The Gilded Age Part 26

"Oh no, I don't take the cocaine," Jessie objects. "I keep telling Mr. Watkins."

"This isn't cocaine, it's a neurobic."

"A neurobic. Like what you gave Mr. Watkins after I picked you two up, brawling with them thugs in the street?"

"Exactly. Sniff! Quickly!"

Jessie sniffs, and her grimace of pain instantly transforms into something more tranquil. She says suspiciously-as well she should-"What is this, missy?"

"Something good from the future. Do you believe me?"

"Sure and why not?"

Zhu smiles. Daniel calls her a lunatic and loses no chance to challenge her whenever she admits her true nature and origin. But Jessie mostly accepts her claims with a trusting forthrightness, the way she trusts Madame De Ca.s.sin's spiritualism. Zhu often wishes she could show more to Jessie, using Muse's holoid capabilities. Of all people, Jessie would appreciate seeing visions from a spirit. Maybe she would stop drinking champagne for breakfast. But Muse will only issue advice and project spectacular holoids to Donaldina Cameron, not to Jessie or to Daniel. What a shame.

"Don't dawdle, missy," Jessie commands in her usual bossy way. "You said walk. Let's get a move on."

They stride down Dupont Avenue to Union Square, turn down a short, narrow alley beginning at Stockton and ending at Kearny. The waking downtown streets are softly lit with rosy dawn light, but Morton Alley is brightly lit with a garish false dawn. Red lights shine over every door in flagrant disregard of the new ordinance. Union Square and the surrounding streets are quiet and empty, save for the sleepy-eyed tradesmen with their horses and wagons, but Morton Alley seethes with loud and frenetic humanity.

Alphanumerics flash in Zhu's peripheral vision as Muse opens a file. "Beyond the time of this Now," Muse whispers in subaudio, "after the First Great Quake destroys most of the city, Morton Alley will be rebuilt and renamed. There will be jewelry shops and boutiques, art galleries and posh cafes. They'll call it Maiden Lane and no one will remember the 'maidens' you see here now."

Zhu gapes at a h.e.l.lish scene. Naked maidens lean out from the cas.e.m.e.nt windows, shouting prices, trilling like creatures in heat, describing in detail certain acts they can be hired to perform, and belittling the anatomy, wealth, and intelligence of the mob of men below their windows. The alley is thronged with drunken men who shout back at the maidens, at the door maids, at the bouncers, at each other. Men stagger from crib to crib, peer in the barred windows at the occupants as though viewing animals in a zoo, shout approval or disapproval, pinch flesh when they can reach it. Two fellows reel by locked in a violent embrace, their faces bloodied by several rounds of fisticuffs.

"Don't worry," Jessie shouts in Zhu's ear, "the bulls won't bother no one here unless there's a shooting."

Unlike the Parisian Mansion, where Jessie's girls are blond or red-haired and well-endowed, these women are of all different shapes, sizes, and races. Zhu spies every color of humanity here-ivory white, golden yellow, fawn brown, ebony black. She's oddly reminded of pirates of the high nineteeth-century seas, their captains equal opportunity employers welcoming Oriental, Hispanic, white, and black as long as the crewman is sufficiently qualified with seamanship, swordsmanship, avarice, and bloodthirstiness.

But as she and Jessie press through the crowd and draw nearer to the windows, Zhu sees their faces. Despite their variegated skin colors, hair colors, and eye colors, their features fine or bold, their bodies robust or frail, these women share one thing in common-a look of deep despair behind the bawdy facade. A look born of the cruel grip of degradation. Cast over all of them is the patina of poverty, makeup plastered over the taint of disease.

A bouncer shouts like a carnival barker at the door leading up to a row of cribs called, according to the sign overhead, The Cow Yard. "Ten cents touch a t.i.tty, fifteen cents two t.i.tties, twenty-five cents plow a Mexican, fifty cents a c.h.i.n.k, j.a.p, or darkie, seventy-five cents a Frenchie, a dollar for an American beauty, all white meat."

