The Gilded Age

3

Miss Malone’s Boardinghouse for Gentlemen

“Jar me, I’ll not have my Fourth of July cooked,” says Jessie Malone to the eager gentleman as he negotiates with her in the downstairs smoking parlor. “And on a Thursday, which, I’ll have you know, is my most magnetic day.”

“Magnetic day?” says the gentleman, feigning surprise. Jessie knows very well that his wife, who also consults with the famed spiritualist Madame De Cassin, surely possesses a most magnetic day herself. You don’t blow it in on a magnetic day. Still, if Mrs. Heald was more of a slut and less of a shrew, Mr. Heald might not be speaking so eagerly with Jessie right now. “What the devil is your ‘magnetic day’?”

“Sure and it’s the day when I speak with the sweet spirits.” The bell chimes. “Ah! There’s someone at the door.”

Mr. Heald twirls the graying tufts of his tremendous mustache and smirks. How transparent men are. Plotting how he can convince her otherwise. He would not dare broach the topic of the increase in the civic contribution he delivers for her to certain persons in the mayor’s office. Not when he wants to dip his wick. The biz is the biz, no less and never more when it comes to Mr. Heald. Sure and Mr. Heald is such a dear friend from the days when she was the toast of the town and the special gal of the Silver Kings.

“Now, Jessie. To hell with the spirits and your magnetic days. To hell with whoever is at the door. To hell with the Fourth of July.”

“Mr. Heald! I thought you were a patriot.”

“You’ve had your breakfast and your outing. Now I want to go upstairs like we agreed. Did we not agree?”

Jessie smooths the feathers of the pressed hummingbirds decorating her Caroline hat. She brushes dust from the pink flounces and bows on her bodice. She spies a clot of horse dung clinging to the hem of her pink topskirt, gives the filthy silk a good shaking. Mariah will need to clean the carpet. “No, I’m all done in. Good day, Mr. Heald.”

“Now, Jessie.” His tone deepens alarmingly, though he’s more or less sober. Mr. Heald takes her wrist in his hands that have been known to throttle a man. She does not struggle, but merely lifts her face and raises her eyebrows. He lets go, but her wrist throbs. He broke it once. When was that? Years ago, so many years ago, perhaps not long after the time when she was a mermaid at Lily Lake. Was it really dear Mr. Heald who broke her wrist? Never mind. She’s lost track of time, of men. “Do not get shy on me.”

“Shy! Mr. Heald, I cannot abide that ruckus in the park. It has made me weary.” Cannot abide? She is outraged by the affront she witnessed in Golden Gate Park.

How she loves her traditional Fourth of July outing! A fitting tribute to the United States of America, this great and marvelous country that has allowed her, Miss Jessie Malone, once a penniless orphan, now a woman of nice sensibilities and simple desires, to amass a modest fortune. Her custom on the Fourth of July is take breakfast with a roast turkey, champagne, and a gentleman. Then on to Golden Gate Park for a promenade through Concert Valley. A breath of air, a shot of sunlight, and the company of fine, upstanding San Franciscans. How she loves to see the little children skip and run, admire the ladies in their frocks, nod to gentlemen she scarcely ever sees in the broad day. She feels patriotic and righteous though her liver aches beneath the stays of her corset. The Doan’s Pills this morning haven’t helped.

There’s a goddamn war among the tongs these days, as if a woman of her sensibilities didn’t know. They’re gangs, of course, organized crime despite the excuses of the Six Companies, Chinatown’s official liaison. The tongs deal in coolies, slave girls, opium, weapons, extortion, murder-for-hire. They’ve got codes and signals. Each tong man wears a special coil in his queue, a particular cap, an earring, a snippet of embroidery on his jacket. There must be thirty tongs operating in San Francisco, with rivalries and feuds bloodier than thirty cockfights. Lately the highbinders have been hacking each other to bits right beneath the very noses of the bulls running this burg. The stories Jessie has heard.

But that’s Chinatown. Not Golden Gate Park on the Fourth of the July. What is the city coming to?

The bell chimes again, and Li’l Lucy, a housecoat slung over her corset and bloomers, flies out of the bedroom on the second floor and hurtles down the stairs.

“Li’l Lucy,” Jessie calls sternly as she passes by the parlor.

“Yes, Miss Malone.” Li’l Lucy skids to a halt. She’s a pastry of a girl, all buttery and plump, which is the rage in Jessie’s biz. Li’l Lucy is under contract at Jessie’s Sutter Street resort, the Parisian Mansion. She had gotten in the family way for the second time and spent the past week recuperating after her medical treatment. She does not look proper with her housecoat flapping open. Not here, at the boardinghouse, which is a respectable establishment.

Jessie frowns. “Why aren’t you dressed, Li’l Lucy?”

“Oh, Miss Malone, I still ache.”

