A Dying Note

by Ann Parker

  They headed to the main streets of Chinatown. When they were stopped once and questioned by an officer, Mick was quick to speak up. “Poor fella is a friend of the family. Our man John is helping me get him home. Too much to drink, an’ we are just takin’ a shortcut, because who wants to carry him up and down hills, right?”

  De Bruijn thought it as good a story as any. Certainly better than anything his addled brain might produce. The officer let them go, admonishing, “This is no quarter for young’uns like yourselves, nor for a gennulman like him there.”

  Antonia muttered to Mick, “We’re lucky he didn’t recognize you, what with your pa bein’ a detective and on the force and all.”

  “Aw, he probably knows my da, but not me. Besides, it’s dark, and I’m not exactly dressed like a policeman’s son.”

  The hardest part was at the end, at the stairs.

  De Bruijn would have been willing to crawl up the stairs on hands and knees, or rather curl up in the entryway and sleep, but they would have none of it.

  “You gotta go up. The. Stairs,” huffed Antonia behind him, shoving him on a most undignified portion of his anatomy.

  But it was John Hee, his hand wrapped firmly in the belt around de Bruijn’s waist, who supplied the muscle needed to propel him up the stairs and finally onto Antonia’s little bed.

  “Need doctor.” John Hee had lost control of certain articles of speech during the ordeal.

  Mick said, “There’s Dr. McGee. My ma says he’s good. Should I fetch him?”

  “He’s gonna want to be paid, right?” Antonia sounded nervous. “I know where Mrs. S keeps the household pin money. I suppose Mr. Brown’ll pay her back.”

  They looked at him. He closed his eyes and floated.

  From a distance, John Hee said, “I go now. Everyone be fine. No worry.”

  Mick said, “Dr. McGee’s a good ’un. Don’t worry about the money. He’d probably even put it on a bill for you. Are you gonna be all right here, just you and him?”

  “Of course I will.” She sounded indignant. “I’ll just sit and make sure he keeps breathing.”

  Multiple footsteps pounded away, in time to the beating of his heart, and the throbbing of his head.

  He floated.

  A small, icy hand slid into his and squeezed. He tried to squeeze back, to open his eyes, but couldn’t. The hammering in his head thrummed through his whole body, sapped his strength.

  Before he slipped into dreamless sleep, he heard Antonia whisper, “I just wish I knew where Mrs. S was. She’d know what to do.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  After seeing Haskell, Inez went directly to the residence of the San Francisco Musical Protective Association’s secretary only to be told by his frazzled housekeeper that he was away “across the bay” on a job. Furthermore, he would not be able to see her until the next morning and he then would be gone the rest of the day. Inez thanked her and promised to return before noon.

  “It’s important,” she added, “and I cannot wait until the meeting next month. I must talk to him as soon as possible.”

  The housekeeper sighed, not moved by Inez’s urgency, and tucked a strand of limp brown hair behind her ear. “It’s alwus ‘as soon as possible.’ When they’s get sick, when something bad happens, they’s alwus need their money wi’out delay.”

  This statement perplexed Inez until she realized that the housekeeper probably thought she was the wife of some poor, deathly ill member of the society, desperate for the funds needed to pay the grocer, the rent, and the doctor. Inez did nothing to dissuade the woman from her assumption. Let her think whatever she wants, as long as she passes the message along that I have an urgent need to talk with him.

  When Inez arrived home she avoided the store, not wanting to be questioned about the private piano lessons she was supposedly giving. She was beginning to wish she’d simply said she had private business to attend to. Her lies just complicated an already complicated situation.

  Upon unlocking the door and letting herself in, Inez discovered an envelope just inside the threshold. Noting the partial boot print on the cream-colored stock, she marveled that Antonia had somehow failed to spot the envelope even though she’d trod upon it. Inside was a simple “Thank you” in Carmella’s fine script, proof that Inez’s message had been received and acknowledged.