Jessie seizes Zhu's elbow, drags her onward. "My cribs is down the block."

"d.a.m.n it, Jessie, how can you keep an establishment in this h.e.l.lhole?"

"The biz is the biz, why can't you ever get that straight?"

"But, Jessie." Zhu calculates. The girls at the Parisian Mansion earn five dollars a gentleman, sometimes more. "How can you clear a profit with a fee structure like that?"

Jessie grins. "Now you're thinking like a madam. Each of my Morton Alley gals clears eighty, maybe a hundred a night."

"Eighty, maybe a hundred dollars?"

"Johns. Johns, missy. The Red Rooster has a reputation for the prettiest girls on this alley. A port of call all its own. This way."

And Zhu thought she'd seen the worst the Gilded Age had in store for women. She hadn't. Her heart clenches with rage and pity, and her mind immediately turns to liberation, to a.s.sistance for these imprisoned 'maidens' forced to have s.e.x eighty, maybe a hundred times a day just to earn their keep. Tenet Three be d.a.m.ned, she thinks for the thousandth time. But what can she do, even if she had authorization from the project directors? What can she do?

Jessie leads her to the Red Rooster, also known among the denizens of Morton Alley by the bird's more common name. The Rooster is housed in a ramshackle commercial building so old and so weathered, Zhu is hard put to call it Stick Victorian. Jessie slaps, shoves, and punches rowdies out of her way, pulling Zhu through the door of her nefarious lair.

"Ber-THA!" Jessie summons the door maid, a black woman of tremendous height and girth. Not only is she brawny from years of hard physical labor, Bertha in her position as the door maid has eaten and drunk heartily. She surveys Zhu with eyes of black ice, a dour mouth.

"She the chit aksin' where that hunnert went?" Bertha means an unaccountable monthly shortfall Zhu discovered in the Rooster's books. The door maid takes a cover charge of twenty-five cents from each john before he makes his choice; she takes the balance when he leaves. The bouncer also tabulates the number of johns for every twelve-hour period by logging in each visit to each maiden. The system is meant to keep tabs on the maiden, how much traffic she attracts. Zhu pointed out to Jessie that the system also serves as a cross-check on the door maid and other staffers. Bertha was Zhu's number one suspect. But door maids as big and mean as Bertha are not that easy to find.

"Don't worry your pretty little head about it, Bertha," Jessie says now and barges in.

"Why doncha mind yer own business?" Bertha snaps at Zhu, the unmistakable smarm of guilt in her icy eyes.

Before Zhu can protest that she was just doing her job, Jessie ushers her into a hallway awash in red light. From a plain wood plank that functions as a bar, a wiry old man sells shots of whiskey and gin. Zhu notices a stove, a bubbling cauldron of water. Two maids scoop hot water into basins and hurry down the hall, doling out water as each john finishes his business. More men, more barred windows, more cribs, more women leaning out, haranguing whoever stands there gawking at them. A bouncer oversees the mob inside, announcing the fee scale in a loud monotone.

A drunken girl slumps over the ledge of her window. Slovenly blond hair, floppy b.r.e.a.s.t.s and arms, bruises dappling her plump neck.

"Li'l Lucy!" Zhu cries and hurries over. Columns of figures in a ledger, that's all the Red Rooster had been to Zhu. Not anymore. She peers in at the crib, a cubicle not much larger than a clothes closet. Against the back wall is a cot covered with a slick red cloth, a washbasin for the hot water, and a bottle of carbolic acid for douching. A framed placard on the wall over the cot reads "Li'l Lucy" romantically rendered in daisies.

"'Lo, Miss Zhu." Li'l Lucy grips the window with both hands, holding herself up. The ledge is padded with more of the slick red cloth. "Like my workshop?"

Zhu runs a finger over the cloth. "Oilcloth?"

"Yeah, on the cot, too. The johns don't never take their clothes off or their boots. Them's the rules. So the mud an' all? I can wipe it right off. See?" Li'l Lucy demonstrates with a stained rag she pulls out from under the cot.

