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