The Gilded Age, a Time Travel by Lisa Mason Page B

been hacking each other to bits right
beneath the very noses of the bulls running this burg. The stories Jessie has
heard.
    But
that’s Chinatown. Not Golden Gate Park on the Fourth of the July. What is the
city coming to?
    The
bell chimes again, and Li’l Lucy, a housecoat slung over her corset and
bloomers, flies out of the bedroom on the second floor and hurtles down the
stairs.
    “Li’l
Lucy,” Jessie calls sternly as she passes by the parlor.
    “Yes,
Miss Malone.” Li’l Lucy skids to a halt. She’s a pastry of a girl, all buttery
and plump, which is the rage in Jessie’s biz. Li’l Lucy is under contract at
Jessie’s Sutter Street resort, the Parisian Mansion. She had gotten in the
family way for the second time and spent the past week recuperating after her
medical treatment. She does not look proper with her housecoat flapping open.
Not here, at the boardinghouse, which is a respectable establishment.
    Jessie
frowns. “Why aren’t you dressed, Li’l Lucy?”
    “Oh,
Miss Malone, I still ache.”
    Hmph.
Jessie seizes the ties of Li’l Lucy’s housecoat and wraps them tightly around
her waist twice, securing the ends in a gay bow. She arranges Li’l Lucy’s
yellow curls across her forehead, smoothing strands down her plump neck. She
wets her forefinger and smooths Li’l Lucy’s eyebrows, vigorously pinches the
girl’s cheeks, the fullness of her lips. The girl’s tender skin blooms with pain
and color.
    “There.
You gotta get back in the habit of groomin’, Li’l Lucy. That’s what gentlemen
expect. Now you may answer the door.”
    “Yes,
Miss Malone. Thank you, Miss Malone.” Li’l Lucy gazes at her like a starving
she- dog given a thimble of cream.
    Jessie
frowns, watching her go. The plumpness is starting to sag. The girl is too
careless. Li’l Lucy is becoming more trouble than she’s worth.
    “Now,
Jessie,” Mr. Heald says again, pleading. He takes the liberty of nuzzling the
diamonds dangling from her earlobes. Diamonds that beat anything Mrs. Heald
owns. “You can speak to the spirits later, can you not? Right now, my own sweet
spirit, I thought we could go upstairs. Like we agreed.”
    His
mustache tickles, well, she likes mustaches well enough and just about every
fashionable gentleman wears them these days. Upstairs is her private parlor.
She doesn’t have to live at the Parisian Mansion, not anymore. She can afford
door maids to handle the traffic when she’s not there.
    “I
have a caller, Mr. Heald. You heard the bell.”
    “Jessie,
please. Have pity on me.”
    Pity.
Sure and Jessie Malone has pity for no one. Still, she sinks to her knees in
the smoking parlor, grunting when her joints complain. She should not have to
do this anymore, truly she should not. But there’s the boodle for certain
persons in the mayor’s office. Perhaps Mr. Heald, being such a dear friend, may
persuade those persons that her civic contribution is adequate and need not be
increased.
    She
tugs at the buttons on his trousers.
    Gentlemen,
pah. Like most of his Snob Hill associates, Mr. Heald is a fool and a coward. A
deadbeat when it comes to the behavior she expects of him. Allowing tong men to
carry on in full view of law-abiding citizens.
    Tong
men—hatchet men, highbinders, the boo how doy —all words for the same
wretched creatures. She knows why they made a fuss in the park, all right. The
ragged Chinese girl is likely to fetch up to two thousand in gold, if she’s
fifteen or sixteen. Well, the biz is the biz. Jessie doesn’t give two hoots
about that. No, the outrage is that hatchet men were troubling a consumptive-looking
lady in a veil and a smart gray dress. A lady, on the Fourth of July!
    Jessie
trembles with anger, but she finishes her work. Mr. Heald, thank goodness, is
done quickly. She glances up. He’s got that sagging look he always gets through
the jowls after he’s done. She dabs a handkerchief to her lips, and he helps her
to her feet. Suddenly she’s weary of him, of