Jessie looms behind Zhu and shoulders past her. "You're jagged again, Li'l Lucy." She seizes Li'l Lucy's face, turns her chin back and forth. "You're smokin' hop, too, ain't ya?"

"No, Miss Malone, I would never. . . ."

"Yeah, you are, I can see it in your eyes."

Li'l Lucy's blue eyes are all dark pupil, the flesh around them dark, too, and mottled as if she has two black eyes. Zhu swallows hard, then glimpses blood dappled down Li'l Lucy's arm. "Jessie, what's this? She's got blood on her arm."

Jessie waves a maid over. To Li'l Lucy, "The creep come in here again?"

Li'l Lucy nods. Jessie lets the maid into the crib with a key from the outside, and the maid wipes Li'l Lucy down with hot water and a rag.

"'s okay, Miss Zhu," Li'l Lucy says, smiling at Zhu's look of horror. "Some gentleman always come here with a chicken, a live chicken. He likes to cut its head off after he spouts hisself off and spray the blood all around. He's what we call a creep."

"Let's go, missy." Jessie takes Zhu's arm and drags her down the hall.

"You take care of yourself, Li'l Lucy," Zhu calls to her, feeling helpless and outraged.

Li'l Lucy has two years left on her contract. "Oh, I ain't long for this world, Miss Zhu. Don't you worry about me, 's okay."

"How can you do this to her?" Zhu shouts at Jessie. "She was your girl at the Mansion."

"The biz is the biz. She got the pox, you know that." Jessie swipes a shot of gin from a maid's tray, knocks it back. "Where's the new girl?"

"Number forty-two," the maid says, scurrying away, fear of the Queen of the Underworld plain on her face. "She got her boyfriend with her."

"Does she, now." Jessie storms to the crib, Zhu following reluctantly. She doesn't want to stay in this h.e.l.lish place one minute longer. Jessie unlocks the door and strides inside, Zhu d.o.g.g.i.ng her heels.

The new girl turns. Round face, golden skin, her cheekbones deeper. Her dark eyes rimmed in red, her black hair unraveling from its queue. The apple-green silk is crinkled, the embroidery unraveling, too, the fabric ruined by a scrubbing in hot water and soap. Her hands are raw, the knuckles red, perhaps skinned by a washboard or a brush. She wears the same straw sandals over big k.n.o.bby toes, her feet bare.

"Wing Sing!" Zhu cries. The girl's feet are as big and broad as paddles. But is it really her? "Wing Sing, what are you doing here?"

"'Lo, Jade Eyes." No longer the compliant parlor girl in her mask of makeup, she's got a sharp edge to her now, a hard glint in her young eyes.

"Say, you know this chit?" Jessie takes the girl's face in her hand like she took Li'l Lucy's, turns it this way and that. Pries open her mouth, peers into her eyes. Pokes a finger in her ribs, pinches her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her thighs.

Panic rises in Zhu's throat. "Wing Sing, you're supposed to be staying at the home."

A tough young sailor with white blond hair lounges over by the crib's window. He turns, looks Zhu up and down. He's a handsome boy with bright green eyes and a deep sunburn. Wing Sing says to Zhu, "This my boyfriend, Rusty, from Selena's." To him, "This my friend Jade Eyes. See why I love your eyes, honey?"

"You. Scram," Jessie says to the sailor. He shrugs, blows Wing Sing a kiss, and slouches out.

"Bye bye, Rusty honey," Wing Sing calls to him.

"Fed you pretty good at the home, did they, them Bible thumpers?" Jessie knows exactly what Zhu is talking about, apparently, and she's smiling. Calculating, calculating. Zhu can practically see the numbers dancing through her head. Fifty cents a john? Maybe seventy-five?

"d.a.m.n it, Wing Sing," Zhu says, a sick feeling in her gut. This is not supposed to be happening, not supposed to happen. "You better tell me why you're not staying at Miss Cameron's."

