The Gilded Age Part 7

"Mr. Wilde languishes in prison even as we speak, but I cannot vouch for Mr. Beardsley. We do call him Awfully Wierdsley," Mr. Watkins says. "Poor fellow is a wreck with the consumption. They say he won't live out the year."

"So young and talented, what a shame." Jessie clinks her goblet with his. "That's why I say eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die." They drain their goblets and Jessie refreshes them. "Mr. Watkins, what with your interest in ladies' fas.h.i.+on and art and the theater, you're not a queen, are you?"

"Heavens, you are blunt, Miss Malone. But no, whatever else I am, that I am not," he says without missing a beat." He drains his goblet again, holds it out for another round. "Have you read Mr. Wilde, then?"

"Of course. Why, I've read all them French poets, Baudelaire and Verlaine." Jessie takes her copy of Salon from the side table where she keeps naughty magazines like The Pearl and Boudoir. She leafs through the pages and strikes a pose, her hand aloft. "'G.o.ddesses riding hippogryphs and streaking their lapis lazuli wings with the death agony of clouds.'" She slaps the book shut. "Ain't it grand?"

"Indeed, but what the devil does it mean?"

"Jarred if I know, but it makes my head spin!" She refills her goblet. "This world has become such a cold, gray place, Mr. Watkins. Look at how life has changed. Them big ugly factories, and everyone sufferin' from the booms and the busts, and no one lives in the old hometown anymore. Maybe poets give us back romance and wonder. Maybe they can tell us what the world is really like, or used to be like, or will be like better than the newspapers. Maybe they tell us things one else will tell us, whether it's pretty as pink or black as death. What do you think of that, Mr. Watkins?"

"I think you're a remarkable woman, Miss Malone."

Hmph. Jessie whips out her fan. She's acutely aware of his unspoken insinuation, an insinuation she's heard before in conversations with gentlemen. She's a wh.o.r.e and never forget it. "I'm a woman of nice sensibilities and simple desires who has to keep up on the culture, Mr. Watkins," she says coolly. "These are modern times. We sporting women have got to amuse you men. You cannot imagine how easily men get bored of s.e.x." With a weary sigh, she lies down on her rose-colored satin divan, stifling a groan of pain. "You men would much rather drink or bet on the ponies than please a lady."

"Really." He stands over her like a lord claiming his territory. Lord Watkins, is he? "Boredom is the province of the unimaginative soul."

"Indeed." She is no man's territory. Not anymore. Jessie pulls herself up, though the pain is excruciating. "Look here, Mr. Watkins. I've been in the biz for d.a.m.n near twenty-five years. In case you don't get it, I own the Parisian Mansion on Sutter Street and cribs on Morton Alley and this boardinghouse which, thankfully, is also my own private residence after many years in the saddle. And a respectable place. I own what I own, I'm a proud citizen of the United States of America, and I can drink any man in San Francisco under the table. I am the Queen of the Underworld, Mr. Watkins, and don't you forget it."

He clinks his goblet with hers. "Tomorrow we die, my Queen."

"That we do, sir," she says primly, "and you must pay for your lodgings. Too bad about your boodle book being pinched and all. But how do you propose to pay me? The other gentlemen boarders pay me two months in advance. The rent is twenty-eight dollars a month for the suite with a private water closet and bath. Oh, and that includes board, too. Mariah cooks up a whopper of a breakfast."

"Miss Malone," he says returning to his chair and slumping wearily. "All the money I had was in that wallet." His face twitches, and Jessie instantly knows he's lying. But not about much. "The porter said the dip who took me is known as f.a.n.n.y Spiggott."

"Sure and the faintin' pickpocket." Jessie permits herself a mocking smile. Mr. Saint Louis, London, and Paris, taken by the likes of f.a.n.n.y? Lordy, he's greener than he lets on. But she relents. "That little twist bamboozles the best of 'em."

"Then you know I'm not lying. Look, Miss Malone, my father owns several properties in town. The mortgagors defaulted in the '93 crash. I've come to collect back payments and renegotiate terms or repossess the properties. When that's done, I shall be flush. It's as simple as that."

"But in the meantime, sir." She will permit this pup no slack.

