The Gilded Age Part 25

"Aw, s.h.i.t, Jackie." Harvey yanks his hand and his knife out of Jack London's grip and lurches back to the bar. The shouting crowd closes in around him. He turns and smiles, a dreadful gap-toothed sight. "I am going to kill you, Mr. Watkins. Mark my words. I am going to f.u.c.kin' kill you."

Jack London shakes his head. His smirk, so sardonic before, now is cold. "So you are a capitalist, Mr. Watkins. I knew it." He stalks out of Harvey's poolroom.

December 5, 1895.

The Artists' Ball.

9.

Prayers in the Joss House.

"Rachael?" Jessie murmurs in the dawn. "My sweet innocent angel, is that you?" She tosses and turns, unable to find comfort in her cashmere bedclothes. Her side aches. Her head aches, too, which never ached before. Everything has become strange these days since Zhu Wong came to live at the boardinghouse.

Why can't Jessie see things as she wishes they were? Why can't she receive the gift of a second gla.s.s of absinthe? Toss, turn, toss, turn. Everything tossing and turning. Why can't she see what she wants to, anymore?

It's no use. She lurches out of bed, goes to her window, throws open the watery gla.s.s. The city is waking, milk wagons and vegetable vendors rattling on their rounds. She hears horses neigh, a donkey honk. The ssh-ssh of the street sweepers' sprinklers and brooms. She gazes out further, to her view of the bay. The fishermen have set out to sea, the last straggling trawlers cutting through the shifting darkness between the graceful shoulders of the Golden Gate. To the east, the bay shimmers and dawn's glimmer shines from behind the Oakland hills, soon to grace them all with sunlight. She breathes chilly air with the scent of eucalyptus, the stink of the city night blown clean and clear.

Why is her heart so dark on this beautiful dawn?

Sure and it was another lively night at the Parisian Mansion. A trio of the local bulls stopped in for midnight supper and stayed on for drinks and smokes, then for a ride in the saddle. Chong was beaming. His terrapin makes even hardened beat cops randy. "Is my secret spice," he boasts. Plus, Jessie got herself a new girl, a lovely thing with flaming red-gold hair and such bad teeth she never smiles, though the gentlemen tried to persuade her all night. Good racket. Who knows what'll boost the charms of a fallen angel? She says she's seventeen but, without her face paint, she looks like a schoolgirl barely out of diapers.

Schoolgirl. Jessie's gorge rises. "Rachael?" she calls out. "Is that you?"

The bulls enjoyed her hospitality for free, of course. The law has been leaning on her more and more these days, not to mention the bench. His honor the railbird's touch for twenty eagles at Ingleside was just the beginning. Mr. Heald regretfully informed her that her monthly civic contribution had increased by as much, and he still had the nerve to ask her to play the skin flute.

These days.

Strange times are a-coming, Madame de Ca.s.sin said. Bad luck is a-coming, Jessie feels it as surely as she feels the winter coming. She presses her fingers lightly to her liver pulsing beneath her skin. She needs a dose of Scotch Oats Essence just to lace up the corset, and she's having Mariah lace her up tighter and tighter. Wasp waists are all the rage in Paris.

She closes the window, latches it. Fiddle-dee-dee. Is the Queen of the Underworld a lady to succ.u.mb to vapors and apprehensions? She sure as h.e.l.l is not.

"Jar me," she says out loud to no one but herself, "what diamonds shall I wear to the ball tonight fit to knock their eyes out?"

Sure and that's all it must be, this anxiety, for tonight she'll attend the annual Artists' Ball. What the bohemians call their Mardi Gras, a wee bit of cheer in autumn instead in spring like them lively folks down in New Orleans. The ball is always held at the San Francisco Art a.s.sociation, the beneficiary of the mansion old man Hopkins abandoned high atop n.o.b Hill. It's the first bash of the Season after which the holidays begin. Mr. Ned Greenway a.s.signs everyone to preferred lists and lesser lists, upon none of which Jessie Malone ever appears. Mr. Greenway is a fat little sn.o.b and a bore. He's merely a champagne importer, after all, not some touchstone of taste. He ain't been civil to her since she procured her own supplier of Napa champagne, scoffing at Greenway's outrageous markup on his imported French. That's the real dope on why he's so standoffish. Once she sat down with a blindfold on and compared vintages for herself. Is French champagne better than her Napa bubbly? Not hardly. Not to Jessie.

n.o.b Hill, Sn.o.b Hill. That's the mocking moniker the maids and butlers and tradefolk call the place when they take their ease south o' the slot. A jest among sporting gals, too. Sn.o.b Hill, rising high to the sky, is a rat's nest of mansions perched cheek by jowl on a peak too small to fit them all. The city seat of the Social Set, though the Silver Kings, the Sugar Kings, the Railroad Kings, the Sundries and Dry Goods Kings, and all their lovelorn scions think nothing of descending from their gilded perch for an evening's frolic at a congenial locale like the Parisian Mansion. Imagine--some of them kings of industry are worth ten million dollars while a factory worker earns a buck a day.

