A gaggle of redheaded girls sat on the porch of what Inez surmised was the Lynch house as the horsecar rolled past. A young, dark-haired matron sat with them, a baby on her knee. Inez did not spot Antonia. She could be inside. Wherever she was, the girl was sensible. Intelligent. Although impulsive. Surely after their last talk she would avoid any escapades that would land her in hot water. At least, Inez hoped so. She sighed and pushed worries of Antonia aside.
Inez slouched down on her bench in the horsecar and pulled her hat brim lower over her face to indicate she was not open to casual conversation. Many of the laborers and seamen who crowded the car disembarked with her at the Long Bridge stop. Inez lengthened her stride, enjoying the freedom of movement of trousers. She reflected that if bloomers were not such an outré fashion, she would be sorely tempted to adopt them in her daily life.
Carmella, Inez thought, would be intrigued.
Nico would be scandalized.
When she was opposite Henderson’s Three Sheets, she stopped for a good hard look. Two stories high, brick-fortified, it clearly wasn’t just in the firewater business. She recalled her music pupil Patrick mentioning that, above the saloon, Henderson rented boarding rooms for sailors. Her scrutiny traveled to the second-story windows where light from candles or oil lamps wavered behind ragged and torn roller shades. A prickle of unease whispered over her skin.
Inez was familiar with the stories involving crimping and shanghaiing. One would have to lead a very sheltered life in San Francisco to not have at least heard the terms. The musicians, some of whom claimed to have seen shanghaiiers in action while working one or another low-class dive, loved to tell tales over the Monday night card games. Such tales usually involved sailors, come ashore for a “little relaxation” in the city’s various unsavory establishments, who were drugged with laced Pisco punch or dropped with a blackjack. These hapless souls invariably awoke on board an ocean-going vessel the next morning to be told they were now members of the crew, bound for parts north to the Bering Sea or south around Cape Horn.
The street level had no windows at all. The only thing breaking the brick façade was a door below a barely legible sign. Inez hunched her shoulders as a chill breeze drove the damp beneath the wool of her jacket, and considered.
No windows meant she would be going in blind.
Was I a fool to not take de Bruijn’s suggestion and let him tackle this?
Even as the question crossed her mind, she knew the answer didn’t matter. She was not turning back now.
Inez slid her right hand into her pocket and was comforted by the touch of her pistol. She set her jaw, walked across the street, pushed the door open, and entered.
Chapter Thirty-two
The first thing that struck Inez was the noise.
Conversation carried on at the level of a shout. An ill-tuned piano sprayed notes from an upbeat tune, attempting, but failing, to lift above the roar. Smoke from pipes, hand-rolled cigarettes, and cheap cigars hung thick and heavy, besting the most opaque of San Francisco’s ground-level mists. Only no fog ever boasted such a throat-closing combination of aromas—a clash of tobaccos mixed with the odor of unwashed, sour bodies packed close together. Fumes from the spillage of alcoholic beverages of unknown toxicity joined the fray. She paused just inside the door, staying in the shadow of the dimly lit bar, trying to get a bead on the place before venturing farther into the murky interior. The saloon was full of small tables, all occupied. The tops were littered with glasses, bottles, chipped plates, and what appeared to be a few games of dice and cards.
To the left was the bar, a nothing-fancy business-like affair. Beyond it, toward the back wall, was the piano, an upright. The piano player had his back to her, his face hidden from her sight. Nonetheless, his imposing size and hunched posture over the keyboard was familiar, much to Inez’s dismay. Part of her was tempted to walk up behind him—for it had to be Patrick laboring over the ivories—poke him in the back, and hiss, “Sit up straight!”
Rather, she kept to the gloom and hoped Patrick wouldn’t catch sight of her. Not that she thought he would recognize her, in this place, dressed as she was in men’s attire. Besides, what could he see through the impenetrable fug that hung between them? Still, best not to tempt fate by moving too close to the music.
She stepped to the near end of the bar where the bartender, a man with an eye patch, conversed with a sharp-looking fellow in a natty derby. Leaning an arm on the surface, she rapped on the wood with her knuckles.
The bartender switched his attention to her. “Aye? And wha’ll be your poison, sir?” The burr of Scotland rolled from his tongue.
Before she could say anything, the man in the derby said, “Allow me, eh? Always good to see a new face around The Three Sheets.” Sharp eyes flashed to the bartender and back to Inez. An unspoken signal had passed between them, she was certain. The derby-hatted man gave her a quick up and down, taking her measure with practiced ease.
A warning shiver ran down her limbs, and her toes clenched inside her boots as if to prepare her to run.
She pitched her voice low. “Kind of you,” she said, deciding to keep her responses short. She needn’t have bothered, because the fellow with the derby turned out to be the loquacious sort. “Looks like you’re ready to do the town, all cleaned up for the ladies, eh? Can’t do better’n the Paris of the West for that, eh? Been around town before, or is this your first time in
