Parlor Games (19 page)

“I’ll clean up and get dessert ready,” said Sue Marie, leaving us at the table.

The sounds of colliding metal and china clanged from the kitchen as Sue Marie cleaned the pots, plates, and utensils she’d dirtied during her culinary escapade. I kept a close eye on Juan, trying to figure out if his drink had been fixed. The kitchen noise subsided and Sue Marie peeked out, craning her neck to see over Juan’s shoulder. I truly hoped she hadn’t slipped him knockout drops. I had enough to worry about: making it through the night without questions about the ledger; retrieving my suitcase; and getting us out of town before Juan visited his bank in the morning.

“Tell me, Mr. Ramón,” she said, striding toward us, “have you tried apple pie? It’s an American specialty, you know.”

Juan, who had grown taciturn, twisted around toward her and, like a pendulum unable to stop its momentum, pitched off his chair and onto the floor.

I bolted to his side and crouched over him. “Juan, Juan.”

His eyes rolled back. He lolled his head toward me and spoke with a thick tongue. “My heart … bad. Please, a doctor.”

Sue Marie looked down on him, a hand worrying her brow. “Mr. Ramón, oh, Mr. Ramón.”

I shot her an accusing glance. Just as I thought—she’d plied him with knockout drops.

Juan’s eyes closed and his limbs flopped at his sides, strewn at odd angles.

I bent over his face and held my hand under his nostrils. His breaths came in ragged pulls. “Juan, can you hear me?”

He budged not one bit.

I looked up at Sue Marie. “Look what you’ve done.”

“It won’t kill him. Let’s get out of here.”

I stood, grabbed her by the sleeve, and dragged her into the bedroom, shutting the door. “He has a weak heart. He needs a doctor.”

“We can’t risk it.”

“Are you crazy? If he dies, we’ll be charged with murder.”

“He’s just knocked out, you fool.”

“He could be dying. We have to do something.”

“All right, fine. Get your coat.” Sue Marie bustled out of the room.

I ran to the closet and grabbed my coat and a broad-brimmed hat.

As I fastened my hat, Sue Marie rushed back into the bedroom,
waving Juan’s opened wallet. “I can’t believe it. All he has is a measly hundred fifty-seven dollars.”

“Never mind. Let’s get him to a doctor.”

“No,” she said, stuffing Juan’s wallet into her purse. She reached for my arm. “We have to get out of here.”

I backed away from her grasp. “I’m not taking a chance on a murder charge—for you or me.”

“Don’t be stupid. We’ll catch a train and get out of town.”

“I won’t do it. Not until I know he’s safe.”

She grabbed me by the hand. “Let’s go.”

I hitched my free arm around the bedpost and braced myself against her tug. “I’m not budging.”

She tried to unhook my arm from the post.

I wrapped both my arms tight around the bedpost. “I don’t want you charged with murder.”

“You’re in on it, too,” she said, grabbing me around the waist and yanking me so hard my corset pinched.

“I’ve got the money.” I released the bedpost and stood blocking her way to my suitcase.

She dropped on her stomach and lunged under the bed for my suitcase.

I dropped down on top of her and straddled her back, grabbing her legs so she couldn’t kick her way free. She tried to push back from under the bed, but I kept all my weight on her.

“Let me go,” she hollered.

Then I thought of her employer. Bordellos always have a doctor to call on. “Miss Winters can find a doctor. Let’s get him there, and then we can leave.”

“All right, all right,” she said.

“Promise?”

“Yes, let me go.”

“Can I trust you this time?”

“Yes, now get off me.”

I stood and released her.

She wriggled out from under the bed, rose, and shot me a look of disgust. “I’ll get a carriage.”

It took both of us and the driver to drag Juan down the stairs and
into the carriage. The driver hurried his horses through pouring rain and pulled up to a three-story cream-and-green Italianate house. Sue Marie ran in and returned with a short, burly man. He and the carriage driver hauled Juan around to the back door, and Sue Marie and I trailed along at the tail end of the sorry entourage. The two men laid Juan out on a sofa in the parlor, his hair dripping wet, face glistening with moisture, and clothes soaked.