"In the meantime? In that h.e.l.lishly heavy trunk I'm lugging is all the junk my mother left me when she died. Father doesn't want the stuff. French and English antiques, dusty eighteenth-century bric-a-brac. Maybe some of it is worth something. Do you know where I might sell it?

"Sure and you should take it to the Gump brothers. One thirteen Geary Street near Union Square is where you want to go. But first"--she's ever the fool for European antiques-"you must let me see what you've got."

"Certainly," he says with a sly look. "As for your advance on the rent, I've got something else in my baggage that may very well interest you." He clatters down the stairs and clatters back up again, carrying a square of canvas tacked to wood stretchers.

"Feast your eyes."

He shows her a painting of a bare-breasted woman with haunted, dreamy eyes rising up from a frothing sea. She clutches a young man in her long-fingered hands. But wait. She's not just a nude. At her naked waist, the woman transforms into a sea creature with s.h.i.+ning scales and an elegant fanned tail. A mermaid. A living mermaid, not a stone carving like the statue in Copenhagen, but a werewoman with pink and silver flesh, filled with strange pa.s.sions and ambiguous intent. She is l.u.s.t incarnate. She is death.

A mermaid, the way she and Rachael were mermaids at Lily Lake long ago.

"Jar me," Jessie murmurs.

"Like it?"

"Ain't never seen anything like it."

"She's yours. I picked her up for a song on the Left Bank. She's the latest fas.h.i.+on in Symbolist Art."

Jessie calculates, and calculates again. A modern French nude with an erotic fantasy theme? Sure and that's worth two months' rent at Miss Malone's Boardinghouse for Gentlemen. Not that she will ever sell this mermaid. Not in a hundred years.

"Done," she says, taking the painting before he can change his mind.

"Superb." Mr. Watkins relinquishes his treasure readily, eager to please. "And I shall sweeten the deal." Now he hands over a stack of magazines. "This is only to lend since I don't want to part with them permanently. But if you enjoy stories about other worlds, stories about what the world will be like, take a look."

Jessie takes the stack. The New Review, a British magazine from January through May, 1895. "But what is it?"

"This fellow named H. G. Wells wrote a terrific novel called The Time Machine. The Review ran it in five installments. All the literary critics in London, even that curmudgeon Frank Harris, call Wells quite the genius. And it is wonderful, Miss Malone! The story goes like this. A fellow invents a machine that takes him far into the future and back again, all to tell the tale. Can you imagine such a thing?"

"Do women have the vote in Mr. Wells's future?"

Mr. Watkins laughs. "Mr. Wells does not discuss woman suffrage. Which is a shame, now that you mention it."

"Will these magazines amuse my other gentlemen boarders?"

"I should say so, if they've got half their wits. And I shall be happy to lend them out, if that is your implication."

"Then I shall allow you to stay, Mr. Watkins, and see how the biz works out." Jessie drains the bottle of champagne. "Let's have a look at your rooms."

Jessie shows him the suite, which Li'l Lucy speedily vacated, leaving only a hint of her fleshy scent behind. The parlor is furnished with handsome redwood tables, chairs, a chest, and a writing desk. A fireplace and a store of dry kindling. The bedchamber is larger, with a Belgian wool carpet in somber hues, and a st.u.r.dy bra.s.s bed frame which Mariah polishes to a gleaming gold. The water closet is quite modern, as well as the large claw-footed tub with running hot and cold water. She informs him that he will have to schedule his bath since the plumbing can tolerate only one soak at time.

"This is quite splendid, Miss Malone."

Jessie hands him the bra.s.s key. "Live up to my expectations, Mr. Watkins."

"I shall try my best, Miss Malone." He reaches for her, embracing her waist.

She breaks free, backs away. "I do believe you've been lonely too long, Mr. Watkins. You need to hire yourself a filly."

"I never pay for wh.o.r.es. Roch.e.l.le, my cancan dancer in Paris, gave herself freely, though I must say, I seldom touched her, if you understand my meaning."

Jessie understands his meaning only too well. Mr. Heald is only too fresh in her memory and in her mouth. He seldom touches her, either.

"We shall see after you get a load of my stable," she says. "Just between you and me, do not gamble at the Mansion. The games are rigged."

He laughs. "Thank you for the tip."