"She make me wash, she make me sew, she make me scrub floor," Wing Sing says with supreme contempt. "She make me serve her tea at her fine table."

"Where were you workin' before them Bible thumpers rescued you, kid?" Jessie asks, her eyes sparkling with avarice.

"At Selena's on Terrific Street," Wing Sing says. "I not go back there. Chee Song Tong kill me for sure." She glares at Zhu, accusation burning in her eyes. Then she leans close and whispers, "I carry Rusty's child."

"You're pregnant?" Zhu whispers back, horrified all over again. What about her prenatal care? What about her diet? What about a hundred johns a day? Then she realizes-of course, Wing Sing is pregnant. She's supposed to be pregnant. Green-eyed father, green-eyed daughter. The elderly green-eyed Chinese woman pushing Donaldina Cameron's wheelchair in Golden Gate Park, circa 1967. Wing Sing's daughter? Is it her?

Well, it sure can't be me, Zhu rea.s.sures herself, also for the thousandth time. Trying to deny the dread beating in her heart ever since she viewed that holoid.

Jessie glances back and forth between them, a knowing look rising in her eyes. "Sure and I'll take you in, kid. The rent is five bucks a day, your draw is ten percent, and tips are all yours." To Zhu, "Told ya I was fair."

"I want new dress," Wing Sing says imperiously. "New undergarments, new stockings, new jewelry."

Jessie picks at the frayed embroidery on her tunic. "Sure and them Bible thumpers ruined your duds, all right. I'll have Miss Wong draw you up a contract today. And Miss Wong?" Rubbing it in. "Maybe you could lend the kid one of your dresses till she can buy her own. You look like you're the same size. Give her that old gray rag of yours, you've worn it too much, anyhow."

Zhu could strangle Jessie. "Wing Sing, I'm begging you, don't stay here. She can't make you stay until you're under contract." Not supposed to happen, not supposed to happen like this. "You've got to go back to Miss Cameron's home. You've got to. Think of the child."

"I not go back there, Jade Eyes. I not wash, I not sew, I not scrub floor." She spits on the floor of the crib. Her face is so cold, Zhu wants to weep. Where is the scruffy waif she found in the j.a.panese Tea Garden? "I not serve fahn quai."

The crowd begins to twitter down the hall.

"Where is she?" calls out an aristocratic female voice. "I just know my girl is here, Mr. Andrews, and I shall find her, if we have to tear this abomination down, board by board." Crash of gla.s.s, the clatter of a washbasin and a maid's tray. Screams, laughter, a roar of manly curses. "Out of my way, you filthy sinner."

Donaldina Cameron stands at the door to the crib, all crisp gray cotton and scowling rage, the policeman Andrews behind her, his ax in hand. She raises her eyebrows at Zhu. "So, Miss Wong? A distant cousin, is she?" She circles around Wing Sing, who glares back at Cameron. Zhu cringes. Cameron doesn't need to articulate her accusation of treachery and deceit. Zhu knows exactly what she must think.

Jessie is mightily amused. "You wanna go back with the Bible thumper, kid?" she says with heavy sarcasm.

"I not go," declares Wing Sing.

"Sure and I guess that's that, Bible thumper. She ain't your girl no more, she's mine."

Cameron turns her full fury on Zhu. "And I thought you were just the bookkeeper. I thought you were a decent, educated young woman. How can you let her take this girl to work in this den of sin?"

Zhu sputters, humiliated. "It's not my fault," is all she can whisper lamely.

Jessie chimes in, "I hear you got your girls workin', too, Bible thumper."

"Yes, working," Cameron says, bristling. "Work, real work. We teach our girls to love G.o.d and to work. To work hard at fruitful tasks, clean tasks. Idle hands and idle heads lead to the path of wickedness. Good work is the way these young souls can be saved from the heathen deviltry that enslaves them."