Hmph. Jessie seizes the ties of Li’l Lucy’s housecoat and wraps them tightly around her waist twice, securing the ends in a gay bow. She arranges Li’l Lucy’s yellow curls across her forehead, smoothing strands down her plump neck. She wets her forefinger and smooths Li’l Lucy’s eyebrows, vigorously pinches the girl’s cheeks, the fullness of her lips. The girl’s tender skin blooms with pain and color.

“There. You gotta get back in the habit of groomin’, Li’l Lucy. That’s what gentlemen expect. Now you may answer the door.”

“Yes, Miss Malone. Thank you, Miss Malone.” Li’l Lucy gazes at her like a starving she- dog given a thimble of cream.

Jessie frowns, watching her go. The plumpness is starting to sag. The girl is too careless. Li’l Lucy is becoming more trouble than she’s worth.

“Now, Jessie,” Mr. Heald says again, pleading. He takes the liberty of nuzzling the diamonds dangling from her earlobes. Diamonds that beat anything Mrs. Heald owns. “You can speak to the spirits later, can you not? Right now, my own sweet spirit, I thought we could go upstairs. Like we agreed.”

His mustache tickles, well, she likes mustaches well enough and just about every fashionable gentleman wears them these days. Upstairs is her private parlor. She doesn’t have to live at the Parisian Mansion, not anymore. She can afford door maids to handle the traffic when she’s not there.

“I have a caller, Mr. Heald. You heard the bell.”

“Jessie, please. Have pity on me.”

Pity. Sure and Jessie Malone has pity for no one. Still, she sinks to her knees in the smoking parlor, grunting when her joints complain. She should not have to do this anymore, truly she should not. But there’s the boodle for certain persons in the mayor’s office. Perhaps Mr. Heald, being such a dear friend, may persuade those persons that her civic contribution is adequate and need not be increased.

She tugs at the buttons on his trousers.

Gentlemen, pah. Like most of his Snob Hill associates, Mr. Heald is a fool and a coward. A deadbeat when it comes to the behavior she expects of him. Allowing tong men to carry on in full view of law-abiding citizens.

Tong men—hatchet men, highbinders, the boo how doy—all words for the same wretched creatures. She knows why they made a fuss in the park, all right. The ragged Chinese girl is likely to fetch up to two thousand in gold, if she’s fifteen or sixteen. Well, the biz is the biz. Jessie doesn’t give two hoots about that. No, the outrage is that hatchet men were troubling a consumptive-looking lady in a veil and a smart gray dress. A lady, on the Fourth of July!

Jessie trembles with anger, but she finishes her work. Mr. Heald, thank goodness, is done quickly. She glances up. He’s got that sagging look he always gets through the jowls after he’s done. She dabs a handkerchief to her lips, and he helps her to her feet. Suddenly she’s weary of him, of him and all the gentlemen she has ever serviced. They’re not even human beings to her anymore. She needs a drink.

“That will be the usual for the pleasure of my company, Mr. Heald,” she says primly.

Not a moment too soon. She hears voices murmuring, Li’l Lucy conversing with the caller, and he answering. A man, of course. Jessie checks her face in one of the mirrors and peers out the door of the smoking parlor. She glimpses gray gabardine, a blue vest and necktie, an expensive bowler. He inquires about lodgings in a charming accent. She spies his hefty trunk and a collection of baggage he’s vigorously stacking in the foyer. Sure and he’s a vigorous one, she can see it from here. Young and vigorous, brown curls tumbling down his neck.

“Now, Jessie,” Mr. Heald says, pulling her back to him. “If truth be told, I thought this was for friendship, not the usual.”

“If truth be told, Mr. Heald, it’s always the usual.”

Jessie whips out her pink lace fan and stirs up a breeze in front of her flushed face. A drink, a drink, she needs a drink. She runs to the window, leans out, and yells, “Mariah! Mariah!” The maid is on the roof, keeping a lookout for stray rockets with a broom and two pails of water. On the Fourth of July in ’93, a rocket landed on the eaves of Hunter’s Resort on Water Street in Sausalito and damn near burned down the entire business district. Jessie has no intention of losing this house, a very fine three-story Stick-Eastlake with extra gingerbread and a proper paint job that cost her an arm and a leg. “Get down here, Mariah, we’ve got company. And bring me some champagne.”

“Ah, now I see,” Mr. Heald says, straightening his vest. “You’re still angry about those Chinee hoodlums, eh? Now, Jessie. Chinee business is no business of ours. Why, you ought to know that. You are the Queen of the Underworld. Why should a little discombobulation like that put you off your feed?”

“The Queen of the Underworld is never off her feed, Mr. Heald,” she answers tartly.

“Well, then. I expect such tenderheartedness from my. . . .that is, from the ladies of the Western Addition. Not from the Queen of the Underworld, eh?” Mr. Heald’s eyes glisten at Jessie’s self-proclaimed title, which is as much a flattery to her as a titillation to him.