Make 'em pay, darlin', make 'em pay.

Sure and the biggest, fanciest rocks she's got, that's what the Queen of the Underworld will wear to the Artists' Ball tonight. Her jet beaded dress with the decollete that'll make the roving eyes of them Sn.o.b Hill gentlemen pop out of their sockets. A lucky break is the Artists' Ball, since common folk like her with better diamonds than the diamond dealer's wife can mix with the Social Set right in front of everyone. No skulking around town after midnight tonight. That's one of many things Jessie adores about artists. No one is turned away from the Artists' Ball.

Jessie pulls off her cashmere bed sweater and hears a sigh behind her, an unearthly whisper. She whips around, knocking her elbow against the window pane. "Rachael? Is that you, honey?"

The bedroom is still streaked with shadows but no one is there.

Yet she's sure she feels it, her long lost angel's presence. And there! Is that a little slim shape darting into a dark corner of the room?

The boardinghouse has been haunted ever since Madame De Ca.s.sin's seance, that's what Jessie thinks. She well recalls that awful time when the sitting room went black and white and strange, and a demonic presence descended upon them all. The eminent spiritualist's cleansing rituals have done little to dispel the evil influence.

If she thought about it, Jessie would have to say nothing has been the same since the Fourth of July half a year ago. There's Mariah, sneaking off to her meetings every week. And poor Mr. Schultz, who was a good old egg. He drank rotgut one night, got the cramp and blood on the stomach, and was gone in three days. Zhu had a name for it. Pair o' somethin'. Fatal ulcers from the drink.

Then there's Zhu herself, such a levelheaded girl despite her talk of being from six hundred years in the future. Sure and Jessie sort of believes her after watching her heal a crack in a man's skull. Why not six hundred years in the future? Where else would you get a mollie knife? If Mr. Wells says people can travel in time, then one day they probably will. Miracles happen all the time these days. The news from Europe is they think they will cure consumption. They'll invent a horseless carriage anyone can buy. They'll fly to the moon! Serious Zhu, the little Amazon, put on her coolie's rags and showed Jessie how she could toss a man over her shoulder with her bare hands. Wise Zhu, lecturing Jessie about her b.u.t.tered oysters and champagne, about using a sheep's intestine, of all things, to keep off the pox.

In this strange half a year, Jessie has developed a soft spot for Zhu. She hasn't cared this way about anyone in many a long year. So many strange tales the missy has told her on many a dawn. She complains about a red-haired man who sent her here, that she suspects he didn't tell her the whole truth about her mission. Jessie can sympathize. She could shake a stick at the number of men who have lied to her.

So it makes no d.a.m.n sense, Zhu falling so hard for Mr. Watkins. Oh, he's a handsome kid, no doubt about that, the kind who can charm the bloomers off of any dimwitted chit. But Zhu? He probably doesn't tell her the whole truth, either. And it's worse than that. He doesn't just take her for a roll in the hay. Sometimes, when he gets in one of his moods, he lays his hands on her, badgers her. Jessie thinks she's seen bruises through Zhu's lace, seen her troubled face. Then afterwards, he's sweetness and light, he's so sorry. Men like that are always so sorry.

Hard to watch. Jessie has danced many a cruel waltz like that, years ago.

And Mr. Watkins? There's another story. How he's changed since he first charged in through her door, the headstrong ram, all bright-eyed and boozy in his dusty suit and bowler. Now he's got the cocaine habit, gone gaunt and strange. Jessie liked him better stinking. Now laughing one minute, the Devil the next, and in a blue funk after that. Bloodstained handkerchiefs. Thinking someone is following him, which in fact someone is. Jessie has seen the thugs lurking on the corner, has heard plenty of rumors. Bad business, a b.u.m deal of his father's.

Sure and he don't need to be hopped up if he's got that kind of trouble. Jessie knows all about cocaine, how it numbs tender flesh. She uses the stuff, soaked in lint, as a topical remedy for female troubles, and the dentist applied it to her gum when he pulled her tooth. But she always declines the spoonful of powder Mr. Watkins offers. Why numb yourself and make yourself half-mad to boot? He claims it's curing his dipsomania but, as far as Jessie can see, he knocks back the sauce as much as before. Maybe more.

Strangest of all is Rachael. Rachael haunting her, entering her thoughts more and more. Not that a day has gone by when Jessie hasn't thought of her sweet, innocent angel and prayed for her. But her thoughts about Rachael have always been of Rachael's happiness in the Summerland. Is she content? Does she have friends and sweethearts?

