The Secret Life of Anna Blanc

by Jennifer Kincheloe

  Wolf winced. “Well, go unarrest her!”

  A junior patrolman tugged frantically on Wolf's arm. “There's a crazy man upstairs! He's waiving a broken bottle at everybody and smashing up Lulu's furniture.”

  “I'll get him.” Wolf waded back into the fray, leaving Snow where he stood.

  Reluctantly, Snow lumbered toward the paddy wagon to liberate Anna.

  Tilly poked Snow's arm, jabbing until he stopped. “Hey! I'm with the paper. Is that Anna Blanc?”

  Snow flashed a gargoyle grin. “Yeah, that's one of her names.”

  Tilly scribbled in a notebook. “One of her names?”

  “She's been working as a police matron under the name of Anna Holmes.”

  Tilly shook his head. “What in the devil is she doing here?”

  Snow made a noise between a grunt and a chuckle. “She fancies herself some kind of detective. She thinks whores are being murdered, but she's crazy. Whores aren't being murdered. They're committing suicide.”

  Tilly wrote faster. “Why does she think whores are being murdered?”

  “Cause she's a stupid bitch.”

  “That's very interesting. And your name?”

  “Detective Amos Snow.”

  Wolf came hurtling backward through an upstairs window, flailing in a waterfall of tinkling glass, and landed flat on his back on the lawn. He lay among the shards, unmoving. Snow rushed over and pried back one of Wolf's eyelids. He saw white. “Ambulance!”

  The paddy wagon pulled out with a lurch. Men and girls were packed in like fish, scrooched up on benches and the black metal floor, panting their liquor breath into the close quarters. The men smelled sharp and foul and some trembled. From rage or fear, Anna couldn't tell.

  Squished near the front, Charlene pushed down her cuticles. Madam Lulu looked bored. “I need to find a better counterfeiter.”

  Big Cindy began to tell Anna how sheep were sheered on her grandpa's farm up north in Mendocino. Anna sat half listening with her numb mind while the faces in the wagon spun in circles. Big Cindy hugged Anna from behind and pulled her close. “So when he's sitting up on his bottom, you snuggle ’em right against you, so you can get his tummy.” Big Cindy released Anna. “And that's that.”

  Anna thought she might puke and screwed up her face. Big Cindy dug in her skirt pocket and handed Anna a flask of whiskey. “Oh, You're gonna suffer in the morning. You better have this with your biscuits.” Anna sniffed it and it burned.

  The caravan came to a screeching halt in front of Central Station. The cops herded the prisoners up the steps of the station for booking. The first time Anna had been arrested, butterflies of excitement had fluttered inside her, overwhelming any fear of punishment by her father. Now, she felt only dread. She wobbled on her heels, her dimpled knees bare for anyone to see, occasionally steadying herself on a nearby prisoner.

  The prisoners lined up for booking, men and women alike. Big Cindy reached the front of the line and gave her name to Mr. Melvin. He spoke to his ledger. “That's one hundred dollars.”

  She ducked down and put her nose near his. “But Mr. Melvin, I didn't wallop any of your officers. I'm just here to get vagged.”

  Mr. Melvin blushed. “I know, Biggy. That's the fee for vagrancy tonight.”

  Big Cindy shook her head. “The mayor must be real mad. Heard he got caught trying to spend Lulu's smash at the Poodle Dog.” She left the counter to be taken to the cells with the other girls until their fines could be paid.

  Mr. Melvin cited the men for vagrancy, too, but only fined them twenty-five dollars and released them on the spot, if they could pay. Madam Lulu paid two hundred dollars for violation of the blind pig laws and vanished into the night without looking back.

  Anna had the disheartening thought that she could have gotten the names of the men from Mr. Melvin without going into the brothels. She wouldn't have seen Edgar. She wouldn't now be under arrest. She would marry Edgar this Saturday, fall in love, and start a new life, albeit a dull one.

  When Anna took her turn, she gave the name, “Aimee Amour.”

  When he heard her voice, a shadow flitted across Mr. Melvin's averted eyes. “One moment.”

  He stood and walked over to a brass peg on the wall, lifted down his coat, and returned to the desk. Without meeting her gaze, he handed it to her.

  Anna tied the coat around her waist, tugging the sleeves tight. She pressed his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Melvin.”