“Oh, you expect, do you, Mr. Heald? Well, the Queen of the Underworld says there is a place for sin and a time for sin. And that time and that place is not during my Fourth of July promenade in the park.”

Jessie gasps for breath, she is so truly distraught. Then she does her act. One of her acts. She breaks out into tears, great fat raindrops of tears, the kind that can really drench the heart of Mr. Heald and all the likes of Mr. Heald. She fans herself furiously, peeking through her deluge at his mortified face.

“Now, Jessie,” Mr. Heald says gently. “I had no notion you were such a patriot.” He fumbles in his vest and pulls out a fistful of double eagles. He spills them on the table for the pleasure of her company.

“Thank you, Mr. Heald.” Jessie permits herself a trembling little smile.

Oh, how she loves double eagles! Her favorite of all the gold coins circulating in San Francisco. So pretty. Madame De Cassin says the American eagle is really the phoenix, the mythical bird that never dies. He just hatches over and over again from the flames and lives forever. Jessie loves that idea. The phoenix is like the soul, dying and being born again in the Summerland. Like her Rachael, her sweet innocent Rachael who speaks to her from the Summerland, thanks to Madame De Cassin’s expertise. Double eagles. Jessie wouldn’t think of taking anything less, let alone that worthless paper money. Government certificates, pah. You cannot even bite them.

“Let us forget all about those hoodlums,” Mr. Heald says, watching as she turns the coins over in her palm, fingering them, stroking them. He tugs at the buttons on his trousers. “Let us forget all about the heathen Chinee, and the park, and all such argle-bargle, shall we? Let us go upstairs.”

Jessie snaps the fan shut and smartly slaps the ivory rib of it against his plump cheek. “Forget about the highbinders? I should say not! You are a coward, Mr. Heald. I’ll entertain no cowards today. Mariah!”

The maid climbs down from the fire escape, her black skirts billowing around her ankles. Not some auntie or chippy is Jessie’s Mariah, oh no. Mariah is a prize, one of the coveted Negro maids hired straight out of the Palace Hotel for a pretty penny. Mariah takes as high a wage as a hotel chef, since she can cook something grand, keeps the boardinghouse spotless, and keeps her mouth shut. Mariah knows exactly how to behave around the likes of Mr. Heald. She demurely draws her skirts through the window and glares at the gentleman with so evil an eye that Mr. Heald blanches visibly.

Now Jessie is in distress. After all this excitement, her liver positively throbs. She cannot see a caller in this condition. “Fetch me my Scotch Oats Essence, Mariah. And be quick! I feel faint.”

Mariah scurries for the medicine and a spoon of pure gold. How Jessie loves gold! And how she loves the pale green bottle filled with the precious medicine. The label depicts a buxom, apple-cheeked mother stirring a brew in a cast-iron cauldron while a bevy of cupids flutter all around her on pink wings. Mariah expertly slides a dose through Jessie’s lips, and in a trice, Jessie feels absolutely healthful again. The delicious bitter tonic slides down her throat with a burning sensation, yet swells her head with a sanguine joy that assures her she will live forever, never mind the ache in her liver.

She slides the fan into her sleeve and peers in the mirror again. She always looks so much better after a dose of Scotch Oats Essence. “Not bad for forty,” she tells her reflection. Forty years old? Can it really be? She smooths some ruby-colored balm over her pursed lips. Mr. Heald watches her, his mouth falling slightly open, his eyes glazed. He likes to watch her put on makeup. A lot of men do. Them Snob Hill ladies never use face paint. That’s why them Snob Hill ladies always look so plain, in spite of their fancy togs.

“You don’t look a day over twenty, Jessie,” Mr. Heald says in a ragged whisper.

“Nor am I, darlin’,” she tells him. He is so eager, he’ll pay double the usual when she gets around to entertaining him again. “Nor am I.”

* * *

“Joaquin Miller sent me,” the caller tells her. He leaves off brushing dust from his jacket and politely bows, then pulls out a smoke and lights it, his hands trembling.

Li’l Lucy gazes at him as if he were a shot of fine-aged bourbon and she a-dyin’ of thirst.

Jessie enters the foyer regally, Mr. Heald ambling behind her like a courtier at her beck and call, his respectable appearance enhancing her own prestige. The caller examines them curiously. Jessie loves making a grand entrance like one of them Snob Hill ladies.

“Joaquin Miller,” she says. “Now, there’s a good egg even if he is an odd bird. He says he gimped that leg of his fighting the wild Cherokee, but have you noticed he never limps on the same foot twice? I am Miss Jessie Malone, proprietress and landlady of this establishment. What’s your name, buster?”

“I am Daniel J. Watkins of Saint Louis, London, and Paris.”

“Paris! You just blew in from Paris?” Jessie whips out her fan, concealing her excitement behind the lace. “Are they still wearing bustles in Paris, Mr. Watkins?”