"Oh, I see." Jessie takes another shot of gin from the tray a trembling maid has brought in and knocks it back. "I hear your holy home looks like one o' them-what do they call it, Miss Wong?-a sweatshop. All them little orphan girls a-scrubbin' and a-polishin' and a-sewin' and a-washin'. Why, I hear them Sn.o.b Hill mansions send down their dirty silver and clothes to you. Ain't that so, missy?" She claps Wing Sing on the shoulder. "Just like a sweatshop in Tangrenbu."

"I not polish silver," Wing Sing says.

"This is outrageous," Cameron says, flushing deeply. "We depend on charity, you hussy. Charity often promised, seldom delivered, and stingily paid. So, yes, we must generate revenue to pay for the home. We manage the girls' earnings for their education and upkeep."

"For your upkeep, too, eh?" Jessie says, plucking at Cameron's pristine leg o' mutton sleeve.

Cameron pulls away. "I am paid twenty-five dollars a month, plus room and board, madam. Truly, I do not know how much longer I can continue." She aims a significant glance at Zhu. "Yet continue I do. I devote myself to this thankless task for the sake of our Lord, Jesus Christ, who died for us so that we may be blessed with life everlasting."

"You believe in Jesus, kid?" Jessie asks Wing Sing.

"Jesus nice man," the girl answers. "I like Jesus. But I honor the Lady of my people."

"And who is that?'

"Kuan Yin."

Zhu gasps. "You honor Kuan Yin?"

"Oh, yes! She see all, hear all. You honor the Lady, too, Jade Eyes?"

"Of course. She is the G.o.ddess of Compa.s.sion. I am a Daughter of Compa.s.sion."

Wing Sing claps her hands, delighted. "Compa.s.sion." She tries out the word. "Maybe Kuan Yin bless me one day. I pray some more."

"You be strong, Wing Sing, and Kuan Yin will surely bless you."

Zhu catches Cameron listening, openmouthed, but Jessie is grinning, triumphant. "There, you see, Bible thumper?" she says. "They got their own religion, their own culture. What makes you think yours is better?"

"'Tis a religion and a culture that allows a little girl to be bought and sold, Miss Malone," Cameron says. "'Tis a religion and a culture that allows a girl's master to burn her with candle wax, beat her, starve her, and force her into drudgery. And then, when she comes of age, 'tis a religion and a culture that allows her to be sold again to a crib in Tangrenbu or to this accursed place where she will prost.i.tute herself till she's dead at seventeen from disease, opium addiction, or sheer despair. So, yes, I say Christianity is the true Way and this Kuan Yin of theirs is heathen deviltry."

"Oh no, Kuan Yin doesn't condone the exploitation of women, Miss Cameron," Zhu says. "Kuan Yin is a protector of women. She offers sanctuary. . . ."

"This is all swell," Jessie b.u.t.ts in. "One day we can all sit down to high tea and chat about whose G.o.d is better than whose. But, really, Miss Cameron, do you really think this fine society of ours is any better when it comes to treatin' women? Stick your fine face out that door and tell me it is."

The color drains from Cameron's face and she presses her lips together. She doesn't need to stick her face out the door. The clamor of drunken men outside a.s.sessing the maidens in their cribs, bargaining with the bouncer, bragging of their exploits is only too clear.

"You got yourself a family, don't you, Miss Cameron?" Jessie's eyes sparkle with a fury Zhu has witnessed only once or twice. "And a fiance, ain't that right? But think about this. What if your folks died when you was a kid, and you got nothin'? What are you gonna do, huh? Go work in a sweatshop for a dollar a day and the rent on a crummy room is seven a week? Work in a factory and lose your hand to some machine? Take in piecework? Beg on the street? You know what them fancy jewelry shops downtown pay their shopgirls? Do you know how many girls come to me because they can't make enough dough to live on working in a factory or in a fancy jewelry shop? You think this fine society of ours don't wink at the buying and selling of female flesh?"

"The likes of you exist despite our best efforts to stamp you out like the vermin you are," Cameron declares.