We found ourselves in a compact room named “the Forty-Niner’s Parlor,” which was decorated with red wallpaper, gold pans, and a red velvet sofa and sitting chairs. I pulled the carriage driver aside and asked him to wait for Sue Marie and me by the rear door, hoping we could fetch our suitcases and leave as soon as possible. I knelt over Juan. His breathing was slow but steady.

The back door slammed. I pivoted around to check it; the carriage driver had slunk off. Sue Marie and I were stuck without a carriage—while a heavy rain poured down outside. I wondered if the man who’d helped carry Juan in was the house driver, and if he might be compelled to drive us to Juan’s apartment. I looked around the room and caught the man’s eye. He wiped his face dry with his sleeve, all the time glaring at Sue Marie and me as if he’d rather spit on us than say, “How do you do.”

The white-haired Lillie Winters stormed into the room and closed the door. “What’s the meaning of this?”

I stood and walked to Sue Marie’s side, keeping my eyes downcast.

All meekness, Sue Marie said, “We were having dinner with Miss Townsend’s gentleman and he passed out. He needs a doctor.”

Realizing introductions would not be forthcoming, I said, “He has a bad heart.”

“And what business is it of mine?” Miss Winters’s big-boned frame towered over Juan’s prostrate body. She stared at Sue Marie. “Well?”

“I would have brought him to a doctor but I thought it might look bad, especially if anybody found out where I worked.”

Miss Winters cast a doubting scowl at Sue Marie and turned to the man who’d helped carry Juan in. “Angelo. Go get Dr. Ford.”

Angelo dashed off, and Miss Winters faced Sue Marie again. “The doctor will want to know if anything contributed to his state.”

“He’d just had dinner, that’s all.”

Miss Winters planted a hand on her hip. “Did you give him knockout drops?”

Sue Marie clapped her fingertips to her cheek. “Why would I do that?”

Miss Winters let out a snorting humph and said, “You know very well.”

Over the next hour, Sue Marie, Miss Winters, and I kept watch over Juan while a stream of perhaps a dozen girls passed by the doorway, peering at the scene and whispering among themselves.

When the doctor arrived, he pulled a stethoscope out of his bag, leaned over Juan, and checked his chest and pulse.

Sue Marie brushed her palms together and turned to Miss Winters. “Pauline and I should really get back to Mr. Ramón’s apartment.”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” she said, glaring at Sue Marie. “You brought him here, and you’ll see this through.”

While I tried to cook up a reason for us to leave, heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway, approaching the parlor.

A thickset, veiny-nosed police officer elbowed his way through the girls jamming the doorway. “What’s going on here?”

Damnation, I thought, the carriage driver must have squealed.

The doctor said, “This man was brought here unconscious.”

Juan, who had been roused with some smelling salts, moaned with grogginess.

The police officer pulled a chair up alongside Juan. “Can you tell me what happened, sir?”

Juan shook his head. He managed only halting words. “Passed … out.”

The officer nodded.

Juan tried to sit up but only managed to scoot himself closer to the arm of the sofa, which he flopped against. He reached inside his jacket pocket. “My … wallet.”

The police officer looked around at me, Sue Marie, and Miss Winters. “Who brought him here?”

Miss Winters poked her chin at Sue Marie and me. “The two of them.”

The officer stood. “And where did you bring him from?”

“His apartment,” I offered, frantically trying to devise some escape
from the officer’s scrutiny. But running was impossible—there were too many people blocking the doors. Besides, bolting would have only confirmed our guilt.

“Was he conscious then?”

“Barely,” I said, fearing Sue Marie and I were cooked. “But he keeps his wallet on his dresser at home.”

The officer bent over Juan. “Did you have your wallet on you at your home, sir?”

Juan nodded.

The doctor gathered up his instruments and turned to the officer. “I’d like to get him to the hospital.”

“Of course, in a minute,” the police officer replied. He stepped toward Sue Marie and me. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to search you two ladies.”

