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