air, but at night it transforms itself into an opulent, dark scarlet cave. Gaslight is so much more flattering than sunshine or electricity.
“Hey, Miss Zhu,” says Li’l Lucy. She hunches at the calliope, staring at the keys as they automatically depress and spring back. Her fingers curl around jigger of whiskey. She raises the glass to her lips. “Drink?”
Zhu shakes her head. “You’re stinking, Li’l Lucy.”
She pouts. “Some Snob Hill gorilla slugged me.”
“It’s barely past noon, kid.”
“Day and night don’t mean nothin’ to me, Miss Zhu.”
“Where is Daphne?”
“Hell if I know, Miss Zhu.”
Daphne is the door maid for this shift. She’s supposed to manage the biz in Jessie’s absence—screen men, serve drinks, collect money, monitor the girls. Jessie will be furious.
Now Li’l Lucy’s personal maid, Pichetta, drifts in. “There you are,” Pichetta says coldly, eyeing Li’l Lucy with barely concealed contempt. Pichetta is a swarthy young Peruvian with the hint of a mustache over her lip. Her black and white maid’s uniform crackles with starch. “You need to get some sleep, Lucy.”
“Ain’t tired yet, Pichetta,” Li’l Lucy drawls.
“Hmph.” Pichetta surveys the parlor with disgust and commences emptying ashtrays, though that isn’t her job. Now Myrtle rushes into the parlor. “Hmph,” Pichetta says again when she sees Myrtle. Together the maids lift and carry the Persian carpets to the patio to be beaten free of ashes.
Li’l Lucy giggles. “You gonna tattle-tale on me to Miss Malone?”
“I don’t have to,” Zhu says, raising her eyebrows at Pichetta’s retreating back.
“Ooh, you think she’s a rat?” Li’l Lucy stands unsteadily and stretches, finds the bottle and pours herself another round. She wears a thin, low-cut silk slip over her corset and garters. Large dark bruises stain her flabby thigh, her drooping arm, her thick neck. Dark circles underscore her pouchy eyes. Even with her golden blond hair gleaming in the semidarkness, Li’l Lucy doesn’t look good at nineteen years old.
“I don’t think so, I know so,” Zhu says.
“Hells bells, that can’t be. I gotta pay her wage outta my draw.”
Zhu shrugs. “She’s hired to rat on you.”
“Says who?”
“Says no one.”
Zhu finds a silk fan, flips it open, circulates the stale air in front of her face. She ought to know, she’s Jessie’s bookkeeper. That’s the standard arrangement—each girl pays Jessie a flat fee per day, scaled to her marketability, to stay at the Parisian Mansion for the stipulated term of her contract. Each pays extra for clothing and personal effects and must take what Jessie purchases for her. Such items are of the best quality and taste, and Jessie gets a discount for purchasing in bulk. Still the wardrobe is expensive. Jessie pays six thousand dollars a month for dresses, undergarments, stockings, and fans. Jessie demands the best, demands that everything is fresh and new. Each girl also pays for a personal maid, who is required to groom her and dress her properly and—surprise--Jessie pays the maids extra for information. The maids don’t have it so bad. Pichetta is probably thrilled that Li’l Lucy has turned out to be such a mess.
Well. Zhu knows that Jessie is considered one of the fairest madams in town. A girl’s fees and tips are all hers after expenses are paid. But Jessie does not tolerate deadbeats or drunks or drug addicts. She does not tolerate slovenliness or bad behavior. She does not tolerate any girl who doesn’t earn out a pro rata amount of her expenses each night. The biz is the biz.
Zhu says no more. Li’l Lucy is heading for trouble.
“Why in the blue blazes,” Li’l Lucy says, swallowing the shot and pouring out another, “would Pichetta rat on me when I pay her? Huh? That don’t make no sense, Miss Zhu.”
“Take care of yourself, kid,” Zhu says. “Just take care of yourself.” Under Tenet Three of the Grandmother Principle, she’s not allowed to help Li’l Lucy, but that’s not the worst of it. In truth, she doesn’t know what she can do to help Li’l Lucy even if she could. “Did anything come for me by post?”
“Why, yes.” Li’l Lucy stumbles to the foyer. There, behind an umbrella stand, is a package wrapped in string and brown paper. She picks it up. “You mean this?”
“That’s it!” At last, the package Zhu has been waiting for. Muse was right, it’s here!
Li’l Lucy shakes the package, listening for telltale sounds. “Is it from a gentleman?”
“No. Give that to me!”
Zhu lunges, and Li’l Lucy holds the package high over her head, ducking away, giggling. She darts across the