“Why? What you want with her,
Sabina debated the wisdom of identifying herself, decided to take the chance, and presented him with her card.
His frown deepened as he studied it. “Lady detective,” he said, but not in the way so many did, as if the concept was difficult to grasp. He hesitated, then motioned her off to an uncrowded side of the stall. In a low flat voice he asked, “Clara, she’s in trouble again, hah?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What she do, steal money?”
“Yes. By picking pockets.”
“
“I’m afraid so.”
“That Sally woman, that’s where she learn that game. Sure.”
“Sally?”
“Friend of Clara’s aunt Bess,” Tony said disgustedly. “Some friend-a thief. Used to be pickpocket when she’s younger, before her hands go bad with
“Sally Tatum?”
“That’s right. You know her?”
“I know of her.” Dippin’ Sal, one of the more famous cutpurses who had plied her trade in Virginia City in the early days of the Comstock Lode. She must be in her sixties now, and long retired if her hands had become crippled with arthritis. “Is she still living in Nevada?”
“No, she’s come live down here now.”
“Do you know where?”
“With her son Victor. Another crook, that one. Whole family of
“What’s Victor’s last name?” Dippin’ Sal had been married twice.
“Pope. He owns hardware store, but hammers and nails, they not all he buys and sells.”
“Stolen property?”
Tony shrugged elaborately, then made a dismissive gesture. “I don’t have nothing to do with crooks like him.”
“Do you know where his hardware store is located? Or where he lives?”
“In the Mission district. I know because my niece say so when she works for me last year, before she…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he scowled and muttered something in Italian under his breath. “You think maybe that’s where you find Clara?”
“It’s possible.”
“And then what? You arrest her?”
“If I don’t, the police will.”
He nodded. “
“What’s that?”
“Don’t come to her uncle Tony for money to get out of jail. She’s no longer
“I understand, Mr. Antontelli.”
“Tony. Tony the Fish Monger.”
12
SABINA
The hansom clattered along bustling Mission Street, past shops and sidewalk stands and the oldest building in the city, Mission Dolores, the adobe church having been established by Father Junipero Serra the same year as the Declaration of Independence was signed.
A few blocks farther on, the driver turned off onto Twenty-second Street and urged his horse uphill. Victor Pope’s house was on Jersey Street between Sanchez and Noe, a fact Sabina had learned by stopping off at the agency long enough to consult their office copy of the city directory. She had also gleaned the address of the hardware store Victor Pope operated, but it was much more likely that his mother would be at his home than at his place of business.
The small clapboard house was in the middle of a block lined with similar dwellings. Rosebushes bloomed in the front yard behind a white picket fence. Even among those who trespassed frequently across the boundaries of the law, the Popes were probably considered better-than-average citizens in a respectable working-class neighborhood such as this. The crime of buying and selling stolen property was a relatively inconsequential one in a city where many more serious felonies occurred on a daily basis, and if Victor Pope were accused of being a fenceman, he would no doubt claim he had no knowledge that the items he traded in were stolen property. As for Dippin’ Sal, he would present her as an honest but poor elderly relative.
Sabina asked the hansom driver to wait for her, and mounted the front steps. There was no bell push, so she rapped on the door. Slow, shuffling sounds came from within, the door opened a few inches, and a wizened face peered out at her. The woman’s eyes were cloudy with cataracts, and the hand that clutched the door’s edge was knobbed and misshapen with arthritis.
“Mrs. Tatum?” Sabina asked.
“Who’re you?”
“A friend of Clara Wilds.”
“Clara don’t have friends look like you, missy. What you want with me?”
“She mentioned your name to me once. I thought you might know where I can find her.”
“If you’re her friend, how come you don’t know?”
“We’ve fallen out of touch.”
“What you want with her?” the old woman asked suspiciously.
“A business matter. She did me a favor awhile ago and now I have a chance to return it.”
“What kind of favor?”
“The money-making kind.”
“Hah. What’s your game, missy?”
“The same one you used to be in. The one you taught her.” Sabina punctuated those statements by reaching up to finger her Charles Horner hatpin. “Only my territory is the Uptown Tenderloin.”
There were several seconds of silence. Then Dippin’ Sal nodded once, satisfied, and her crabbed fingers opened the door all the way. Past her Sabina had glimpses of a small front parlor with striped wallpaper and old, worn furniture decorated with antimacassars.
“I can’t tell you where Clara’s livin’ now. She used to come around regular, now she don’t. Can’t be bothered anymore with an old woman taught her most every trick she knows.”
“Including the hatpin diversion?”
“No, she thought that one up herself. Pretty smart. You’re using it, too, eh?”
Sabina nodded. “Do you know anyone who can tell me where to find her?”
“Talk to my son. Likely he knows.”
“Fencing for her, is he?”
“And laying her, too, likely, not that he’d ever admit it to me. My Victor’s the same as his father was. Same as most men, come to that.”
“Is Clara still keeping company with Dodger Brown?”
“The Dodger? Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t. How would I know?” Dippin’ Sal raised and dropped her crippled hands. She smacked her lips as if there was a bitter taste in her mouth. “I’m just an old woman nobody cares about no more. But I was good in my day-the best there was workin’ the Comstock, smooth as silk. You better believe that, missy. The damn best there was, and I didn’t need no hatpin, either.”
Pope’s Hardware Store stood on the corner of Twenty-third Street and Guerrero. Its wood floors were buckled