“Heavens, no, Miss Malone. Mr. Worth has eliminated the bustle in his latest creations, which I for one most approve of. Now a gentleman can admire the long, slow sweep of a lady’s hip. Do you not agree, sir?” he says to Mr. Heald.

Mr. Heald stares, stupefied.

Li’l Lucy turns beet red and giggles like a lunatic.

Jessie shushes the girl but she can barely contain herself, either. A gentleman who can yap about Paris fashions! About Mr. Worth’s latest creations! Can you imagine! But her suspicious nature kicks up. Is he one of those odd birds who attends drag parties? She’s been hired to attend drag parties. There was one on Snob Hill where the whiskey magnate demanded that she lace up his corset extra tight. The long, slow sweep of a lady’s hip, indeed.

“Sure and aren’t you an outspoken young gentleman.” Jessie saunters over to him and circles him, making a show of brushing dust from the back of his jacket. She runs her hand down the long, slow sweep of his back. Young and vigorous, all right, with some little gun tucked in the back of his belt. It would be a crying shame for the ladies of San Francisco if he turned out to be a fairy. “You have an interest in ladies’ fashions?”

“Only when they’re being discarded.”

Li’l Lucy presses her palm to her mouth.

“And Mr. Worth,” Mr. Watkins continues smoothly, “has widened the sleeves and the front of the skirt. Tightened the waist and added fullness to the bosom, pardon my language, miss,” he says to Li’l Lucy, who is beside herself with giggles. “So that a lady like yourself, Miss Malone, will show the perfect figure. Like an hourglass, is how they put it.”

What gentleman in this burg has flattered her so shamelessly, can anyone tell her that? Jessie tosses her head and stands back, trying to size him up. Is Mr. Daniel J. Watkins of Saint Louis, London, and Paris a little too smooth? What is he, anyway? A gambler or a tool? She’s been scammed and chiseled before. She’ll tolerate no deadheads in her establishment.

“Tighten the waist?” she says forlornly, kneading her aching liver through the corset.

Now Mr. Watkins circles around her, staring blatantly, inspecting her. “I fear you will have to nip it in. But just a bit, Miss Malone.”

Jessie hasn’t blushed in fifteen years. The heat in her cheeks must be a sudden fever. “Jar me, we can all stand for some improvement.” Then she frowns. The Queen of the Underworld has a skin as thick as buffalo hide. She will not be stung by this pup’s insolence. She seizes a heavy brass ashtray, shoves it in his hands. “Smoking is permitted only in the smoking parlor, Mr. Watkins. I despise the demon weed.”

“I do apologize,” he murmurs, stamps out the smoke, and shuts his trap. A wary look of exhaustion crosses his face. It suddenly occurs to Jessie that young Mr. Watkins looks rather green about the gills. She glares at Li’l Lucy, who stops giggling at once. She sniffs, detecting the stink of choke-dog beneath the tobacco.

“What can I do for you, sir?” She crosses her arms and taps her toe, looking him up and down with a thundercloud on her face.

“Miss Malone, I am looking to lease a suite of rooms. I would prefer my own water closet and bath, if this fine establishment boasts such amenities. I’m told you may have something available.”

Jessie considers the possibilities. As it is, Li’l Lucy will have to add two weeks to the term of her contract for her medical treatment and resting-up time at Dupont Street. It’s high time for Li’l Lucy to get back to work. “Mr. Watkins, this fine establishment boasts many things, and a suite with a private water closet and bath is one of them. This young lady was just about to move out, wasn’t you, dear? Get packin’, Lucy.”

She stares at Li’l Lucy, who cringes and dashes back up the stairs. Li’l Lucy is pushing nineteen years of age. She is getting long in the tooth and dim in the noggin. Jessie watches her go. If Li’l Lucy suffers another medical problem, Jessie will have to move her to the cribs on Morton Alley, and that’s that. The biz is the biz.

“There is just one problem, a minor one, I’m sure,” Mr. Watkins says with a lovely smile. He pats his pockets for a smoke with the blind gesture of habit and finds one. Then he recalls her injunction and twirls the ciggie mournfully though his nicotine-stained fingers.

Jessie sighs. Young and vigorous. And insolent. And on the make. “Sure and you cannot pay me right away.”

He looks at her, all fraudulent innocence and cunning and genuine desperation aging his youthful face into an odd sort of mask. As if a wholly different person stands before her for a moment.

What is happening? Something strange! Jessie’s breath catches in her throat. Fireworks pop and crackle overhead, and she starts, her heart fluttering.

Then a horse clatters on the cobblestones outside, and the spell is broken, and poor Mr. Watkins looks like nothing so much as sick, lost kid.

Through the window, Jessie spies Madame De Cassin. What a fine lady she is, too. Jessie smiles as the dashing spiritualist leaps off her black stallion, ties him to the hitching post, and stomps up the stairs. She bursts into the foyer without ringing the bell, splendid in her billowing black cape, black riding habit, and tall black boots. She always smells of horses, leather, and lavender oil. Madame De Cassin surveys Mr. Watkins with a piercing glance and, without hesitation, says, “Well, give him a room, Miss Malone, but he’ll want to watch his step. I’ll wager you’re born under the sign of Aries, sir, am I correct?”

