Parlor Games A Novel

SAN FRANCISCO’S CHARMS



NOVEMBER–DECEMBER 1889



Three days later, Sue Marie and I departed Portland—ahead of schedule and behind on savings.

As our train chugged into San Francisco on a dull gray November afternoon, it dawned on me that I’d arrived at yet another outpost of our vast country. I had assumed I’d find a metropolis greatly enriched by the gold in California’s hills, but this was a city still seeking its way into the future. Compared with Chicago’s glimmering buildings of fresh brick, clean-cut stone, and wide windows, San Francisco’s hodgepodge of wooden storefronts and blocky one-, two-, and three-story structures appeared as tattered and ready to ignite as parched tinder. And whereas the signs on Chicago’s buildings exemplified simplicity, San Francisco’s stores fairly chattered with slogans and advertisements.

But what struck me most was the city dwellers: workers in thick pants that bunched about their knees and ankles; businessmen in well-worn suits and derby hats, only a few with the formal frock coats or stylish straw boaters that were common in Chicago; and men fresh from the countryside, tanned and unshaven, with scruffy coils of hair running down the backs of their necks. In short, all manner of men, but sparser numbers of women. I began to comprehend Sue Marie’s claim that a young lady might easily strike gold in San Francisco.

Sue Marie insisted we take up residence at San Francisco’s finest hotel, the Palace, if for no other reason than to be seen there—and not at some less desirable accommodation. But our funds could only keep us in this style for little more than a week, which meant we would need to work fast. After transporting our trunks to the hotel in a horsecar, we hiked up and down San Francisco’s hilly streets, exploring the city.

Settled in the hotel room our first evening in the city, Sue Marie stretched out on the bed, massaging one bare foot against the other. “We need to find a jeweler tomorrow. One who deals in used pieces.”

I hung the last of my gowns in the closet and sank into an overstuffed chair beside the bed. “What for?”

Sue Marie reached down her dress bodice, flipped out a pocket compartment, and extracted a gold ring with a single raised diamond. She twisted the ring between thumb and finger, showing off the sparkle of its diamond. “To sell this.”

I reached out my palm. As she plunked the ring into my hand I asked, “Where’d you get this?”

Sue Marie chuckled. “From Farnhardt’s jacket. That night.”

“So that’s why the police searched the rooms. Where did you hide it?”

“In the attic, over my room.”

“And you never told anyone?”

Sue Marie flipped on her side and tossed her head with the nonchalance of a bored youngster. “In that place? Full of wagging mouths?”

“And if they’d found it, you’d have ended in jail.”

“You should be thanking me for quick thinking.”

“But we’re partners.”

“So?”

“We shouldn’t take foolish risks.” Sue Marie and I had argued two days earlier over her proclivity for snatching jewelry. She’d filched a pair of earrings from a woman who’d fainted at the train station in Portland, and we were fortunate to have boarded the train before the theft came to light.

“This one paid off, didn’t it?”

I unlaced my shoes and propped my sore feet on an ottoman. “It was harebrained—risking arrest over a ring that won’t bring in more than forty or fifty dollars.”

“You can go back to the bordello business or stick with me.”

“You sure about this plan? I tried dining by myself in Chicago’s finest hotels, and it didn’t work.”

“What about your banker fiancé? How’d you meet him?”

“By way of introduction. After I’d landed in society circles.”

Sue Marie plumped up a pillow under her head. “But this is San Francisco. And we’re going to knock ’em out with our gowns.”

I knew Sue Marie expected me to play second fiddle, but in hopes of turning the tables, I remarked, “Yes, I do look forward to stepping out as an heiress.”

“You’re not playing that part.”

“Aren’t I?”

“No, you’re playing my companion.”

I got up and sat down beside her on the bed, twisting around to face her. “I wouldn’t be any good at that.”

“You’re putting on a regular Sarah Bernhardt right now.”

“Playing the companion requires better acting skills.”

“Oh, piffle,” said Sue Marie. “Think I can’t see through your flattery?”

“We need to work together, don’t we?”

“We sure do.”

“Then let’s settle this fairly.” I drew my legs up on the bed. “With a contest.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “What kind of contest?”

