Beyond the Pale

by Sabrina Flynn

  “You must be some kind of cowboy, Kyd,” Dollie said, as they walked.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I’ve seen men look at others like you did back there.” She jerked her head in that direction. “The others ended up dead.”

  Riot didn’t reply.

  “You won’t last long in this business if you care.”

  “Is that a bad thing?” he asked.

  “No. No, it’s not.”

  When they reached the end of the tunnel, they climbed a staircase, and Dollie knocked on the door. One knock. Pause. Two rapid. Then a tap.

  The door opened.

  A burly guard stood inside a small room with a narrow bed, a round table, and chairs.

  “Hey, Dollie.” The man actually blushed.

  “Hey, Croaker. Got one for Mrs. K.”

  Croaker stepped forward to take the limp woman from Riot’s arms.

  “She’s filthy,” Riot said. “I might as well save your shirt and take her in.”

  Croaker grunted, waving them on. “Mrs. K will show you where to put her.”

  The place was run-down, with threadbare carpets, peeling wallpaper, and mold climbing the walls. A faint cloying scent of almonds drifted in the air. Opium. Somewhere a baby was crying. Two babies, Riot corrected.

  A woman with a high collar and hair pulled up in a tight bun greeted them at the base of the stairs. “Second floor. Third door on the right.”

  Riot creaked up the stairs with his load. A young, copper-haired woman with a storm of freckles across her tawny face paced in the hallway, bouncing an infant in her arms. She frowned when she saw the unconscious woman. “Not again,” she said with a sigh.

  “Shannon, get someone to fetch warm water. She needs a cleaning.”

  “Sure, Dollie.”

  Riot hesitated when he saw the clean linens on the narrow bed.

  “What’s this?” Mrs. K said from the doorway. “Did Kane hire a man with brains?”

  “He’s got more than brains,” Dollie said, as she peeled back the bedspread to lay a thick towel down.

  “I don’t know about brains, but I am housebroken.”

  Mrs. K laughed. “That’s a rarity.”

  “Go ahead now.” Dollie gestured for him to put the woman down.

  “Do you care for these women?” he asked.

  Mrs. K looked at him in surprise. “Why are you interested?”

  Riot lifted his shoulders. “Surprised they’re not tossed out to the gutter.”

  “There’s always a place for women willing to work.” Mrs. K jutted her chin towards the door.

  “And those who aren’t?” he ventured.

  “Where else would they go?” Mrs. K asked.

  That was an ominous question.

  Dollie pulled him out of the room, and leaned in to whisper. “I owe you, Kyd. And here’s some advice. Don’t go poking that fine nose of yours where it shouldn’t be.”

  “Habit of mine,” he said.

  She eyed him.

  “What will happen to her?”

  Dollie sighed. “Probably drink herself to death or overdose once we get her back on her feet. You get going now ’fore Kane docks your pay for lingering on the clock.”

  Riot hesitated. It was hard to walk away. It went against every bone in his body to turn his back on that woman in the bed. But what could he do? He could barely keep his own family fed.

  Closing the Nymphia wouldn’t even fix things for these women. Options for a fallen woman with no money were slim. If they went to the streets and tried to go about business alone, a pimp would pick them up in no time. They wouldn’t be able to find respectable work either, and most were too prideful to go to a charitable organization. Starvation or this—there was a reason they were called fallen women. It was near to impossible to get back up.

  His own mother had found a way out, though. At the end of a noose.

  On his way out, he stopped in the hallway to smile at a sniffling baby. “How old?” he asked.

  “Four months now,” Shannon said. It was said with both pride and sadness. “I don’t know what kind of life she’ll have.”

  “She’s got a voice on her.”

  Shannon laughed. “Maybe she’ll be a singer.”

  “You never know. My mother raised me from a crib on Morton Street.”

  “Good Lord.” She studied him with new eyes. “What kept her going?”

  “She always had a dream,” he said easily.

  “I have those.”

  “What are they?”

  “A little country cottage with a white picket fence and plenty of land for Fiona and me. We’ll raise chickens and garden, and maybe even have a vineyard.”