Jessie fairly bursts with joy. Madame De Cassin is the most respected, most sought-after expert in matters of the occult in this burg. Sure and the spiritualist has never laid eyes on Mr. Watkins before, yet she offers her opinion of him in less than a trice.

“You see?” Jessie says. “Madame De Cassin knows everything!”

“Aries, then, sir?” says Madame De Cassin. “The headstrong ram?”

“I haven’t the slightest notion, madame,” Mr. Watkins says and lights another smoke in spite of Jessie’s admonition. Mr. Heald pats perspiration off his forehead and grins tightly. The spiritualist has laid eyes on Mr. Heald before.

“Well, what I do know is this, my dear,” Madame De Cassin says to Jessie, tossing her riding whip on the side table, together with her black riding hat with its jet beads and black plumes. She flexes her hands, which she always keeps gloved in the finest black kid, and imperiously surveys them all. “I do know it’s a fine time to call upon the sweet spirits.”

“Mariah! Li’l Lucy!” Jessie calls. “Get the sitting room ready.”

Madame De Cassin boldly stares at Mr. Watkins. “Are you a believer sir?”

“A believer in what?” Mr. Watkins stares back, bold as you please.

“In communication with dead.” To Mr. Heald, “How about you, sir? Have you ever spoken with the sweet spirits? Indeed, have you ever spoken truthfully with your wife?”

But Jessie is too excited to pay much attention to Mr. Heald’s scarlet face and sputtering breath. “Sure and we have enough people to sit for a séance, do we not, Madame de Cassin, if we include the gentlemen and Li’l Lucy? Have you ever sat at séance, Mr. Watkins?” she says, taking his arm. “Mariah! Bring us the sherry.”

* * *

Jessie’s sitting room is a small inner chamber with no windows, one door, and one low-burning brass gaslamp left unpolished so that a dark green patina has mottled the metal. The walls are heavily draped in black velvet. Even on this sunny day, the sitting room broods untouched by any natural light. A large round wooden table stands at the chamber’s center, surrounded by eight plain wooden chairs. A single brass candlestick holding a squat black candle thick with wax drippings juts up from the table’s center.

Li’l Lucy busily rearranges five of the chairs around the table, scraping three chairs into a corner of the room. Mariah lights the black candle, holds the match to incense burners slung on brass chains mounted on the wall among the folds of black velvet. The room is heavy with the scent of lavender oil and incense and candlewax.

Yes! Just the way Jessie likes it.

Next Mariah sets out a crystal decanter filled with sherry and five heavy crystal tumblers. She scowls with disapproval, her black eyes flickering. She turns down the gaslamp, makes the sign of the Cross over her breast, and flees, shutting the door behind her.

Madame De Cassin generously pours out sherry in each of the tumblers. “To the sweet spirits,” she solemnly toasts Jessie and seats herself, swirling her black cape over her shoulder.

“Well, now. Didn’t know they nipped a tick before the mumbo jumbo,” Mr. Heald mutters to Mr. Watkins with a wink. “No wonder the wife goes in for it.”

“To the sweet spirits,” says Mr. Watkins enthusiastically, tossing sherry down his throat and reaching for the decanter.

Li’l Lucy noisily slurps, burps, and giggles.

“To the sweet spirits,” Jessie says passionately, ignoring the others’ disrespect. They shall see! Madame De Cassin insists on the ritual imbibing of spirits—spirits for the spirits, you see—which opens our mortal door to the Summerland. The great spiritualist supplies this particular sherry to Jessie just for this sacred purpose, and this purpose only. The sherry establishes a certain sympathy with the madame’s spirit guide, Chief Silver Thorne, who during his life on earth much favored the beverage. Jessie happily gulps the smoky-tasting liquor, which warms her just as the medicinal benefit of Scotch Oats Essence is beginning to fade. This particular sherry makes her head spin unlike any other. “I want to speak with Rachael, Madame De Cassin.”

“Of course you do,” the spiritualist says. She sets her tumbler down, staring severely at the other sitters. Even Mr. Watkins gets the hint, reluctantly relinquishing his tumbler. Madame De Cassin makes long, sweeping motions with her gloved hands, clearing the magnetic energy over the table. Her handsome face goes slack in the candlelight. Her eyelids flutter and her pupils roll up, showing the whites beneath them.

“You will all join hands,” she whispers.

Jessie takes the spiritualist’s left hand and Mr. Watkins’s right hand. Her heart begins to pound and her head whirls in the perfumed darkness.

Mr. Heald sits next to the spiritualist on the right, Li’l Lucy blinks nervously between the two gentlemen. They all join hands, and the circle is complete.