“To see who makes the better lure.”

With a disdainful shake of her head she said, “No. I’m the one who came up with the plan.”

I reached out and fingered the strands of hair falling about her temples. “Think about it. Don’t we want the best lure playing the role?”

Sue Marie pushed my hand away. “I don’t give a pollywog’s legs.”

“Aw, Sue Marie, please?”

“Please what?”

“Please, let’s have a contest.” I patted my prayer-poised hands together and raised my eyebrows pleadingly.

“And if I win, you’ll quit your bellyaching?”

“Promise.”

She put on one of her roguish sneers. “Then in the lobby. Tomorrow.”

I rearranged myself on folded knees and leaned toward her. “We’ll sit at opposite ends. And count the men we meet over an hour.”

“No starting up conversations. We just wait for takers.”

“Agreed,” I said, falling on her and tickling her sides until she dissolved into a wriggling mass of squeals and yelps.



The next afternoon, I allowed Sue Marie to dress first. Then I refreshed my moss-green gown with a moist towel, fluffed it up, and took out my prize possession: the yellow-diamond necklace I’d acquired in Milwaukee. Never before had I worn it in public: There’d been no occasion. In fact, no one but Maman even knew of it.

I carmined my lips, powdered my cheeks, darkened my eyelashes with dabs of castor oil, and—voilà. Promptly at five, I stepped out of our room, gripped the polished golden railing, and descended the stairs, relishing the plush carpet absorbing my mincing steps. I trained my eyes on the lobby opening up before me. Sue Marie sat in a wingback chair, upright with expectation. I took a few steps in her direction and came close enough—within thirty feet—to allow her a good look at me. Her gaze traveled up from the fullness of my skirt, over my bodice of corded braids, and landed on my necklace. Her eyes widened. What is it they say in lawn tennis? Advantage—yes, that’s it. I believe I scored a point for my own confidence, and possibly one against Sue Marie’s, just by sporting that dazzling piece.

At the end of the appointed hour, the score was five gentlemen for me, three for Sue Marie. When the lobby clock struck six, I reached into my purse and extracted the room key.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said to the pair of brothers sitting beside me. Rising, I dangled the key in Sue Marie’s direction and mounted the stairs to our third-floor room.

Sue Marie let herself in a few minutes later. “You’re a sly one, aren’t you?”

“And you, my dear, are a delightful companion. I shall look forward to your assistance with every detail of my itinerary.”

Sue Marie smirked. “Don’t let it go to your head, Princess Bordello.”

I palmed my pinned-up hair. “I believe I’ll leave Miss Davidson behind. Henceforth, I shall be Pauline Townsend.”



My dear Sue Marie made dinner reservations for me that evening, taking care to select a table that would prominently display my attire and jewels. While I dined in the Palace’s Grand Court, she took her own dinner in the privacy of our room. Over the next five days, I had many offers for table mates and dined with several promising prospects, but on the sixth evening, a most unusual man came to my attention.

I was seated at a table with two middle-aged gentlemen, businessmen of obvious good fortune—if only middling physical constitution—when the conversation turned to living arrangements.

“And do you enjoy this hotel, Miss Townsend?” the lanky Mr. Amperson asked, nervously fingering his glass of whiskey.

“Yes, though spending day after day in the same hotel room can get wearisome.”

“I find that on my business travels as well. For a few days it’s a novelty, but it does get old.”

Mr. Zimmer, whose Adam’s apple bounced when he spoke, cleared his throat. “That’s why I keep an apartment at the Shoreside, a suite with a balcony looking out on the Bay.”

I could have sworn he told me he resided elsewhere. “But I thought you lived on Nob Hill?”

“Yes, I do. But it’s boring living in the same house day after day,” he said, chuckling at his own cleverness.

“When I’ve settled my business affairs, I believe I’ll consider a house or apartment myself,” I said, though in truth the notion of settling down in some conventional neighborhood, even in San Francisco, bored me.

Mr. Amperson caught the waiter’s eye and then looked to me. “As it happens, I own an apartment building on Powell Street. Each time a room opens, I redecorate. Always a fine room to be had there, should you ever be interested.”

