Which reminded her. She now owed him another favor. God help her.
A woman appeared at the top of the stairs, her mouth turned into an unhappy frown at the sight of Justine. “Stop,” she called. “You do not have permission to be up here—” Her lips curved when she spotted Mulligan. “Well, hello there, sir. Welcome to Polly’s.”
The woman sidled up to Mulligan on the landing and ran a hand down his lapel. “You look familiar. Have we met?”
“Doubtful,” he said, unusually subdued. Normally, he oozed charm. “I am Jack Mulligan.”
“Mr. Mulligan! Goodness, it is our lucky day. I am Polly, the purveyor of the fine entertainment on this floor. Now, my love. Tell me, what are you in the mood for? I’ve got girls of every type and background. Young and old, experienced and not. You can have two or even three, if you wish. I’ve heard the rumors.”
Rumors? Justine’s brain tripped on that word as she tried to make sense of it. Mulligan bedded multiple women . . . at a time? How did that even work?
“Tempting,” he said with what sounded like polite disinterest. “However, we are here to ask you and your girls about someone. A man. He has been missing for several weeks.”
Polly’s gaze narrowed on Justine. “What are you, a Pinkerton?”
“No, ma’am. I work for the Lower East Side Legal Aid Society. We’re trying to find a Mr. von Briesen. Does that name sound familiar?”
“We don’t get a lot of real names around here.” She returned her attention to Mulligan. “My girls are very busy. This ain’t the sort of thing we have time for.”
“We have money,” Justine blurted, needing to draw this woman’s focus back to her. For some reason, she couldn’t let Polly fawn all over Mulligan any longer. Best not to examine why.
“Well, I would certainly hope so. How much?”
“Fifty dollars.”
Mulligan made a strangled noise in his throat. “Chérie, have I taught you nothing?”
Actually, no. He hadn’t taught her anything. She took the newly acquired fifty-dollar bill out of her handbag and held it up. Polly went to grab it, but Justine jerked the paper out of reach. “After we speak with your girls.”
Polly dropped the flirtatious manner like a hot iron. Instantly, she was brisk and all business. “Follow me.”
She was going to be the death of him.
They would find him buried under the mounds of her blind trust and faith in humanity. It wasn’t exactly naivete; no, she’d witnessed too much for that. But, she took people at their word. She believed the best of everyone.
Including him.
Not once had she asked why he was helping her. Hadn’t questioned his motivation in aiding her little cause today. Because she believed he was good. Like her.
She’d find out his true motives soon enough. Because “good” didn’t factor into it. Not by a long shot.
Polly led them to the back, probably to the salon. This was a room where potential clients gathered, looked the girls over before making a selection. Run along, Jack. Mama’s going to entertain her friend for a while. How many times had he heard that as a boy? The men never even spared Jack a second look.
The sounds inside the house had been the worst, the grunts and slapping of bodies. The rattle of bed frames. After, the men would leave and the women would soak their bits in tubs or clean their cunts with syringes full of vinegar. Every now and then, they’d see the doctor for a cure or remedy. They had no choice but to take it, to endure. Coppers didn’t care, either. In fact, many came by for freebies or bribes.
To his ten-year-old mind, it was like the entire world wanted to make money off what lay between a woman’s legs . . . then punish them for it.
His mother told him he was wrong, that her life was better than most. Many women walked the streets with no protection or medical care whatsoever. Or, she could have been in a miserable marriage with a cruel man, an escape from which was nigh impossible. She was saving money so the two of them could move to Omaha. His mother had cousins there, and she talked for hours about this clean city with opportunities for work. Where they would live with fresh flowers and white picket fences.
Then she’d died from what they’d said was cancer. Before he was twelve, he’d been turned out on the street. Into the arms of the gangs