Now all Jessie can think about is this life. The life Rachael had. The life Jessie has. Why Rachael died the way she did.

Why? Why? Why?

A harsh jangle of bells bursts into her ear, and she just about jumps out of her skin. The new telephone in the smoking parlor rings again and she hurries downstairs to answer it. Pacific Bell, that's what they call the new switchboard, though only those in the know like Miss Jessie Malone are connected. Sure and she's got connections from the Parisian Mansion and the Morton Alley cribs to the boardinghouse, and to the fire stations, the lower Dupont callbox, and Gumps. The Queen of the Underworld and the chief of police have the best connected lines in town.

So far, wealthy gentlemen like Mr. Heald, his honor the railbird, and the diamond broker have resisted installing telephones in their Sn.o.b Hill mansions. No, they would much rather communicate the old-fashioned way, send a handwritten note by messenger boy to the wife saying they've been detained on business and won't be home tonight. Who wants to hear the wife's voice berating him on a telephone? Who wants to explain when questions are asked, questions that require answering?

Jessie claps the set to her ear, the handpiece to her mouth. "Yeah?"

Garble, garble, garble. ". . . 's Bertha, Miss Malone." That's the door maid at the Red Rooster, Jessie's Morton Alley cribs. "New girl showed. . . ." Garble.

"A new girl showed up?" Jessie shouts loud enough to wake up the whole house.

"Yeah," Bertha shouts. "She says. . . ." Garble.

"I'll come on down and look her over later." Suddenly she's tired at the very prospect of going down to Morton Alley.

"Tong men. . . .says she's gotta get off the street."

"Tong men, did you say? She a c.h.i.n.k?"

Garble, garble. "On the lam, she says."

"All right, all right. I'll get there as quick as I can." She claps the handpiece onto the set.

Suddenly she's wide awake. Kick-in-the-gut awake. Even the Queen of the Underworld would rather not tangle with tong men. But the biz is the biz, and you may find yourself purchasing their merchandise now and then. Too little Chinese tail in this town, Jessie thinks, and Morton Alley is so popular with the sailors. A crib like the Red Rooster could always use more Chinese tail.

"Mother of G.o.d, Rachael," she whispers, "I don't rightly know if I can tolerate the biz much longer."

There is one person, and one person only, she needs right now.

Jessie climbs back up the stairs.

She lets herself into the suite Zhu and Mariah share without knocking. Mariah is banging a pot in their little kitchen, humming, sometimes talking to herself, and the good scent of coffee perfumes the air. Jessie tiptoes across their dark parlor, knocks softly on the door to Zhu's bedroom.

Her sleepy voice answers, "Yes?"

Jessie hesitates. What if he's there? She's never caught them in bed together in all these months. Of all the things she's seen in her time-lewd things, lascivious things, sometimes depraved things-suddenly Jessie doesn't want to see her Zhu in bed with Daniel Watkins.

"Who's there?"

What choice does she have? Who else can she depend on at a quarter to five in the morning? She pushes the bedroom door open.

And sure if it isn't him, stretched long and lean in the dim golden light of the low-burning lamp next to Zhu's bed, his dark hair tumbling across the pillow next to her. Zhu sits up, one of her pretty eyes nearly swollen shut, a bruise on her cheek, her lip swollen, too, split and b.l.o.o.d.y.

"Oh, Rachael," Jessie blurts out, blinking back tears.

Zhu turns up the lamp. "Jessie? What's up?"

It's Zhu, of course, not Rachael, and there is no man lying beside her. Just the crumpled sheets and blankets she kicked off during the fitful night. She leans into the lamplight, dispelling the shadow across one side of her face. Displaying her tilted green eyes, sharp cheekbones, the sleepy curve of her smile.

"Jessie, what's wrong?"

Faint, she must be faint, everything whirling around. No sleep--she hasn't slept since the day before yesterday. "Ah, Zhu. That was one h.e.l.l of a premonition. I do not want to repeat it anytime soon."

Zhu bounces out of bed and comes to her, helping her sit down. Such strong skinny arms, she can toss a man over her shoulder. So serious gazing at her, her serious Zhu. Never met anyone like her girl from the future. If only it were true.

"A premonition? What do you mean?"

"These days I get strange feelings, missy. I see things like what I just seen right now."

"What did you see, Jessie?"

"Never you mind. Get dressed, you gotta come with me. I've never taken you there before. You're too good to see such things, and that's a fact. But I gotta take you there now. A c.h.i.n.k showed up."

"A c.h.i.n.k?'

"Jabberin' about tong men. On the lam, she says. If that's so, she's probably worth it." Jessie lurches to her feet, irritated now, and seizes Zhu by the collar of her nightgown. "Get dressed, I say."

"You mean a Chinese girl," she says, still slow with sleep.