  Another silver lining brightened her day when Antonia announced a classmate, Katie Lynch, had invited her to dinner. Inez was pleasantly surprised. It was the first time since moving to San Francisco that the girl had mentioned making a friend. When the girl’s brother, Michael, showed up to walk Antonia to the Lynch’s home on Third Street, Inez was surprised yet again.

  The boy seemed nice enough. Certainly polite and knew his manners. However, she had detected a certain nervousness in him as he held his hat, smiled and bobbed his head, and answered all her questions. She wondered what it was he wasn’t telling her. Although, if the number of words spoken was an indication of his sincerity, he was entirely guileless. In fact, he ran off at the mouth a bit, which, again, could just be nerves. But Inez had noted his gaze dart around as if looking for an escape when he described the many members of his family, particularly Katie.

  Until he mentioned his father the police detective.

  That gave Inez pause. Could this be the same Detective Lynch who de Bruijn had met? The Detective Lynch who was “nominally” in charge of investigating the Long Bridge murder? It would be quite the coincidence, but life was nothing if not filled with coincidences and serendipitous twists of fate.

  As she mulled this development, Michael chatted on about his father, visibly more relaxed and beaming with pride, saying, “Once I’m out of school I’m going to join the force like my da and my brother Daniel. He’s a patrolman now.”

  So, a policeman’s son, planning to become a policeman himself someday. One might conclude that an aspiration to join law enforcement argued for qualities of honesty and integrity, but such had not always been Inez’s experience.

  Inez shook her head. Surely she was reading too much into this.

  Inez watched Antonia interact with Michael, or as she called him, Mick. They chattered with an air of familiarity. Inez wondered if the friend who had invited Antonia to sup with the Lynches that evening might not have been the aforementioned younger sister Katie, but perhaps Mick himself.

  From the little she saw, Mick treated Antonia with respect and the sort of boyish good nature that didn’t indicate anything but a genuine fondness. And Antonia was still young. She evinced none of the girlish blushing and batting of eyelashes that would indicate she thought of the young Irish lad as anything more than as a friend. Ah, but give her a few more years. Inez was not looking forward to those times, given Antonia’s stubborn will, which rivaled Inez’s own.

  At least Mick had given her his address. And since Inez’s evening’s plans included taking the horsecar down Third to the Mission Creek waterfront, she would be going right by the house. With a little luck she might spot Antonia with Katie or Mick. That would certainly clear up any lingering suspicions regarding Antonia’s true whereabouts.

  Once Antonia and Mick departed, she headed for the storage room to prepare for her expedition to Henderson’s Three Sheets. Inez hunted down one of several trunks she had brought with her from Leadville, set her lamp atop a nearby tin hat box, and opened the trunk. She drew in a deep breath, inhaling the clean aroma of cedar accompanied by undertones of wood smoke and an indefinable scent that brought back memories of the high mountain boomtown she had once called home.

  The yawning trunk beckoned her to pause, to sift through its contents slowly, to remember the place, its people, her life.

  Anxious to shut the container and shut away the past, Inez pushed aside soft silk petticoats, fine linen lace-bedecked camisoles, satin-lined corsets, and patterned silk stockings, all swathed in tissue to protect
them from time. Close to the bottom, she uncovered the trappings for her transformation, including black trousers, dark shirt, and black waistcoat. She set aside a black frock coat, deeming it too meticulous for where she would be, and opted for a somber sackcoat of similar midnight hue. Slouch hat, celluloid collar, necktie, and a long wind of linen to bind her breasts flat. Finally, she hauled out an old pair of Mark’s boots wrapped in plain brown paper.

  She slammed the trunk shut, picked up the clothing items and the lamp, and hastened out of the room as if the ghosts of all her past misdeeds were on her heels.

  It had been some time since she had dressed the part she planned to play. Her hair was longer now, having grown out from that time two years ago when she had chopped it all off in a desperate bid to blend in anonymously with a certain male milieu. This evening, she would fall back on her old tricks from years earlier, tucking her braided hair under her collar and wearing her hat low. No one ever took their hats off in the various gin mills she had occasion to frequent in her past life. She suspected it would be no different in San Francisco.

