carriage neared it, Figg heard the scream of an animal being killed. Jonathan. Did people scream when he killed them? Jonathan. One day gone.
“One day,” muttered Figg, eyes on the slaughterhouse. He continued to look back at it as the cab headed toward Scotch Ann’s. The animal had stopped screaming. Its days were over.
* * * *
Poe was an aristocrat in manners and morals, a romantic, a man fanatically chivalrous to women. His tolerance for people whose personal conduct fell below his standards of virtue was as low as his tolerance for lesser literary talents. Which is why he stared with utter disgust at the homosexual orgy he and Figg had interrupted on the third floor of Scotch Ann’s brothel. A coin or two in the right hand had gotten them the location of this very private party. They’d entered the room to find six men-three nude, three in women’s clothing-preparing to enjoy a lavish feast of erotic food and drink.
Volney Gunning quickly sat up, watery eyes rapidly blinking at Poe. Gunning had been reclining on huge lavender satin cushions, his long, balding head in the lap of a thin man who wore a shoulder length blonde wig and a blue gown revealing bare shoulders.
“Poe, how dare you! This, this is a private affair. I shall have you and your friend thrown out immediately!”
Poe heard the cock of a gun hammer behind him. That would be Mr. Figg removing his flintlock from his pocket and undoubtedly depositing his rotund body in front of the only door in the room. Even with this assistance, Poe had no intention of remaining long in such decadence. From Gunning, he wanted only Jonathan’s whereabouts. After that, it was retreat in haste from this temple of unnatural lust.
“Mr. Gunning, you would be advised to tell us what we want to know. Where is Jonathan?”
Volney Gunning’s jaw dropped. He flopped backwards as though wanting the beautifully gowned prostitute to embrace and protect him from a harsh world.
“J-Jonathan? I know of no such person. Who are you to come here and question me-”
Figg’s soft rasp moved closer as the boxer stepped from the door. “’Oo are we, ‘e says. We are the gents whats goin’ to put a ball through yer stinkin’ brain if you do not tell us what we come to ‘ear.
A corner of Poe’s small mouth went up in a bitter smile. “Steady on, Mr. Figg. I am certain that Mr. Gunning believes us to be in earnest. Well sir?”
Gunning’s deep voice trembled with fear. “I know of no such per-person. I know of no such-”
“You lie, sir.” There was steel in Poe’s gentle, southern voice.
“You offend me, sir!” Gunning pointed a long, bony forefinger at Poe.
Figg stepped forward, an arm extended, the flintlock aimed at Gunning’s head. “You offend
Poe’s small hand was on Figg’s pistol, gently pressing it down towards the floor. “As you can see, Mr. Gunning, my friend is upset at your twice having tried to murder him. I refer to the train yesterday noon, and also to the matter of gas leakage a few days ago at the Hotel Astor. My friend is vindictive and you could well be the worse for it.”
“I cannot speak of
Poe looked around the room, gray eyes swiftly absorbing details. The room reeked of plush decay. Hanging from the walls were obscene tapestries explicit in their portrayal of the pleasures of Greek love between man and man, man and boy.
There were red velvet drapes in front of the windows, gaslight on the walls, along with more obscene paintings. Spotted around the room were cheap copies of statues of slim, beautiful young men. On the floor were huge satin pillows of varying colors on which the naked men and their prostitutes reclined. All three of the prostitutes carried fans. Two wore thin, black lace gloves and one, Poe noticed, wore mittens. A few years ago, wearing mittens while dining had been something of a fad among upper-class New York women.
Poe said, “Mr. Figg, I cannot tell you the names of the so-called ladies among us-”
“Sarah,” said the one with his arms around Volney Gunning. Flicking his fan closed,
Sarah batting long lashes, smiled up at Poe. The male whore was stunningly beautiful and his lascivious gaze made the writer ill at ease. Poe continued speaking as though he had not been interrupted. The uneasiness he felt because of Sarah’s glance, Poe would push aside by increasing his scorn. The tongue of Tomahawk had a sharp sting.
“Well now, Mr. Figg, the ladies have introduced themselves, a fact which can either cause you to bow from the waist or retch until your stomach aches.”
The smile fled Sarah’s face. He snapped his fan open with a delicate hand, hiding all of his face behind it, except for his pale green eyes and long lashes. The eyes gleamed with hatred.
Poe sneered. “Let us now introduce the men, Mr. Figg. Volney Gunning. You have made his acquaintance and are none the better for it, I warrant. Then there is Prosper Benjamin, the portly, bearded gentleman who has been holding hands with Amelia of the ivory-handled fan. Mr. Benjamin, married and a pillar of respectability, owns ships of shoddy quality, ships used to bring cheap immigrant labor to the shores of this republic. How many of your ships are at the bottom of the ocean, Mr. Benjamin? Obviously you cannot build quality vessels if you are to spend money in such a temple of Venus as this.”
“And there is Abe Pietch. Mr. Pietch is a landlord, an approved bloodsucker. Notice, Mr. Figg, how he blushes and inches away from Messalina. Could it be shame that causes such a breech? Who can say? Mr. Pietch constructs slum housing and allows immigrants to live there in squalor unknown in the northern hemisphere. Surrounded by awesome filth and deadly living conditions, the immigrants are subject to such vagaries of fate as cholera, yellow fever, smallpox, tuberculosis and a monstrous death rate that kills them in consistently large numbers. This state of affairs allows Mr. Pietch to amass money which he lends or invests at usurious rates. Do not borrow money from Mr. Pietch, Mr. Figg. In return he would expect at least your first born and three vital organs.”
Figg spat on the table of food. “Lovely lot, they are. Maggots crawlin’ over garbage ‘ave a sweeter smell.”
Poe looked down at the table. “Honey mixed with peppercorns. Considered an aphrodisiac in the Orient. And this meat here, what is-”
“Partridge.” Sarah snapped the word at Poe.
Poe smiled at Figg. “Throughout the ages, Mr. Figg, impotent men have believed that the flesh of the partridge will return their sexual powers. Among fowls, there is none more lecherous than the partridge. It is said to be so sexually adept that it has the ability to make pregnant its mate merely by using its voice.”
Figg snorted, pistol still pointing at Volney Gunning’s head. “Only the bloomin’ voice? Saves a patch of ‘ard work, don’t it?”
Sarah, sardonically playing the hostess, fixed a cold smile on his lovely face, flicking a closed fan at the table. “Goat’s milk with the leaf of the Satyricon plant. Sip it, Mr. Poe and you will be able to achieve sexual congress no less than seventy times in rapid succession. Assuming you have that objective. These are love apples, commonly called tomatoes and this, this dish is bull’s testicles. Resembles an ordinary meat pie-”
Poe aimed his cold gray eyes at Sarah, “Yesterday when you killed Miles Standish, did he beg for his life?”
Sarah snapped his fan closed, eyes still on the table. Amelia and Messalina quickly exchanged glances, looked at Poe then looked away.
Sarah stood up, forced a smile and slowly walked towards Poe. He moved with the grace of a woman flirting. Hips swayed, the fan fluttered, Poe smelled perfume, saw the flash of gaslight on jewelry. Sarah was close enough to touch him. Poe leaned back, uncertain as to how he should deal with this he-she, this lovely and evil
Sarah closed her fan, placing the hand that held it on Poe’s shoulder. Figg watched Poe stand rigid as a bird hypnotized by a slow crawling snake.
