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.”