  She changed quickly in her bedroom and examined the results in the mirror over the washstand, with the lamp turned low. The lighting at The Three Sheets would be smoky and inadequate if the place was anything like the Barbary Coast dives the musicians occasionally discussed. “It will do,” she said to her shadowed reflection.

  Two more items were required.

  She opened the drawer in her nightstand and extracted her pocket revolver, a Remington Number Two Smoot’s Patent. Loaded and ready, but unused since she arrived in San Francisco. She did not expect to discharge it tonight. Still, given where she was going and the hour, it would be prudent to take it with her and foolhardy to leave it behind. She checked the revolver quickly, but thoroughly, before placing it in her jacket pocket.

  Finally, she reached into the back of the drawer for the business card she had recently obtained. The simple card, as free of embellishment as the man it introduced, stated:

  W. R. de Bruijn.

  Private detective. Inquiry agent.

  Finder of the lost.

  “Let us see what we can find at The Three Sheets,” Inez said to the card. She then tucked it into her waistcoat pocket before dousing the lamp and heading out to the street to catch the Third Street horsecar to the Mission Creek wharf district.

  A gaggle of redheaded girls sat on the porch of what Inez surmised was the Lynch house as the horsecar rolled past. A young, dark-haired matron sat with them, a baby on her knee. Inez did not spot Antonia. She could be inside. Wherever she was, the girl was sensible. Intelligent. Although impulsive. Surely after their last talk she would avoid any escapades that would land her in hot water. At least, Inez hoped so. She sighed and pushed worries of Antonia aside.

  Inez slouched down on her bench in the horsecar and pulled her hat brim lower over her face to indicate she was not open to casual conversation. Many of the laborers and seamen who crowded the car disembarked with her at the Long Bridge stop. Inez lengthened her stride, enjoying the freedom of movement of trousers. She reflected that if bloomers were not such an outré fashion, she would be sorely tempted to adopt them in her daily life.

  Carmella, Inez thought, would be intrigued.

  Nico would be scandalized.

  When she was opposite Henderson’s Three Sheets, she stopped for a good hard look. Two stories high, brick-fortified, it clearly wasn’t just in the firewater business. She recalled her music pupil Patrick mentioning that, above the saloon, Henderson rented boarding rooms for sailors. Her scrutiny traveled to the second-story windows where light from candles or oil lamps wavered behind ragged and torn roller shades. A prickle of unease whispered over her skin.

  Inez was familiar with the stories involving crimping and shanghaiing. One would have to lead a very sheltered life in San Francisco to not have at least heard the terms. The musicians, some of whom claimed to have seen shanghaiiers in action while working one or another low-class dive, loved to tell tales over the Monday night card games. Such tales usually involved sailors, come ashore for a “little relaxation” in the city’s various unsavory establishments, who were drugged with laced Pisco punch or dropped with a blackjack. These hapless souls invariably awoke on board an ocean-going vessel the next morning to be told they were now members of the crew, bound for parts north to the Bering Sea or south around Cape Horn.

  The street level had no windows at all. The only thing breaking the brick façade was a door below a barely legible sign. Inez hunched her shoulders as a chill breeze drove the damp beneath the wool of her jacket, and considered.

  No windows meant she would be going in blind.

  Was I a fool to not take de Bruijn’s suggestion and let him tackle this?

  Even as the question crossed her mind, she knew the answer didn’t matter. She was not turning back now.

  Inez slid her right hand into her pocket and was comforted by the touch of her pistol. She set her jaw, walked across the street, pushed the door open, and entered.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The first thing that struck Inez was the noise.

  Conversation carried on at the level of a shout. An ill-tuned piano sprayed notes from an upbeat tune, attempting, but failing, to lift above the roar. Smoke from pipes, hand-rolled cigarettes, and cheap cigars hung thick and heavy, besting the most opaque of San Francisco’s ground-level mists. Only no fog ever boasted such a throat-closing combination of aromas—a clash of tobaccos mixed with the odor of unwashed, sour bodies packed close together. Fumes from the spillage of alcoholic beverages of unknown toxicity joined the fray. She paused just inside the door, staying in the shadow of the dimly lit bar, trying to get a bead on the place before venturing farther into the murky interior. The saloon was full of small tables, all occupied. The tops were littered with glasses, bottles, chipped plates, and what appeared to be a few games of dice and cards.