  Officer Dodds, a patrolman that Anna knew, hustled her back into the paddy wagon with the other girls and drove them to the jail. He looked bored, and when he put her in the cell he didn't bother to frisk her or take her flask.

  The cell's commode had not been emptied. The floor was sticky, and the hard, rough bench left splinters in her thighs. Big Cindy peeled a shard of wood from the bench and used it to scratch her name into the grey plaster wall. She handed it off and other girls followed suit.

  Big Cindy smiled at Anna. “We always do it. I guess you wouldn't want to.”

  Somewhere down the corridor, a man shouted, “Wicked whores!” Anna's spine stiffened. She knew that vitriolic voice. He'd said something similar to Anna when she'd gone to his lecture. She set her chin in defiance and stood, took Cook's paring knife from her garter, and carved in big, deep, swoopy letters, “Aimee Amour.”

  The coroner shouted again, and it occurred to Anna that his voice came from one of the other cells. Her heart beat faster. He'd been jerked up. Joe Singer had arrested him sometime after Anna had spooned Joe in the dressing room.

  Chief Singer banged on Joe's apartment door. Joe opened in his nightshirt, squinting and tugging on his ear. The chief shoved him back into the house, a gale force wind, scaring his cat and nearly knocking him over. “You wanna tell me why Edgar Wright's leaving town? Why he's withdrawing his support and his money from Blanc National? No explanation. No warning. That bank is gonna fail!”

  “Huh?” Joe asked, rubbing his eyes, which were very red. The knuckles on his left hand were swollen and bruised.

  He shoved Joe again. “The wedding's off! I can't be sure, but I'm gonna wager it has something to do with you taking off his fiancée's drawers.”

  Joe's heart pounded sixteenth note triplets. “I didn't…”

  His father cut him off. “Snow told me all about it. She's down at the station now. You see, there's been a brothel raid and she's been vagged. How much you got in your piggy bank ’cause I just talked to her daddy. He claims he doesn't have a daughter, and I can't imagine Edgar Wright's gonna pay her fine.”

  Joe squeezed his eyes. “Miss Blanc was at the brothels?” He slipped into his denim trousers and out of his nightshirt in one quick motion. He dug under his mattress and pulled out a wad of cash fastened with a money clip. He crammed the whole thing in his pocket.

  “Yeah,” the chief growled. “She thought she was investigating a murderer. Now she's in the cells. And I can't help but think you've got something to do with it!”

  Joe threw on a shirt and fell onto the bench, pushing his feet into socks and shoes. The chief took a hat from the table and shoved it into his hands. “Go get your sweetheart, Joe!”

  Joe sped along the inky streets, shirt untucked, his untied boots pounding the rocky asphalt, his shoelaces trailing through mud and horse shit. He flew up the station steps and through the doors, panting. The station was quiet. Everyone had been booked and was either at home or stewing in a cell. Joe charged over to Mr. Melvin, who held his lunch pail and hat. “Where's Miss Holmes?” he demanded.

  Mr. Melvin cleared his throat. “Matron Holmes doesn't work here anymore. There is a remarkably similar girl, a Miss Aimee Amour, who's down at the jail.”

  Joe wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “I want to pay the fine for Aimee Amour, then.”

  Mr. Melvin coughed. “It's three hundred dollars.”

  Joe screwed up his face. “Three hundred? Isn't it normally fifty?”

  “Tonight, it's one hundred. But the chief
set Miss Amour's fine higher than the other girls.” Mr. Melvin pushed the button that opened the cash register. “He said he wanted it to hurt.”

  Joe swore as he dug in his pockets for his money clip. He slapped it down in front of Mr. Melvin, dug in his other pocket for a beat up leather wallet, and emptied it onto the polished counter. It contained a few ratty bills. A few tarnished quarters, dimes, and pennies rolled in circles until they collided and collapsed. He counted the pile. “Here's fifty. I can give you two hundred and thirty tomorrow when the bank opens. More next time I get paid. But, that's all I got.”

  Mr. Melvin reached under the desk and produced Anna's gun. “It belongs to Miss Amour.” He slipped a crisp twenty out of his pocket and added it to the pile. Joe looked at him gratefully. “I'll pay you back.” He scooped up the gun, grabbed his uniform coat from the rack, and pounded out the door. He careened through the jail entrance, skidding on the wooden floor. “Let me in!”