"You miss your mama, don't you?" she asks, half hoping to cut him down a notch or two.

"She was a lady." He shrugs. His eyes glint for a moment, then die out. "I am famished, Miss Malone. Will you dine with me?" He turns away, crestfallen. "Oh, pardon me, I haven't got a red cent."

Tomorrow we die. "Meet me downstairs in half an hour. I'll stand you for dinner at the Poodle Dog."

"You're very gracious."

"Gracious, pah. I shall add the expense to your bill when you scare up the scratch to pay me."

"Gracious and fair."

She fairly flies up the stairs like a spring chicken. Dinner with a handsome young foreign-looking gentleman at the Poodle Dog, where all them Sn.o.b Hill gentlemen go to dine on some of the finest French food in town. How tongues will wag when she strolls in with Mr. Watkins. She yells for Mariah, who has mounted her watch on the rooftop again.

Mariah wearily climbs in the window, softly cursing. Sure and Jessie knows them Sn.o.b Hill gentlemen. When they get a gander of her with the likes of Mr. Watkins, they'll be panting at her door to see what new tricks she's learned. If she's going to stand the pup for dinner, she may as well reap whatever harvest she can from his company. The biz is the biz.

"It's advertising," she tells Mariah, who helps her s.h.i.+mmy off the pink silk frock. "It's the American way."

"I'd watch out for that young gentleman, if I was you."

"Sure and I'm watchin' him," Jessie says gleefully. The ladies in France are tightening the G.o.dd.a.m.n waist? "Relace my corset, Mariah."

"Please, Miss Malone. Madame De Ca.s.sin has pleaded with you to go see the doctor about that pain."

"Relace the corset. Tighter. Tighter!"

Mariah does and when Jessie cries out, Mariah feeds her another dose of Scotch Oats Essence. Then they pour her into the mauve damask evening dress with lace festoons, garlands of pearls, and crystal pendants on the bust. Jessie finds her blue diamond earrings and filigree necklace, pulls on opera-length mauve satin gloves. She fills her handbag with two hundred dollars in gold coins. When the Queen of the Underworld goes out of the town, she goes with plenty of gold. Then she saunters downstairs to Mr. Watkins.

He's waiting in the foyer, spruced up and spiffy in a black wool Prince Albert suit, an ivory silk s.h.i.+rt with a thin red pinstripe, a red silk vest, a red silk French necktie, and black leather boots. He's slicked down his thick brown curls so they fall behind his ears almost to his shoulders and donned a black silk top hat.

"You're a daisy, darlin'," Jessie says.

"You're a picture yourself, my Queen," he says and offers his elbow.

They stroll out the door of 263 Dupont Street into the dust and clouds of gunpowder, the stench of spilled rotgut. The frenzied celebration of the Fourth of July carries on well into the deepening dusk. Drunken brawls ring out from every corner. Squealing horses rear and bolt. Wives scream and cry and plead with their husbands to come home. Men lie pa.s.sed out pie-eyed on the street or stagger in chortling packs, arms entwined over each other's shoulders. The street hookers flirt, poxy and crude. Jessie sniffs with disdain. Them chits are as many cla.s.ses down from Jessie as Jessie is from a Sn.o.b Hill lady. Maybe more.

She hails a hack just as Mr. Jackson's elegant hansom is trotting up Dupont Street. Abundant silver trim gleams on the fine mahogany leather. Jessie hesitates, her idle flirtation with Mr. Watkins forgotten. Mr. Jackson is a good john, regular and always very flush. An aging Silver King, he was once a rival of one of Jessie's beaux. Now he patronizes Jessie's parlor as much as he patronizes the girls on Sutter Street, if only for petty revenge. Is Mr. Jackson headed her way? She cranes her neck.

Then suddenly a black brougham careens through the intersection, slamming broadside into Mr. Jackson's hansom. Horses shriek and kick. The drivers leap down from their seats and seize the horses' bridles, trying to calm the beasts. Mr. Jackson dismounts from the hansom, seizes his driver's horsewhip, and confronts the offending brougham and its occupants.

