be careful for the seeds."

  Kit nodded and took a bite. Juice squirted out from the sweet fruit and ran down her chin. Laughing, she quickly took up the napkin beside her tea and wiped her mouth.

  "Oh, it's wonderful. I've never tasted anything quite so grand," Kit said.

  "It is good you like. We have many oranges here."

  "It seems to be only one more thing that will put me at odds with Aunt Freddy. You said she didn't care for them."

  Corazón nodded and shrugged. "It no matter. She no have to eat them."

  Kit sobered. "That is so true. She doesn't have to eat oranges or practice law, but neither should she prevent others from doing so if they enjoy it." She took another bite of the orange, this time prepared for the juice.

  Maybe that was what this entire matter of etiquette and oranges was all about. Preparation and careful handling could hold at bay the most difficult of circumstances. Kit would simply have to think things through and decide how to proceed best without ruffling Aunt Freddy's feathers. She would read the book of etiquette—all the better to understand the quirky thoughts of her aunt's world. But she wouldn't allow it to govern her life. Only God's Word would do that. Aunt Freddy would just have to get used to the idea.

  Chapter Five

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Kathleen Shannon presented herself at the offices of Heath W. Sloate, Attorney-at-Law. A severe-looking woman positioned at an oak desk behind an ornate balustrade told Kit to sit and wait while she was announced.

  A moment later Heath Sloate emerged from a large door with burgundy leather overlay and brass studs and strode to where Kit was sitting. He wore a dark vested suit with a flared collar shirt and black tie. On the middle of his nose sat pince-nez eyeglasses, which he removed with his left hand. He extended his right hand to Kit. His handshake was again bony, and he seemed aware of it, not lingering too long.

  "Won't you come in?" he said and motioned toward his office. To the woman he said, "You may take your lunch, Miss Glendon. I will see you at one."

  With a quick glance at Kit that seemed to ask how a woman so young had acquired a private consultation with the great Mr. Sloate—and looking none too happy about it—Miss Glendon said, "Yes, sir." She turned her back swiftly, as if anxious to dismiss Kit from her thoughts as quickly as possible.

  Heath Sloate's office was elegant and magisterial. An Oriental floor rug took up one half of the room, its muted reds and yellows a perfect complement to the browns of the leather and oak furniture. Behind Sloate's desk, a large window with slatted blinds let in perfect slices of sunlight, and to the side an entire wall was taken up by bookcases. One bookcase was filled with serried rows of tawny volumes. Kit knew these must be the official reports of California case law. The sight of them excited her, as if the endless grandeur of the law was beckoning to her then and there.

  "Please sit down, Miss Shannon," Heath Sloate said, indicating a leather chair in front of his desk. Kit did so, placing her gloved hands on her lap, eager to find out what Sloate wanted to say. She had run through her first encounter with Sloate numerous times in her mind, convincing herself that she had been tired and entirely too harsh. Everyone deserved the benefit of the doubt when it came to important matters, and such was this meeting. She also admitted to herself that she was hopeful he would offer her a position, that he had been impressed enough by what he called her "certain spirit" to rethink his position on a woman practicing law.

  She also thought, in the full light of day, that Sloate was not as objectionable, in look or manner, as she had earlier judged upon meeting him. Certainly, for whatever reason, being invited to a private meeting by Heath Sloate was a meaningful step.

  "Thank you for coming today," Sloate said as he moved toward a small table with a clear glass carafe and several glasses on it. "May I offer you a drink of water?"

  Kit's throat was dry from nervousness, but she said, "No, thank you." She didn't want him to t
hink her in any way unsuited for discussions at the highest level. Such would be common in the practice of law. I will show him how composed I can be, she said to herself and straightened up a little in her chair.

  Sloate tugged at his vest, from the pocket of which a gold watch chain looped downward and then back up to a middle button, ending in a fob the shape of a small gold nugget. "I imagine your great aunt was curious about the reason for this visit, eh?"

  "Yes, Mr. Sloate, very much so. You know how she feels about my practicing law."

  "Indeed, yes. It was at her behest I attempted to talk some sense into you at the party."