“Oh, I remember now,” said Sue Marie, reaching into her purse and offering up the wallet. “I took it out of his vest when he passed out. I thought it might have his doctor’s name in it.”

The officer snatched the wallet from her hand.

Juan held his hands up and studied his wrists. “Where are … my cuff links?”

Miss Winters rolled her eyes and shook a finger at Sue Marie. “I will not put up with thieving by any of my girls.”

My God, she’d snitched his cuff links, too. Her thieving ways had finally caught up with her—and me.

The officer wagged his head. “You won’t have to, Miss Winters. Young ladies, I’m arresting you on the charge of larceny.”

OUT OF THE FRYING PAN
SAN FRANCISCO—APRIL 1890

I
have never been so mortified in all my life. Dear Lord, I prayed, may Maman never learn of this. The police officer searched us—right in front of Juan, the doctor, Miss Winters, and four gaping girls—and discovered Juan’s diamond cuff links in Sue Marie’s not-so-secret dress pocket. Then he carted Sue Marie and me off to the Tenderloin precinct jail and photographed each of us in front of a white wall. By the time we were marched into a ten-by-ten cell with only a sink, toilet, and two bunks, I was so angry I could have boxed Sue Marie’s ears. Her shenanigans had led to nothing but complications for me. The last thing I needed was that scoundrel Reed Dougherty getting wind of this arrest and using my past to seal a conviction against me here.

We were the only prisoners on our side of the cell block, though I presumed that men inhabited the block beyond ours. Looping one of my arms around a cell bar, I watched the lone guard on duty retreat through the door at the front of our corridor. I scowled at Sue Marie. “They’ve got a photograph of me.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, eyeing the keyhole and removing a pin from her hair. “They don’t have your real name.”

“Pictures don’t lie, you fool.”

“They took my picture, too.” She wriggled her tortoise-shell hairpin around in the lock, but with no results. “You see me squawking about it?”

I took my metal hairpin out, bent one of its prongs to a ninety-degree angle, and handed it to her. “You and your stupid schemes. Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone?”

Sue Marie stuck her hairpin onto the top of her messed-up hair and poked the one I’d rigged into the lock. “Because he was nothing but a skinflint.”

“We never talked about fixing his drink.”

Sue Marie smirked. “Did you think I was planning a church picnic?”

“If I’d known, I wouldn’t have gone along with it.”

“Oh, quit playing holier-than-thou. You’ve been complaining about him for months.”

“That was no call for knocking him out. Or stealing his cuff links.”

Sue Marie extracted the hairpin from the lock and spun around toward me. “At least you’re done with the piker.”

I gasped. “And jail is better?”

“Maybe better than a whorehouse,” she said, plunking herself down on the bottom bed.

“Sometimes I wish I’d never met you,” I said, glaring at her. My affection for Sue Marie was quickly being supplanted by annoyance with her exceedingly poor judgment. “And don’t think you’re getting the bottom bunk, either.”

The next hour, between the guard’s occasional comings and goings, we bickered like a couple of old maids. But picking the lock was getting us nowhere. So we wised up and figured we were in this together and had better find a way out of it together. Besides, putting up with the stench of urine and clammy concrete walls for even that long was enough to turn us as agreeable as honeymooners.

When the guard, a young, pink-complexioned fellow with sandy hair and freckles, swung around again to check on us, Sue Marie played as if she were passing out, and I asked if he could please bring us a moist cloth. The guard returned and poked a soggy rag between the bars. Once I’d revived Sue Marie, I asked his name.

“Warren, Benjamin Warren,” he said.

“Thank you for helping us, Benjamin.” I reasoned I could get away with calling him by his first name, given the barely discernible blond whiskers poking out on his boyish face.

“Think nothing of it, miss.” He shuffled his feet, as if uncertain whether to leave or stay.

I faced him square-on. “I suppose you’ve seen all kinds of outlaws.”

“I could tell stories like you’ve never heard,” he said, nervously fingering his buttons.