Madame De Cassin wastes no time going into a trance. She begins to moan and sway, keening louder and louder till she leans over the black candle and, with a chilling screech, blows out the flame.

“Chief Silver Thorne?” she calls out. “My dear friend in the Summerland, my noble Cherokee chief, where are you-oo-oo?”

A shudder rocks the spiritualist, and Jessie trembles with fear and excitement. She grips the spiritualist’s gloved hand. Lordy, her hand is so firm from equestrian activities! Jessie cannot see a thing in the darkness. A ghostly caress tickles the back of her neck. “Sure and I feel the chief’s hand,” Jessie whispers, dread rushing deliciously up her spine. Shapes blacker than the darkness reel and totter before her blinded eyes.

From the other side of the table, Mr. Heald makes little yelping noises.

Madame De Cassin lets loose a bloodcurdling yell, and a horn blows softly just above Jessie’s ear. Then a bizarre masculine voice spills out in the vicinity of the spiritualist’s mouth. “I am here, Rebecca.” The voice has a strange accent Jessie can’t quite place.

The spiritualist’s cloak rustles as she sways and lurches. “Forgive me, Chief Silver Thorne, but we have strangers with us today.”

“Yes, I sense their presence,” Chief Silver Thorne answers irritably. “Two gentlemen who do not support woman suffrage.”

Mr. Heald sputters and says, “Well, I’ll be a fiddler’s bitch.”

Mr. Watkins says, “I certainly do not. Women suffer enough. Ha, ha.”

Ghostly caresses patter on the back of Jessie’s head. “Please, Chief Silver Thorne,” she pleads. “Let us not discuss woman suffrage again. You know I don’t approve of giving women the vote or a role in politics. It ain’t ladylike.”

“Yes, my dear chief,” Madame De Cassin implores. “As always, Miss Malone wishes to speak with her beloved Rachael.”

“Very well, Miss Malone,” Chief Silver Thorne says. “I will see if I can find Rachael in the Summerland if you will promise to treat Li’l Lucy with continuing kindness. She has been ill, Miss Malone, has she not?”

Jessie clucks her tongue. Chief Silver Thorne is forever going on about equality for women, rights for Negroes and for the heathen Chinese, and showing kindness toward the girls she’s got under contract. Why should a Cherokee chief who lived two hundred years ago give two hoots about such things? Sure and she wishes Madame De Cassin would find another spirit guide who ain’t so damn self-righteous.

“Has she not been ill?” Chief Silver Thorne repeats.

“It’s quite true, sir, I still ache,” Li’l Lucy whispers.

“Yes, yes, she’s been ill,” Jessie says, vexed. Li’l Lucy fell ill because she failed to follow Jessie’s instructions on how avoid getting in the family way. Serves Jessie right, including the pathetic girl at a séance on her most magnetic day.

“You will promise me, won’t you, Miss Malone?” Chief Silver Thorne persists.

“Oh, fine and dandy. I promise.” She’s still sending Li’l Lucy back to the Parisian Mansion. But perhaps the Morton Alley cribs can wait.

“Good. Now, then. Rachael?” Chief Silver Thorne begins to call out in a cloudy voice that seems to come from the ceiling. “Rachael?”

“Rachael?” Madame De Cassin says briskly in-between the spirit guide’s masculine summonings. “Rachael, answer us please.”

The high, clear voice of a young girl emanates from the ceiling. “Jessie? Oh my dear one, is that you, Jessie?”

Grief spills through Jessie like it always does. The sharp, deep yearning for her Rachael, for Lily Lake lost so long ago. Jessie grips the hands of Mr. Watkins and the spiritualist even tighter as tears, real tears, spill down her face. “Rachael? My beloved Rachael?”

“I’m here, Jessie.”

“Are you all right?”

“Of course, I am, Jessie. What about you? How are you, my darlin’?”

“I’m fine, Rachael.”

“Have you gone to see a doctor about that pain in your liver we talked about last time?”

“No. I. . . .I’ve been busy. You know how it is.”

“You really must go, Jessie. You must see a doctor. I feel something is wrong.”

“Pah, never mind about me. Rachael, I saw a lady today. She was attacked by them hatchet men in the park. I can’t get her out of my mind! Can you tell me if she’s all right?”

Rachael hesitates, and Madame De Cassin says in her own voice, “Rachael has been picnicking in the Summerland today, Jessie. She’s enjoying her own Fourth of July, and she may not know—“

Now Rachael’s voice interjects, “Someone else has come. Someone else is here with me. Someone who has crossed over in recent days. A lady. A pale, pretty lady with such a sad face. And such deep sea eyes, swimming with tears, always swimming with tears.”

Mr. Watkins inhales sharply as if someone has punched him in the gut. He whispers, “By God, is that you, Mama?”

“Yes, she is your mama,” Rachael whispers. “Mama is telling me something. Mama says, ‘Beware, my son. Beware, you are in danger.’”

“Yes, it’s true! A dip pinched my boodle book on the ferry from Oakland.”

