the sort of carriage women got from balancing books on their heads, but she was spit and fire behind those sophisticated British vowels. And he had a soft spot for spit and fire.
Tugging his hat lower and turning on his heel, he headed for Pacific Street, the destination he’d been bound for before he’d spotted Celia Davies racing along Kearney like a coonhound on a scent.
Nick scanned the road, which was crowded with soaks and gamesters and thieves, noting the dour men who studied him through open doorways and around the edges of faded velvet curtains, prepared to chain and bolt their doors if the cop—they knew he was police even though he didn’t wear a gray uniform with an obvious badge—made a move to barge inside and start throwing the law around. Since the chief of police rarely received any complaints about Barbary crime from the folks who mattered to him, the proprietors weren’t much at risk from Nick doing any such thing.
He located the saloon he sought, BAUMAN’S painted on a wooden sign tacked to the lintel. Unable to choose its neighbors, it was located next door to a brothel with the unoriginal name of Mrs. Brown’s House of Joy. One of the brothel residents reclined within the depths of the curtained doorway, smoking a cigarillo, her skirts hitched up to reveal red petticoats and shapely bare ankles, a sliver of early-evening sun warming her skin.
She noticed him stopped on the street and stubbed out the cigarillo on the stone step before scrambling to her feet. She was pretty, young, with thick brown hair and big brown eyes. Part Mexican, he’d guess, and not so long on the streets that she’d grown haggard before her years. She smiled; she had all of her teeth. She wouldn’t for long, if she kept smoking cigarillos.
“You looking for company, mister?”
Nick pitied her; he always pitied them. Not that a single one of these street girls wanted pity so much as they wanted cash. Enough cash to get away from the depravity and the squalor, the abusive customers, the drunks and brawlers. He would give her some, but if he pulled out a coin here, he’d be identified as a mark within seconds and pickpocketed before he could even reach for his purse. Besides, every evening she was probably searched by Mrs. Brown or one of her lackeys and stripped of any money found on her.
“You shouldn’t be asking me,” he said.
“You police?”
He tapped the brim of his hat. “Good day to you,” he responded and descended the steps leading into the basement saloon.
A stove warmed the space, and gas lamps lit the tin ceiling. The proprietor was cleaning tables while in the tiny kitchen beyond the main room his wife was frying wurst, preparing for the evening crowd that would turn up around seven and stay until it was kicked out at twelve. This was a nicer saloon than a lot of those in or near the Barbary, with a better clientele.
“Mina?” he asked the girl’s boss, a barrel-chested German with a handsome smile.
“She is in back, Detective Greaves,” he answered, returning to the walnut bar near the large front window. “Leave the door open.”
“You must want to hear the shouting, Bauman.”
The German laughed and started stacking clean glasses on shelves.
The saloon was not only nicer than a lot of them; it was bigger, too, with two rooms of living quarters for the Baumans and a spare room for the musicians to rest and prepare for the night’s entertainment. Nick nodded to Mrs. Bauman as he went down the hallway adjacent to the kitchen.
He paused in front of the closed door, an uneasy feeling in his chest. Removing his hat, he knocked and didn’t wait for her to tell him to come in.
“It’s not time yet, Herr Bauman.” She looked up. Her dark eyes met Nick’s in the mirror propped against the wall over the dressing table where she was seated. Her pink lips, lips he had once thought tasted as good as they looked, fell open. “Nick.”
Not
Hello
or
What the hell are you doing
Tugging his hat lower and turning on his heel, he headed for Pacific Street, the destination he’d been bound for before he’d spotted Celia Davies racing along Kearney like a coonhound on a scent.
Nick scanned the road, which was crowded with soaks and gamesters and thieves, noting the dour men who studied him through open doorways and around the edges of faded velvet curtains, prepared to chain and bolt their doors if the cop—they knew he was police even though he didn’t wear a gray uniform with an obvious badge—made a move to barge inside and start throwing the law around. Since the chief of police rarely received any complaints about Barbary crime from the folks who mattered to him, the proprietors weren’t much at risk from Nick doing any such thing.
He located the saloon he sought, BAUMAN’S painted on a wooden sign tacked to the lintel. Unable to choose its neighbors, it was located next door to a brothel with the unoriginal name of Mrs. Brown’s House of Joy. One of the brothel residents reclined within the depths of the curtained doorway, smoking a cigarillo, her skirts hitched up to reveal red petticoats and shapely bare ankles, a sliver of early-evening sun warming her skin.
She noticed him stopped on the street and stubbed out the cigarillo on the stone step before scrambling to her feet. She was pretty, young, with thick brown hair and big brown eyes. Part Mexican, he’d guess, and not so long on the streets that she’d grown haggard before her years. She smiled; she had all of her teeth. She wouldn’t for long, if she kept smoking cigarillos.
“You looking for company, mister?”
Nick pitied her; he always pitied them. Not that a single one of these street girls wanted pity so much as they wanted cash. Enough cash to get away from the depravity and the squalor, the abusive customers, the drunks and brawlers. He would give her some, but if he pulled out a coin here, he’d be identified as a mark within seconds and pickpocketed before he could even reach for his purse. Besides, every evening she was probably searched by Mrs. Brown or one of her lackeys and stripped of any money found on her.
“You shouldn’t be asking me,” he said.
“You police?”
He tapped the brim of his hat. “Good day to you,” he responded and descended the steps leading into the basement saloon.
A stove warmed the space, and gas lamps lit the tin ceiling. The proprietor was cleaning tables while in the tiny kitchen beyond the main room his wife was frying wurst, preparing for the evening crowd that would turn up around seven and stay until it was kicked out at twelve. This was a nicer saloon than a lot of those in or near the Barbary, with a better clientele.
“Mina?” he asked the girl’s boss, a barrel-chested German with a handsome smile.
“She is in back, Detective Greaves,” he answered, returning to the walnut bar near the large front window. “Leave the door open.”
“You must want to hear the shouting, Bauman.”
The German laughed and started stacking clean glasses on shelves.
The saloon was not only nicer than a lot of them; it was bigger, too, with two rooms of living quarters for the Baumans and a spare room for the musicians to rest and prepare for the night’s entertainment. Nick nodded to Mrs. Bauman as he went down the hallway adjacent to the kitchen.
He paused in front of the closed door, an uneasy feeling in his chest. Removing his hat, he knocked and didn’t wait for her to tell him to come in.
“It’s not time yet, Herr Bauman.” She looked up. Her dark eyes met Nick’s in the mirror propped against the wall over the dressing table where she was seated. Her pink lips, lips he had once thought tasted as good as they looked, fell open. “Nick.”
Not
Hello
or
What the hell are you doing
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