They spill out, three tong men dressed all in black, their queues coiled at the napes of their necks. They wear black slouch hats and black slippers. A wiry, tattooed fellow with a knife tucked in his belt begins to berate Mr. Jackson in a high, excited gibber. A fat man with diamond rings scornfully surveys the gathering crowd. And a third man, tall and gaunt, a black eyepatch over his left socket, barks orders at his driver.

Them's the hatchet men Jessie saw in the park! And there, crawling out of the brougham, is the tall, thin lady in gray silk they accosted, towing the squalling Chinese wretch by her elbow. Mr. Jackson's driver and the driver of the brougham shout at each other, curse and argue. The brougham driver swings his fist at Mr. Jackson's driver, and Mr. Jackson shouts at the hatchet men, cracking the horsewhip.

Jessie rushes over, her earlier outrage kicking up like a mule. A lady, a proper citizen accosted by tong men! What's the city coming to? What's next?

Jessie runs to the lady and takes her arm, and the lady throws back her veil. In the dusk, Jessie stares, disbelieving. The lady has pale golden skin, high cheekbones, and slanted eyes, the most amazing eyes Jessie has ever seen, the irises the gleaming green color of shamrocks. A Chinese woman? In a proper lady's outing togs?

"They've been driving and driving, going all over town," the lady says, breathing heavily. "I can't think what they're doing, except looking for a place where they can imprison us." She looks at Jessie, beseeching. "They seem to think they own her, but they certainly don't own me."

Sure and the lady speaks perfect, educated-sounding English. And then Jessie hears a tiny voice tingling in the air over the lady's head. Like a spirit! Lordy, there's something extraordinary about this lady!

Without thinking twice-a bad habit of hers-Jessie strides up to the eyepatch.

"How much for her?" she shouts at him, pointing at the lady.

The eyepatch turns, surprised. He knows Jessie, sure and everyone in town knows the Queen of the Underworld. His eye narrows. "How much?"

"Yeah, how much?" she snaps. "Be quick about it."

The eyepatch spits words at the wiry fellow and the fat man, who withdraw from the confrontation with Mr. Jackson and his driver. The eyepatch points at the wretch. "That one, she ours."

"Hmph! I don't want no Chinee chit." She spills out a hundred dollars in double eagles, which is probably way too much for the lady if she's consumptive or poxy. Still, Jessie is determined to get the lady out of this predicament. She's got a feeling. What do you call it? A premonition. "The one in the gray dress, you dunce."

The eyepatch grins and seizes the gold. "She yours."

Jessie takes the lady's arm. "Come along. We should vamoose."

"Jade Eyes!" cries the wretch as the fat man wrestles her back into the brougham. "Do not leave me, Jade Eyes!"

"I can't leave that girl with those men!" the lady says angrily. The tiny voice chimes again over her head. Like a spirit. Just like a sweet spirit.

Jessie pulls her away, out of the street. "Miss, please. There's nothing you can do for that chit." Jessie pats the lady's hard, thin arm, well pleased with herself. "As for you, now you belong to me."

October 12, 1895.

Columbus Day.

4.

Up and Down Dupont Street.

This is the United States of America, 1895. President Lincoln announced the Emanc.i.p.ation Proclamation thirty-two years ago. Casualties of the War Between the States have lain in their graves longer than Zhu Wong has been alive in the future. Slavery has been abolished in America. Everyone here is free.

And I'm not, Zhu thinks as she sits at the breakfast table.

"What I need is red wine and plenty of it," Jessie Malone proclaims, tossing her blond curls. Dissatisfied with her natural endowments, Jessie pins hair switches from the Montgomery Ward catalog here and there in her tremendous coiffure. "Go fetch me red wine, missy, and be quick about it."

"For breakfast, Miss Malone?"

"Lordy, no, for the Mansion. For the gentlemen tonight. It's Columbus Day! Don't you know anything?"

"I beg your pardon, Miss Malone," she says deferentially, as is fitting for an indentured servant. She mutters to Muse, "Columbus Day? I can't keep these American holidays straight."

"In fourteen hundred and ninety-two," Muse whispers in her ear, "Columbus sailed the ocean blue."

Excellent, Zhu mutters under her breath. Now Muse is spouting doggerel.

Jessie looks at her askance. What must she look like, forever muttering to herself and rolling her eyes to the side to view whatever Muse has posted in her peripheral vision?