  The jailer raised his droopy eyelids. “Hey Joe, what's the big hurry?”

  “I'll tell you later. Come on!” Joe banged on the bolted door to the cells.

  The jailer unlocked the door and Joe hurtled through. He peered into every cell looking for Anna. The girls had settled down for the night, lying together on bunks, propped up against walls, trying to sleep. He looked from face to face. Finally, he called out, “Sherlock, where are you?”

  Anna and Big Cindy curled around each other like two lap dogs, sharing Mr. Melvin's coat. Anna waited for her father to come like a storm cloud, to take her home and rain on her, to strike her with his lightening. It wouldn't be gentle Edgar this time. Anna didn't want to see either man, with their inevitable horror at her behavior, their lack of understanding. She wanted Joe Singer—to have him forgive her and share in her grief over Eve, to hold her and sing her songs, to kiss her and other things.

  Joe Singer wouldn't come. Anna had caused the death of a woman he had cared about, maybe even loved. She held Big Cindy a little tighter and said a silent prayer to St. Leonard, patron saint of prisoners, that she would survive the lightning strike without too many bruises.

  Anna heard Joe's voice echoing in the corridor, as if summoned by the saint. The miracle spread through her body like love. She looked up. “Officer Singer?” Maybe he hadn't heard about Eve and had come to bring her bread and water. She spread Mr. Melvin's coat across Big Cindy and padded to the door, grasping the bars with both hands. Her palms were dirty red from rust and blood. She wiped them on her legs. She could smell the whiskey on her own breath.

  Joe peered uncertainly at Anna. She peered uncertainly back. She had wanted to know what Joe Singer would think of her going undercover in the brothels—whether he'd shun her, mock her foolishness, or admire her bravery. Looking at him now, he simply seemed worried. At least, Anna hoped that wasn't pity in his eyes.

  Joe unlocked the cell, took her gently by the arm. “Sherlock, I know who you are and I still don't recognize you.” His eyes went straight to her neckline, then down to her knees. “Good Lord.” He draped his coat over her shoulders.

  A terrible thought came to Anna. Joe wasn't visiting. He was bailing her out. “My father's not coming?”

  “No.” Joe slipped his arm through hers and guided her down the hall.

  She glanced up, full of dread. “Why didn't they call him?”

  “They did. He's…not coming.”

  “Why not?” In her heart she already knew.

  Joe stopped and put his hands on Anna's arms. He gazed into her eyes. “Anna, he says he doesn't have a daughter.” He held his breath and watched her crumble.

  Her eyes blurred. “I see.”

  Anna felt like a tightrope walker, far, far off the ground and falling, and whose safety net had been taken away. She looked at Joe, her eyes raw and transparent. “I saw Edgar in the brothel. It's done between us. He only goes for business. But that's no excuse. There's no excuse for a man to be in a brothel.”

  “So you would never marry a man who goes to brothels, no matter the reason?”

  “No.”

  Joe nodded. He held her up, kept her moving toward the door. Anna knew his friendship and comfort was temporary. He would despise her once he found out about Eve.

  When they were alone in the mild night, he wrapped his arm around her and guided her toward the horse smells of the stables behind the station, where they had fought crime together in the straw that lovely, lovely afternoon. She pressed her eyes shut and felt him, inhaled the yummy scent of him and the tack and the hay, so she would remember. He would never kiss her again.

  Joe sat Anna down on a hay bale. The baling wire poked her leg. She hardly noticed, though it ripped her dress and made her bleed. She took out her flask, unscrewed the cap, and swigged.

  She watched Joe lead the black mare out of its stall and saddle it up. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Home.”

  Joe lifted Anna onto the mounting block. Her shoes clunked on the wood. Straw dangled from her tattered stockings. She stuck the flask down her cleavage and grasped the horn, sticking the toes of one foot in the stirrup. Joe boosted her onto the horse. “You're gonna have to ride like a man.” Her foot slipped, and she fell like a lump across the saddle. She felt a breeze on her behind through the gap in her two-piece drawers.

  Joe tugged her skirt down. “Sweet Jesus.” He helped her scooch her bottom around and straddle the horse. Her white legs glowed above her garters in the lamplight. He lifted the coat from her shoulders, spread it across her thighs, and swung up in front of her. Anna leaned against him and put her arms low around his waist, linking her fingers over his soft denim trousers.