“’No, the pickpocket is not the danger she means,’” Rachael whispers. “Mama says. . . .”

Suddenly a freezing wind whips through the sitting room, and an eerie sound whistles. Jessie’s teeth begin to chatter, a sour taste pools on her tongue. The stench of rotgut wafts over the table, and a snippet of honky-tonk music blares in her ear. The darkness turns blindingly white, stark white for an eye blink, then flips into darkness again.

“Jar me, what is it?’ Jessie cries and turns toward Madame De Cassin. “What’s happening?”

The spiritualist snatches her hand away, leaps to her feet. Jessie hears something heavy clatter on the floor. Madame De Cassin stoops, whirls, and sprints across the room. Light blooms as she stands at the gaslamp, turning up the flame. Her face is drained pale, her brown eyes wide. Jessie has never seen the spiritualist look frightened before.

“Is it really true? Mama was here?” Mr. Watkins says, looking around. “Mama?”

Li’l Lucy’s teeth chatter. Mr. Heald looks pinched.

“My mother passed away a month ago,” Mr. Watkins says. “And that strange presence, did you feel it? On the Overland, I felt a strange presence, too. A strange presence, I tell you, and a vision that changed the whole world just for a moment. She said, ‘Beware, my son.’” He seizes Jessie’s arm. “What does she mean?”

“Sure and what does it mean?” Jessie demands, turning to Madame De Cassin.

“Let’s go downstairs,” the spiritualist says. “All of you, come on.” She herds them out of the sitting room. The others go as Jessie turns off the gaslamp, crushes the smoking piles of incense in their burners, plunks a silver snuffer over the smoking candle. The spiritualist takes Jessie by the arm and resolutely closes the door to the sitting room behind them. “Let no one in there. Do not go in yourself.”

“What was it?” Jessie whispers as they climb down the stairs. “You must tell me, Madame De Cassin.”

“My dear Miss Malone,” Madame De Cassin says, “strange times are a-coming.”

* * *

Madame De Cassin assures Jessie that evil spirits, or whatever the strange presence was, departed from the sitting room when she turned up the gaslight. But the unflappable spiritualist looks unsettled herself. Jessie pays her the usual fee, picking out a few gold coins from those Mr. Heald paid her, and begs her to return and ensure that the sitting room hasn’t become haunted. The spiritualist readily agrees, consulting her little black leather appointment book, and schedules another visit.

“Madame De Cassin, you must advise me what to do.” Mr. Watkins confronts her as the spiritualist pins on her riding hat.

“Beware,” she says. “Beware of others. Beware mostly of yourself, sir.” With that, she stomps out the door.

Mr. Heald hurries out the door, too, without another word about going upstairs. Sure and it’s just as well. Jessie is hardly in the mood for the biz. But an anxiety grates at her. Truth be told, she must admit that Mr. Heald is a nice old sport, a dear friend after all, and always flush. Those diamonds swinging from her earlobes? They were paid for by all the Mr. Healds. Mr. Heald is no worse than most and better than some. She must remember to invite him to the musicale on Sunday night at the Parisian Mansion and stand him a bottle of champagne. She cannot afford to lose the patronage and goodwill of Mr. Heald.

A séance usually refreshes her. Not this time. She’s only glad that her Rachael is doing well in the Summerland after life cheated her so cruelly. That bittersweet thought instantly hardens her heart as she finds Li’l Lucy lingering in the foyer with Mr. Watkins.

“Pack your things,” she orders the girl. “Off to Sutter Street with you.”

“But Miss Malone,” Li’l Lucy says, “I still ache, and Chief Silver Thorne said. . . .”

“Never mind Chief Silver Thorne. Be quick about it.” There, you see? Never mix employees in personal affairs. Oh, give them an inch! The biz is the biz. “And clean the place up proper, Li’l Lucy. I’m letting out those rooms today.” She smiles at the young gentleman, who is definitely looking quite the worse for wear. “Mr. Watkins, we should talk. Will you come up to my parlor? Would you care for some champagne? I’m as thirsty as a camelopard myself.”

“Gladly. I’m dry as a bone, Miss Malone. But I do believe you mean a camel. Nasty beasts that run about the desert and spit and bite and smell something dreadful. A camelopard, on the other hand, is a lovely creature with an extraordinarily long neck that lives on the African savannah far south of the desert and nibbles charmingly on jungle foliage.”

“Ah, a scholar, then.”

“And a gentleman.” He shows off his sparkling white teeth. “Please excuse my poor manners. I just got off the train from Saint Louis, and I’m beat.”

Bang, bang, bang! Firecrackers pop in the street. “I’ll show you, ya lout!” Two bruisers commence a brawl in front of her door, fists swinging, their pals cheering them on. “Heeey, biff ‘im one, Johnny!” “I’ll smash yer ugly mug!”

Never has Jessie seen such a Fourth of July.