  Kit's heart dropped. Sense? Does this mean he still feels it is insensible for me to want to practice law? Then why am I here?

  "Or," he added, "what Freddy would call sense. I think there may be something to this idea."

  A sudden rebound of her spirit brought Kit to full attention. "What idea, sir?"

  Sloate smiled, the curvature of which was slightly asymmetrical, as if his lips and teeth had two different ideas about the enterprise. "Would you mind doing me a great favor and dispensing with addressing me as sir? I realize it is the polite thing to do, but it makes me feel more like a stranger than . . . someone of more intimate acquaintance."

  "Of course, Mr. Sloate."

  "That's better. And perhaps, when we are better acquainted, Heath will do."

  Kit looked at her hands, slightly embarrassed. She hadn't anticipated such a familiar tone. Could it be that he wanted to talk to her about Aunt Freddy? Was that the real reason he had called her in, as part of his courtship? Oh, she hoped not.

  "May I call you Kit?" he said.

  "Yes, you may."

  "How did that come to be your nickname?"

  Kit said, "I was told by my mother that she called me Kat once when I was still a baby—short for Kathleen. But my father heard her and said something like, 'She's just a little thing. More like a kitten.' And that pleased my mother, too. It was Kit after that."

  "Ah," said Sloate. "And now the Kit is all grown up." He looked at her admiringly. Kit wished he would change the subject from her to his purpose. Her hands felt hot in her lace gloves.

  Looking out the window of his office, which was on the third floor and overlooked busy Spring Street, Sloate said, "I came to this city in 1883, when it was little more than a refuge for displaced Mexican revolutionaries. Electricity and telephones were mere curiosities then. The population was only twenty thousand. Then, after 1885, this little city began to grow."

  Sloate peered more intently out the window, as if viewing the past. "People began to pour in when the Southern Pacific Railroad made Los Angeles its southern terminus from the San Francisco line and the Santa Fe chose it as its western terminus. In short, Kit, the railroads made this city what it is today."

  He turned to face her, his hands clasped behind his back. "That is called progress. Inevitable, exciting. And it's happening all around us. We have electric cable cars everywhere now. The Yellow Line for the city, the Red Line for the county. Soon we won't see horses and carriages on our streets anymore. Everyone will be in gasoline-powered buggies, taking them wherever they want to go. What do you think of that?"

  In all honesty, Kit didn't know what to think. Progress was inevitable, as Sloate said, but Kit was more interested in the progress of people than of industry. "It is certainly a most exciting time to be alive," she agreed.

  "Quite. Progress happens whether we like it or not. And I mean progress in all areas, Miss Kit Shannon."

  She looked at him, not knowing where he was heading next in this colloquy. He sat down in the swivel chair behind his desk and then looked her straight in the eye.

  "Forgive me for being something of a blind man," he said. "I know now, after giving it some thought, that women will have to be given a place at the bar that is of equal status with their male counterparts. It won't be easy, of course, but it will happen. And you, Kit, are going to be among the champions."

  Her heart filled with hope. Was he really saying this? After all the doubts and discouragements, was one of the finest lawyers in all of Los Angeles on her side?

  "You will need a sponsor," he said. "Someone to apprentice you, train you, then stand with you for the bar. And someone to make sure you meet the right people."

  Kit knew what he would say next, and she was appreciative. She had misjudged him after all. He was going to help her!

  "I will be that someone," he said. "How does that sound to you?"

  "Wonderful!" said Kit, unable to mask her enthusiasm. "When shall I start?"

  He leaned back in his chair and put a thin finger to his lips, tapping them gently, rhythmically, like a metronome. To Kit he looked as if he were thinking the whole thing over, perhaps collecting his thoughts as to the terms of her employment. She was prepared to take a fair wage and did not doubt her ability to provide a good return.

  Sloate reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a gold watch. With a bony thumb he popped open the cap, peered at the timepiece, then shut it with a snap and slid it back into the pocket. "It's nearly twelve," he said.

  "So it is," said Kit, missing the significance.

  "What do you say to a nice lunch at The Imperial? It's the finest new restaurant in the city."