  “Now that’s a dream,” he said.

  “I’m saving up.” She gave Fiona a bounce. “Just as soon as I’m clear of debt and have a little nest egg, we’ll be gone. Did your mother ever see her dreams?”

  A flash of dirty toes hanging in the air hit him. Riot swallowed down the memory. “She did,” he lied.

  Shannon beamed. “And you didn’t turn out half bad, eh?” She gave him a wink, then sobered. “But you’re still here.”

  The edge of Riot’s lip quirked. “I’m still here,” he admitted. Another baby started crying from a nearby room. “What do you do with Fiona while you’re working?”

  “One of the others here watches her. We all take turns. The ones who decide to keep theirs. Mrs. K is swell like that. She don’t mind the crying, just as long as we pay our board. And speaking of that…”

  Shannon stepped into the room, and laid down Fiona in exchange for another infant. She put the screaming baby to her breast, and it quieted right down. But her own was fussing again.

  “May I?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  Riot gently picked up Fiona and laid her against his chest, rubbing her back. The infant quieted.

  “You’re a natural.”

  “Seems so,” he said, then caught sight of the infant at Shannon’s breast—a mop of black-hair, chubby pink cheeks, and large brown eyes that sparkled like gems.

  “What’s this little one’s name?”

  “Akira. We all call her Kira.”

  Kira’s features whispered of Japanese descent. Clearly Shannon wasn’t her mother. “Who’s her mother?” he asked.

  Shannon took a protective step back. Then her face fell when she realized he was holding Fiona.

  “Does Kira belong to the woman who fled? After that man was found in her room?” he asked softly.

  “You need to put my baby right back.”

  Riot carefully set Fiona back in her crib. Shannon relaxed, though she planted herself between Riot and her daughter.

  “You’re taking care of her baby, aren’t you?”

  Her eyes darted to the doorway, but no one was standing there.

  “I’m trying to help her,” he whispered.

  “I doubt that.”

  “She lived here, didn’t she?”

  Shannon hesitated, then dipped her chin.

  “Has she been back?”

  A quick shake of her head. There was fear in Shannon’s eyes. Not of Riot, but of that open door. She could get in trouble, he realized. But didn’t know just how much.

  “Why hasn’t she come for Kira?”

  Shannon shrugged. “Must be dead.”

  Riot glanced at the infant. “Mrs. K doesn’t strike me as the sort to raise a motherless baby.”

  “She’s not,” Shannon whispered. “She’s usually quick to hand them to the orphanage.”

  “Can you leave at anytime, Miss Shannon?”

  She shook her head. “I owe Kane for the doctor and boarding. I couldn’t work straight away after I gave birth, and I was already behind. I’m even farther now.”

  And he wagered Kira’s mother was in the same situation. It was unfortunately common. The Queen’s Room in Chinatown was notorious for it. Women were duped into coming to America with false promises of a better life, then m
ade to sign their lives over and work off what they ‘owed’ by selling their bodies. Only it was near to impossible to do that. The handlers took a cut from their earnings, including room and board, and charged them when they couldn’t work during their monthly cycles. It assured they never paid off their debts. But the women rarely considered themselves slaves. There was always something to work towards. Always a sliver of hope to dangle in front of them like a carrot.

  “What’s her mother’s name?”

  “Sakura,” she whispered.

  “How much does Sakura owe?”

  “Five hundred dollars.”

  Riot’s next question was met with a firm line of lips. Shannon would say no more on the matter. But if Riot had read what she’d left unsaid correctly, then the managers of this hellhole were holding Akira captive. That meant Sakura was still alive, or… someone had an interest in Akira.

  50

  Bullseye

  While the Noble house was never truly empty, it was close to it today.

  “I’ll finish up here, Cecilia,” Isobel said in broken Spanish. “You can start on the next room.”

  Cecilia was a middle-aged woman who’d survived three months in the household. She also spoke rapid-fire Spanish. And while Portuguese and Spanish shared similarities, communicating anything of substance was slow going, involving a mash of three languages until one of them recognized a word.