"Yeah, yeah. Who else can help me with this, Pearls Before Swine?"

"I'll go." As if her servant has a choice. Then she says, "Don't you call her a c.h.i.n.k."

"Sure and that's what she is."

"Do you call me a c.h.i.n.k?"

"Oh, for pity's sake, you're my Zhu. Is everyone a million years in the future so riled up about what people call things?"

"Sometimes they have been and sometimes they haven't. Depends on who and where and when. For sure we've all been riled up for a long time."

"All right," Jessie says. A headache starts throbbing behind her eyes. "Have you got any booze handy?"

"Yeah, actually, I do. Brandy on the night table. Not for me."

Jessie knows exactly who the brandy is for and helps herself just the same. "Hurry up."

Zhu throws off her nightgown without a care. Jessie is in the biz of appraising women's salability, and she watches now, appraising the lean muscles, the long bones, the pale golden skin so unlike any other woman Jessie has ever seen, and she's seen plenty. Zhu reaches into her wardrobe, swift and sure, pulling on stockings, garters, bloomers, corset, slip, underskirt, bodice, overskirt, jacket, b.u.t.ton boots, gloves, hat, veil.

Sure and Jessie bought the kit and caboodle for Zhu herself, all in cerulean blue silk. Pretty. Mistress material for a certain taste. And for a proper gentleman, not the likes of Mr. Watkins.

"Where are we off to in such a rush?"

"Wait." Jessie flips up the jacket and bodice before Zhu can tuck in and b.u.t.ton everything, seizes the strings of Zhu's corset and laces her tighter. Tighter. She glimpses dappled bruises. Or is it only the dawn light angling across the slim bones of Zhu's back?

Everything changing and shifting around. Visions and hauntings and premonitions.

"We're a-goin' to the dread Morton Alley."

Zhu takes her time tucking in her bodice and fastening her jacket after Jessie has laced her up. She's spent another strange night with Daniel and, though he was loving and gentle, telling wild tales of his Paris days, he's left as he always leaves-he never spends the night with her-Zhu is more uneasy than ever. He's deeply into cocaine and drink, yet under Tenet Three of the Grandmother Principle, she can't help him. What he is doing is what he has always done. What he will always do. There's nothing she can do or say. She can't interfere with his destiny as a man of the Gilded Age.

Then why does she want so badly to persuade him away from that destiny? Why is she involved with this nineteenth century man at all? She asks Muse that question over and over, receives alphanumerics flickering is her peripheral vision. We believe there is a probability. We believe there is a probability. Of what? she demands. Then the alphanumerics flicker out, and Muse is silent.

Zhu tries her best to calm the terror in her heart. The t-port has gone wrong. What else she can conclude? That's why the LISA techs shut t-porting down. Too many mistakes. World changing mistakes. s.p.a.cetime changing mistakes. The t-port has gone terribly wrong, and she's on her own in the past.

That a Chinese girl has shown up at Jessie's Morton Alley cribs sends a shiver of hope into her heart. On the lam from the tongs? Wing Sing? Oh, please, let it be her! Now this is something she's supposed to do something about for the Gilded Age Project.

Zhu takes her time fastening her b.u.t.ton boots, slipping her mollie knife into one boot, while Jessie gulps brandy and fumes. Then she's ready. They clatter down the stairs and out the door to the street. Jessie's rockaway and pair are stabled far away in Cow Hollow. No cabs are in sight amid the vendors' wagons at this early hour. They stand, irresolute, at the stoop of 263 Dupont Avenue while the saloons, bathhouses, and gambling joints across the street eject the last of the deadbeats and freshen things up for new customers seeking relief in the morning.

"Hey, it's getting light, Jessie, let's just walk downtown. It's not too far, right?"

"Oh, missy." Jessie grimaces, holding her side. "I don't know if I can."

Zhu grimaces, too, to see her. Jessie's got some kind of serious medical problem, that's what Muse says. But Zhu doesn't need Muse to tell her what's obvious. Kidney disease, cirrhosis of the liver, possibly cancer in an advanced stage. But what can Zhu do for the Queen of the Underworld? Jessie Malone is no more a part of the Gilded Age Project than Daniel J. Watkins. Jessie is just a local, an inhabitant of this s.p.a.cetime. Zhu isn't supposed to trouble herself about Jessie. Why should she bother?

Well. Because she, Zhu Wong, is a Daughter of Compa.s.sion, that's why. Because she's a devotee of Kuan Yin, the protector of women. Because if she ever sees Sally Chou again, she can say she didn't fail the Cause in her day or in Jessie's day. She digs through her feedbag purse, finds the little bottle marked "Montgomery Ward Quinine Pills," shakes out a neurobic. She breaks the capsule in front of Jessie's nose.

"Sniff," she says. Tenet Three be d.a.m.ned.