How delightful—two gentlemen vying for me. I reasoned that Mr. Amperson would be the more pliable of the two. Sue Marie could investigate his holdings and reputation, but with the Palace taking a toll on our finances, we couldn’t afford to tarry. I turned to Mr. Amperson. “And is this a good time to be in real estate?”

“Quite good, actually. The city is booming; newcomers are pouring in every day.”

Not to be outdone, Mr. Zimmer added, “And they’re buying. The furniture business has never been better.”

The waiter arrived, and I ordered and leaned back in my chair. Overhead, the hue of the Grand Court’s stained-glass dome deepened. Dusk had settled. The table and wall lamps now outshone the outdoors’ ambient light, and the stained glass reflected its golden glow on the diners’ faces, the clean tablecloths, and my periwinkle-blue gown.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a gentleman standing twenty feet to my side, studying me in the most unabashed manner. I turned and met his gaze. He had the darkness of a foreigner, a broad, pronounced jaw, and cocoa-brown eyes. A shock of wavy black hair swept back from his square forehead, and a trim mustache gracefully outlined the shapely curve of his lip. His compact yet proud bearing showed off a barrel-thick chest clad in a tailored dinner jacket. In a word, the man was dashing—and much younger than my dinner companions. He placed a hand over his abdomen, bowed to me, then strode off, unhurried but purposeful.

When I bade good night to my dinner companions and started for the stairs, this same man reappeared from the corner of the lobby, as if he’d been waiting for me. He approached, bowed again, and said, “May I introduce myself, señorita? I am Juan Ramón.”

“Mr. Ramón,” I said, dipping my head. “I am Pauline Townsend.”

“Yes, I know.” Though accented, his English was quite clear.

“Oh? How is that?”

“I asked the maître d’.” Opening his hand toward the hotel’s bar, he asked, “Would you permit me to buy you a drink?”

He escorted me to the bar, where he ordered brandy for us.

“I take it, Mr. Ramón, that you do not reside in San Francisco?”

“No, I am from Guatemala. But I travel much. And you—is California your home?”

“No, no. I’m from Chicago.”

Our waiter delivered our drinks, and Mr. Ramón lifted his glass. “To the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“How you flatter, sir.”

“It is true. Never in all my journeys have I encountered such beauty.”

“Then your compliment means all the more, coming from a man who has seen much of the world.”

“How can I tell you?” He spread a hand over his heart. “You are lovelier than the most delicate orchid bloom.”

“Ah, Mr. Ramón, that is quite enough about me,” I said, though my heart fluttered under his moony gaze. “What is it that brings you to San Francisco?”

“I am an importer of coffee.” His held his head high. “Do you like coffee?”

“Yes, I do, though I’m woefully uneducated on the subject.”

“You must permit me to teach you. Perhaps tomorrow I can take you for breakfast?”



And after breakfast Mr. Ramón insisted we dine that evening at the Palace. By then I’d learned he was a man accustomed to having his way. “Waiter,” he snapped when we’d been sitting for only a few minutes, “the lady would like …” He turned to me.

“I’ll have a glass of champagne.”

“And Pisco punch for me.”

As the waiter trailed off, I said, “You are an adventurous man, Mr. Ramón. I’ve heard many stories about the famous Pisco punch.”

“And all true.” He flapped his hands in a grand but-of-course gesture. “But you must call me Juan. That is how my family and friends call me.”

“Very well, then: Juan it shall be.”

“And may I have the honor of calling you Pauline?”

“I should think that first names are quite in order, under the circumstances.”

When his flaming drink of Pisco punch arrived, my handsome Mr. Ramón toasted to “life’s pleasures,” swirled the flaming drink in its glass, and, as the blue flames flickered out, brought the drink to his lips and gulped it down all at once.

I laughed. “You do embrace life, don’t you?”

“Yes, and for dinner, I insist on the house specialty—roasted squab. And then I will hire a carriage, and we will go to the Cliff House.”

“Ah, you will spoil me, Juan.”

He leaned over the corner of the table and circled his hand around my fingertips. Fastening his glistening eyes on mine, he said, “That is exactly what I intend to do, mi florecita. You will not object, will you?”