  She’d confided to Isobel that it didn’t matter what the Noble sisters said to her or the tricks they played. As long as they paid her, she’d keep working. Day in, day out. Isobel wasn’t sure which was worse: jail or life as a live-in maid.

  Cecilia surveyed the big bed and its heap of pillows. “Are you sure?”

  “I can manage the bedding alone. Besides, if we finish early, we might be able to relax in the garden.”

  Cecilia laughed softly. “When we’re in a grave.”

  The woman had a practical sense of humor.

  Isobel started changing out the bedding in Imogen’s room, but as soon as Cecilia left she went for the desk. It was festooned with scented papers, flowery stationary, keepsakes, notes from friends, and invitations to every social event in the city.

  Isobel quickly sorted through the mess, then turned to a locked drawer. This one, thankfully, wasn’t as complex as the one in Ian Noble’s study. She had it open in under ten seconds. Chocolates, a book of poems, and letters from female friends. Nothing from Freddie or other men.

  Isobel narrowed her eyes at the drawer. It wasn’t as deep as it should be. She removed the items, and bent to inspect the inside. There was a gap in the corner, large enough to fit a pencil in. She used one to pop the bottom up, revealing a journal and a stack of tied letters.

  Isobel dove into the journal. Father this, Mother that. Freddie makes my heart flutter. Oh, Freddie. I can’t wait for my happy day. My one and only. The words gushed poetic. With the occasional thinly veiled euphemism that made it clear Imogen was not as chaste as her mother would like to believe.

  Isobel stopped her flipping when she spotted an entry about Dominic.

  Oct 28 - I’m furious. My hand shakes even now. Dom had the audacity to tell me Freddie wasn’t a good match. As if he should be pointing a finger with his womanizing ways. Men will be men. I know Freddie will be devoted to me once we are married. Dom begged me to call off the engagement. He’s always been terribly protective of us, and I can’t recall one suitor he thought suitable for me. Sometimes he can be such a pain.

  Nov 9 - Father and Dominic fought today. We could hear father raging in his office. Helen said she heard the word ‘maid’ a number of times. My sisters chased off another. But surely father wouldn’t be enraged over such a little thing? I heard Freddie’s name more than once. I worry Dom is trying to dissuade father from allowing me to marry. Damn him. I’ll kill him if that happens. Whatever was said, Dom left the house without a word. Freddie doesn’t know what the argument was about, but said he’d ask father.

  Isobel flipped past a few tedious entries between the argument and the next mention of her brother.

  Nov 14 - He’s dead. I can hardly believe it. Father wouldn’t say how. Mother is tight-lipped. Furious, I think. But at whom? Dominic?

  Nov 15 - Why have the newspapers claimed he died in bed? He wasn’t at home. But father made us swear to tell anyone who asked that Dom died at home. Mother didn’t even protest the lie.

  Nov 16 - I pestered mother for details. She was worn down with grief, I think. And she finally confided in me, though the truth is so horrid, I can’t bare it. I wish she hadn’t told me. Dom died in that horrid hotel—the Nymphia. I can’t bear it. My own brother at such a place, but mother told me even the best of men have needs—a wild, untamed need to sow their seed, that brothels and women of ill repute are a constant temptation. She said he gave in to desire and his heart gave out.

  That’s preposterous. Dom was as strong and hearty as they come. And why would he visit such a low brow place when he was a man of means? Father and mother have decided not to tell Katherine. I agree. It would devastate me to discover that Freddie visited such a place. Let her think him faithful, and that her love died peacefully in sleep.

  Nov 16 - Father has called off the police investigation. I suspect he had to reach deep in his pockets to keep this scandal from the press. I don’t blame him. He has our best interests at heart. It could ruin our reputation and any chance of my sisters finding suitable matches.

  Nov 25 - The secret weighs heavy on me. Despite my promise to father, I confided in Freddie. He should know about our family’s stain. I didn’t dare hope, but Freddie understood. He saw no reason why my brother’s actions should affect our pending marriage. He is such an honorable man.