  Kit shifted in her seat. "Thank you, but I promised to run some errands for my aunt."

  "Frederica."

  Kit didn't like the way he said her name, as if she was at once a social equal and an object of annoyance.

  "We might have dinner, then," Sloate said. "You are still new to the city. I would be very happy to treat you to some of the brighter spots. Tomorrow night, shall we say?"

  Kit said nothing. The conversation had shifted radically from professional prospects to a social direction. Maybe it was nothing more than a new employer showing kindness to his new hire. Maybe she should say yes, so as not to offend him. But something kept her from answering.

  Sloate's scrawny eyebrows slid downward toward his aquiline nose. He stood up, walked again to the window, and looked out. Kit could hear the sputter of a motorcar passing below.

  "Something you should know," Sloate said. "I've made the careers of more than a few lawyers and politicians. Powerful men who needed my help at one time or another. Without that help, I daresay they would never have reached certain positions. I have also, on occasion, had to do the very opposite. I have stopped certain men in their tracks and scuttled some promising careers."

  Kit said nothing. The office, which had seemed so large when she entered, now had a claustrophobic feel.

  "What you are seeking is something rather grand," Sloate said. "Something for the history books." He turned then, his dull gray eyes wide. "I am prepared to help you make history."

  "I appreciate that very much, Mr. Sloate."

  He removed his pince-nez from his vest pocket and placed them on his nose. He then considered her, almost as if she were a piece of art. Kit moved in her chair.

  "Your hair is lovely," Sloate said.

  "Thank you," Kit said.

  "Red. Classically red. Not the color of carrots, but the red of a Titian. You know Titian?"

  "The Renaissance painter."

  "Very good. Great passion in his work. You must see it sometime. Perhaps I'll show you."

  How had they moved to a discussion of art? Kit took in a breath and boldly said, "About my position, Mr. Sloate—"

  He silenced her with an upraised hand and removed his glasses with the other. "Yes, yes. As I was saying, I will give you the help you require. But as with everything in this life, my dear, there is something to be paid. A price, as it were."

  Kit sensed from him a new hesitancy about her, perhaps about her willingness to pay such a cost, by which he no doubt meant hard work and sacrifice. "I'm prepared to do whatever it takes to be a success," she said.

  "I'm very glad you said that, my dear. From time to time we shall have dinner together, not for business purposes but for the pleasure
of social intercourse."

  Kit frowned. This was not a prospect she looked on with even slight enthusiasm. Still, an older man of legal prominence might feel that being seen with a young woman on occasion was somehow good for business. If so, it would be a small price to pay.

  "I suppose that would be acceptable, Mr. Sloate. When may I start?"

  "And," Sloate said quickly, his fingers rubbing themselves rapidly now, "I will entertain you in my home on a regular basis." His smile showed crooked, yellow teeth.

  It was the sight of those teeth that ushered in the sudden realization. Her face flushed hot. Waves of shock, anger, and mortification burst through her, dashing all her hopes on the rocks of Sloate's sordid intentions. Kit slowly stood up. Her voice shook as she spoke. "Mr. Sloate, I am not . . . I will not . . ." She shook her head vigorously.

  "Don't be timid, my dear," said Sloate, his voice silky. "You are a woman of great ambition. You cannot think there is no price for that ambition, can you? To do what you are proposing will require a sacrifice on your part. What I am offering you is success guaranteed. And also something in return. I am an accomplished lover. Considerate, lavish in my spending."

  He took a step toward her.

  Kit stepped back. "You're mad if you think I would ever consider such a proposition."

  Sloate's face tightened. "Now, you must think about this."

  "I don't need to think about it!"

  One more step from Sloate. "But you do. I am a very powerful man."

  Sloate was between Kit and the door to his office. It would take physical contact to get by him, unless he allowed her to do so. And his look told her he wouldn't.

  "You are so lovely," he said, advancing until he was a mere arm's length away. He smelled of sweat and the stale scent of cigars.

  What should she do? Surely this man, as uncouth as he had turned out to be, was not going to put his hands on her.