  Flushed and bemused, he twisted to see her. “You sure you can you hold on?”

  “Yes.” She clung to him. “But I can't go home. I won't go home.”

  “You gotta sleep somewhere. You got a friend or somethin’?”

  “Clara. But, she can't see me like this. She'd disown me too, and she's all I have. I want to sleep with you.”

  Joe closed his eyes and grimaced. He waited a long time to answer, and Anna was afraid he'd say no. But where else could he take her? No reputable hotel would accept her.

  He sighed resignedly. “OK. It's almost morning anyway.” He made a clicking sound and the horse began to walk.

  Anna hugged him and laid her cheek against his back. “Thank you, and thank you for arresting the coroner.” She kissed his limp cotton shirt. “He didn't do it, you know.”

  “He's an accessory. He knew it was happening.”

  Anna swayed to one side, then another, leaning her chest against Joe. “Of course. He's protecting the killer.” She yawned. “But I don't know why.”

  “I questioned him ’til he was punch-drunk and purple, Sherlock. He doesn't know who the killer is.”

  “Why would he protect someone he doesn't know?”

  “Have you ever thought it might not be a person he's protecting but the act itself?”

  “Jupiter. I think that's worse.” Anna pulled out her flask and swigged.

  An owl glided down from a palm tree and snatched a rat from the gutter without making a sound. The rodent dangled from its talons. Owls made it look so simple.

  Anna took another swig.

  “Go easy, Sherlock. You're already fallin’ off the horse. Though, I have to say, you make as much sense drunk as sober.”

  “Benzene gives me courage.” Anna took a big, burning swallow. She made a face. “I need lots of courage.”

  “I could use some courage.”

  Anna handed him the flask. Joe took it and stuck it in his boot. “Mighty kind.”

  Anna scowled, but was distracted by another thought. “You didn't arrest Snow?”

  “Snow was off chasing a bicycle. Anyway, he can't spell ‘was.’”

  Anna squeezed Joe and smiled into his shirt. Joe shook his head. “Snow isn't smart; he doesn't think for himself. If the coroner says it's a suicide, he's gonna believe it. I doubt he even noticed
that girls were being killed.”

  “How did I convince you that the murders were real?”

  “I said I would follow the coroner, didn't I?”

  Anna let go of Joe Singer.

  She slid away from his body. She had assumed that, just this once, Joe had broken his promise, but no. He knew about Eve. Joe reached around and grabbed her before she toppled. “Hold on!”

  She stared at the hand steadying her, perplexed. His rescue made no sense. His kindness made no sense. He couldn't know about Eve. She must have kept him too long in the dressing room, and he missed seeing the body. Someone told him about the girl and didn't tell him it was Eve.

  Satisfied with her deduction, Anna scooted forward on the rough wool blanket and wrapped her arms around Joe's belly. She closed her eyes, pressed her lips to his shirt, and let them linger, savoring him. The axe would certainly fall, but not yet.

  Joe was talking. “Everything happened like you said. The girl wore a wedding veil. She only wore one shoe, but it was too small and her toes were broken. There was a sixpence…”

  “But you didn't see the girl. You couldn't have.”

  “I didn't see the coroner's wagon. You sent me to the cribs. They found the girl in Echo Park. I saw her in the morgue, with Wolf.”

  Anna's body went rigid, like a dead girl's.

  He squeezed the arm around his waist. “Sherlock? You OK?”

  Her words caught in her throat. “Why did you come for me, then, if you knew Eve was dead?”

  His voice lifted in surprise. “You knew?”

  “It's all my fault,” she said. “Are you taking me off to shoot me? Because you can. I won't mind.”

  “Not on account of Eve, Sherlock. You didn't do it. Maybe for the stunt you pulled in the dressing room.”

  Anna fell silent. She laid her cheek against him and let the rhythm of the horse rock her, its hoofs cloppity clopping on the pavement. She knew then that she didn't like Joe Singer intensely. She loved him desperately.

  When they reached Joe's apartment house, a thin line of sunshine glowed on the mountaintops. Anna's limbs hung like weights designed to foil her balance. Joe dismounted with a thump onto the dewy cement. She reached out, slid sideways into his arms, and smiled at him. He smiled faintly, propped her on his hip, and draped the horse's lead around a post.