  To the left was the bar, a nothing-fancy business-like affair. Beyond it, toward the back wall, was the piano, an upright. The piano player had his back to her, his face hidden from her sight. Nonetheless, his imposing size and hunched posture over the keyboard was familiar, much to Inez’s dismay. Part of her was tempted to walk up behind him—for it had to be Patrick laboring over the ivories—poke him in the back, and hiss, “Sit up straight!”

  Rather, she kept to the gloom and hoped Patrick wouldn’t catch sight of her. Not that she thought he would recognize her, in this place, dressed as she was in men’s attire. Besides, what could he see through the impenetrable fug that hung between them? Still, best not to tempt fate by moving too close to the music.

  She stepped to the near end of the bar where the bartender, a man with an eye patch, conversed with a sharp-looking fellow in a natty derby. Leaning an arm on the surface, she rapped on the wood with her knuckles.

  The bartender switched his attention to her. “Aye? And wha’ll be your poison, sir?” The burr of Scotland rolled from his tongue.

  Before she could say anything, the man in the derby said, “Allow me, eh? Always good to see a new face around The Three Sheets.” Sharp eyes flashed to the bartender and back to Inez. An unspoken signal had passed between them, she was certain. The derby-hatted man gave her a quick up and down, taking her measure with practiced ease.

  A warning shiver ran down her limbs, and her toes clenched inside her boots as if to prepare her to run.

  She pitched her voice low. “Kind of you,” she said, deciding to keep her responses short. She needn’t have bothered, because the fellow with the derby turned out to be the loquacious sort. “Looks like you’re ready to do the town, all cleaned up for the ladies, eh? Can’t do better’n the Paris of the West for that, eh? Been around town before, or is this your first time in the magic city? If you’re looking for bunk, board, and no questions asked, you’ve found the right place, right here.”

  He pulled a c
oin from his pocket, and tapped it on the liquor-soaked counter, grinning. “Fancy a little game of chance? Call heads or tails. Loser pays the next round of drinks. I’ll pick up this one.”

  Inez narrowed her eyes. He’d not given her a breath of space nor asked her name. Not that an exchange of names was a given in such places. But such over-eagerness put her on her guard.

  A nudge at her elbow caused her to look away from the derby-hatted fellow. The one-eyed bartender had set a shot glass by her arm. “Donovan speaks the truth. Henderson’s the name, mate.” He held out a paw for Inez to shake. His hand swallowed hers. Her knuckles popped as his grip bore down briefly, then released. “We like to give newcomers a little something on the house, encourage them to come back, ye ken?”

  He handed a glass of equal measure to derby-hatted Donovan and kept a third in front of himself. “No mariner, then, are ye? I recognize the ones that spend time in the rigging. A steward, I’m guessing? No matter, to your health. And here’s to wives and sweethearts. May they never meet!”

  Inez automatically lifted her glass and stopped, the rim hovering at her lips. The stinging scent of cheap whiskey rose into her nose, smelling of danger and nightmares. Donovan had downed his drink and was watching her, eyes gleaming, face hungry as a ferret’s. She glanced at Henderson, who watched her as well. His own glass waited before him, untouched.

  In one rapid move, she set her glass down by Henderson with one hand, while picking up his with the other. He jerked, his attempt to grab it back proof enough for her. She tossed the liquor down, its rawness burning her throat, and said, “To your health as well, gentlemen.”

  Henderson bristled, balled his hands into fists, and banged them on the counter. “Just who are ye?” He leaned over the stained wood, speaking softly but with menace. “One a’ Roney’s cronies? Out t’break the backs of the likes of us who are helpin’ the seamen find their next jobs? Or are ye one’a the new lads on the force? If the latter, ye be barkin’ up the wrong tree. I’ve paid your taxes and I’ve paid your fees many times over to the regular patrol, so don’t be lookin’ to me to line your pockets.”