* * *

Huffing and puffing every blasted inch of the three flights up, her stays cutting into her liver at every stair, Jessie takes Mr. Watkins to her private parlor on the top floor. “Got to look into one of them elevator contraptions that the swells use in their skyscrapers downtown,” she tells him as she leads him inside. Sure and this is her pride and joy. A room of her own design, not at all like the sitting room for the sweet spirits and Madame De Cassin.

When Jessie bought the three-story Stick-Eastlake mansion with the intention of securing her private residence above, private boarders below, the place was as plain as a pig, the paint peeling to shavings. Since the seventies, lower Dupont Street had become a tenderloin. Respectable folk fled the old city as the poor of every nation flooded in, tainting once-genteel streets with vice and sport and crime, with laundry flapping on clothes lines and sour cooking smells and unruly children.

But the rooms were huge, the architecture sound, the views superb. A good purchase it was, in spite of the rough neighborhood. To the southwest, Jessie sees the top story of the Palace Hotel and Lucky Baldwin’s showplace. Due south, the panorama of Market Street, the Cocktail Route, and all the delights of the old city. To the northwest, the exotic curved roofs of Chinatown like another little country. Behind Chinatown, purple hills scarcely touched by civilization--Russian Hill, Pacific Heights. To the northeast the scruffy dome of Telegraph Hill—“dirty awld smelly awld Telygraft Hill”—and the German castle at its peak. And when Jessie throws open the wobbly glass of the east window and leans far out over the sill, she glimpses the whole crawling heap of the Barbary Coast. Beyond that, the bobbing masts of the great clipper ships, the steamers and the fishing trawlers, the blue-gray bay sparkling when the sun rises like a sack of spilled diamonds.

It is a beautiful house, and Jessie has covered her parlor’s walls with the finest rose-colored damask she ever did see with a rose-of-Sharon pattern. That’s for starters. She has hung every window with scarlet velvet curtains that sweep up and back and dangle thickets of tassels and thick furry fringe. She has laid Persian carpets down on the plank maple floor, layer upon layer of carpets till the floor is a patchwork of arabesques and medallions.

And Jessie has bought and arranged good furniture, some wood, some wicker, some fancy French gilt. Ferns in massive Chinese pots adorn every sunlit corner. And gold, lots of gold—a gold tea set, gold dinnerware, gold lamp sticks, gold embroidered doilies, gold statuettes of Venuses with their heads and arms intact. She cannot abide Venuses with their heads and arms lopped off. Her long mirror is framed in pure gold, the frame encrusted with birds and foliage in gold and silver. A gold-plated spittoon is set out just for show, since Jessie abides no chaw in her private parlor. Gilt frames surround every piece of Art.

Oh, and the Art! She prides herself on her Art collection. She has made them Gump boys richer than thieves in their import business. One of the Gumps’ best customers, that’s what Miss Jessie Malone is, more than two of them Snob Hill ladies rolled up into one. She’s got fauns playing flutes and cupids on the wing. But mostly Jessie collects nudes, the female in all her glory. Nudes recline on couches. Nudes stroll through fantastic gardens, through forests, through fields. Nudes are sold into slavery, their hands bound behind their pearlescent backs. Nudes pose in the bedroom, in the bath, in the stables. What a hoot!

Now Mariah brings in goblets and a gold-plated ice bucket. Jessie frowns. She should have bought the solid gold bucket, not this cheap plate, but her pony lost at Ingleside Track and she balked at the expense. She pops the cork with a thirsty smile, splashes champagne into the goblets. The young gentleman studies her Art collection, his expression inscrutable.

“Why, Miss Malone, you’ve got an Aubrey Beardsley!” Mr. Watkins exclaims over the photomechanical reproduction of an odd line drawing Jessie has never understood except that it is very wicked.

“A gambler whose name you would recognize gave me that drawing.”

The drawing depicts denizens of the night--a masked clown, a depraved ballerina, a devil-eared satyr with a huge erect penis and cloven hooves.

“Is it true Mr. Beardsley slept with Oscar Wilde?” Jessie hands Mr. Watkins a goblet and smiles at his surprise. She follows the international gossip as best she can. “I heard that after the glory of his play, The Importance of Being Earnest, Mr. Wilde was imprisoned for having his way with young men.”

“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’ fashion 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. “’Goddesses 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 whore 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 sex.” 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 damn 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 Fanny Spiggott.”

”Sure and the faintin’ pickpocket.” Jessie permits herself a mocking smile. Mr. Saint Louis, London, and Paris, taken by the likes of Fanny? 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 hellishly 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 shining 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 passions and ambiguous intent. She is lust 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 fashion 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 sturdy brass 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 brass 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 whores. Rochelle, 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 Snob 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 Snob 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 shimmy 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 goddamn waist? “Relace my corset, Mariah.”

“Please, Miss Malone. Madame De Cassin 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 shirt 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 passed 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 classes down from Jessie as Jessie is from a Snob 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.”