  Isobel frowned at the journal, then glanced at the stack of letters. Noting the ribbon tie, she carefully undid it, and read the most recent letter. It oozed romantic sentiments and thinly veiled references. Signed by Freddie. It was a wonder the man wasn’t on fire with all the sentences containing the phrase ‘burning for you.’

  A sheet of paper caught her eye. It was artfully done, the entire thing in neat calligraphy. One name was written repeatedly: Imogen Noble Starling. Each name was drawn in a unique style.

  Her eyes lingered over two names written with pencil. One had a wide stroke in a Gothic style. The other seemed to be written with two pencils. Or with a notched bit of lead.

  A noise in the hallway brought her back. Before someone walked in on her (again), she folded the sheet, tucked it away, and continued about her cleaning.

  51

  Flying Cloud

  True to his word, Garrett had tracked down Billy Blackburn, and now he and Riot stood across the street from the Flying Cloud—a saloon that was built from a beached clipper ship, its figurehead stretching out into the street.

  “The place has a lane around back set up for fighting matches,” Garrett was saying around his cigarillo. He favored the long, slim types. “Dogs, cocks, women, and anything else the fellows will bet on. Last month they tried out cats.”

  “How’d that go?” Riot asked.

  Garrett gave a slow, rhythmic laugh. “The two toms spat at each other a bit, looked at the cheering crowd, then turned on the men. They ended up running off together over the rooftops.”

  “Smart cats.”

  “I imagine we’ll have a gang of cats attacking people in the streets soon.”

  “It is San Francisco.”

  “Anything goes,” Garrett agreed, then nodded to the ship’s hull. “What’s our game?”

  “No game,” Riot said. “I intend to have a word with Mr. Blackburn. Nothing more.”

  “So you’re a civilized man like myself. I should warn you, there are some shady sorts in there. They aren’t keen on coppers.”

  “I only asked you to find the man,” Riot said. “You don’t have to come inside.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a drink.”

  Riot considered this new, unknown agent. “Is there anything
I should know about you and saloons, Mr. Garrett?”

  “You would be referring to Lotario’s comment at the agency.”

  “I like to know when my agents have an Achilles heel.”

  “I have something of a hole in my pocket, and it gets larger when I’ve had a few drinks. Lotario is trying to turn me into a proper miser.” Garrett flashed his teeth. “I’m not much use in a fistfight, can’t shoot to save my life, but I know my way around a blade. What’s your weak spot?”

  “I have a weakness for hats,” Riot said, adjusting his own. “And I’m not civilized.” He started towards the Flying Cloud, leaving Garrett pondering that last.

  Piano music and conversation assaulted Riot as he pushed open the saloon doors. The place was crowded. A line of women kicked up their heels on a stage, while others mingled and danced with men in a space that’d been cleared of tables.

  “It’s ladies night,” Garrett said at his side, then pointed his cigarillo towards a side room that was less crowded. “When our man isn’t watching the fights around back, he’s usually chatting in there. Fancies himself a Peaky Blinder.”

  “Is he affiliated?” It was a term for an Irish street gang out of Birmingham, England.

  “No idea.”

  A woman with a smile on her lips sauntered towards the pair. Riot touched his hat brim and deftly sidestepped her, leaving Garrett to deal with her while he threaded his way through the crowd.

  The side room was quieter, filled with men and women sitting around tables enjoying more subdued conversation. Billy Blackburn was easy to spot: peaked flat cap, blue silk scarf, and starched collar with a little metal tie button. Riot guessed him to be in the middle of a hard thirties. He was swarthy and clean-shaven, with the sides of his black hair nearly shorn.

  There were two men at the table with Billy, dressed in similar fashion. Their table was in the middle of the room, so there would be no putting his back to a wall. Riot pulled a chair over from a nearby table and sat down at theirs without invitation. Conversation died, and the trio glared.

  “I need a word with Mr. Blackburn here,” Riot said, placing his hat on the table.