The Harlot’s Pen (23 page)

“Let him get mosquito bites in the swamp. Beat the crap out of him. Make him dance for us. Do Jews dance? Hey, kike!” he said, turning around. “Do Jews dance?”

“Go to hell,” Gold said, the first words he’d spoken, except for a whisper to Violet, since he’d been cuffed.

“Hell’s where you’re going, you commie heathen. Sounds like maybe we beat him up, and then let him watch while we fuck the girl.”

Gold struggled against the cuffs. Violet still had hold of them, and she felt one move. “Wait,” she whispered. He looked at her and winked. He knew. She eased the clasp open, and his hand was free. He bit hard on his lip as the blood rushed back into his hand. Slowly he moved his arms, and Violet kept an eye on the two up front. It had darkened enough that their movements went unnoticed.

“Here, there’s a workman’s shack on the side of the road.” Spires pulled the car off, bumping and bouncing on the rock trail.

Gold made a small sound as the jarring moved his cramped arms. Carson turned around. “Gonna cry, now?” Neither of them answered. “You’re gonna cry, soon enough, bitch,” he said to Violet. “I don’t like them dead, but I do like them to cry a little. Kind of spices things up. Remember when you cried at the station, Violetta? While you were unbuttoning your blouse?” Violet fought to control her breathing. “You know what you stealing those keys cost me? You’re gonna pay, bitch, just the way I like it.”

Even with Gold’s hands uncuffed, he couldn’t stop them. They had a gun. They were all alone in the swamp, and they were going to make Gold watch. Violet felt the crushing despair of defeat. She could take whatever happened to her, but she was taking down so many with her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to Gold.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Do not be.” He leaned over and kissed her hair. “My beautiful, brave, wonderful dolly.”

She smiled sadly and watched as Spires came around and opened the door.

She was glad to get out of the confines of the car, but the relief was short lived. She had only a moment to look around. The workmen’s shed was isolated from the road and surrounded by newly dredged land. The piles of reeds and dirt, dry on top, were interwoven with rivulets of water from the creek. In the distance she could see the new railroad bridge. Caleb’s bridge, she thought wryly. The Wingo. If only Caleb were here to fight for her. She thought of his sparkling, blue eyes.
I’d rather have you than a hundred hours of Sharon.
Sharon. She’d heard him say that. The remark that had launched a thousand troubles.

“Get a move on,” Spires said. “No time to admire the scenery.” He was herding her into the shed. In the shadows off to the side of the shed, an enormous piece of machinery stood guard. What was it called? She tried to remember. Oh, yes. The Nevada dredger. Could do the work of a thousand men, Caleb had said.

“Bring the journals,” Spires said to Carson, who was struggling to get Gold out of the car. Gold was limp, and he kept his hands behind him. “I want to make the kike read them aloud while we fuck her.”

“I got enough problems with this goddamn Russian,” Carson grunted, but he grabbed the three notepads nonetheless, tossing them on the mucky ground. “Come on, move!”

Spires turned to Violet. “Now, my girl. Let’s get going.” And he pushed her hard into the shed. Before she could steady herself, he was opening his pants. She looked down at his small erection, and despite her terror, she struggled to stifle her laughter.

He swore, and flung himself at her, tearing at the silk dress. “Oh, my God,” he said, as he beheld her breasts. In the pause, Violet screamed in his face, the sound so sharp and shrill that he drew back. She grabbed a hold of his neck and started to squeeze. Spires pulled her hands away and backhanded her across the mouth. Blood ran down the corner of her jaw.

“Hellcat. I like it like that. Fight me, hellcat!”

Violet could hear Gold and Carson as they too started to scuffle. “Die! Die!” Gold shouted, followed by the sound of a car door slamming, a high, long scream and a grunt. She clutched at Spires’ penis and twisted it. He hollered and grabbed her arms.

Suddenly Gold was behind him, pulling him away from her. She spat at Spires as Gold’s knee connected between Spires’ legs, sending him screaming across the room. They ran, and Spires, still bent double, hobbled after them. Gold and Violet tore out onto the drive. Carson stood by the car, heaving, with vomit on the front of his suit. He held his gun drawn in one shaking hand, his other arm hanging bleeding and twisted at his side.

“Run,” Gold gasped. She looked down at her heeled shoes. Better with them than barefoot, she decided, as Carson staggered towards them.

“That way,” Gold said, but then stopped. “Your journals!”

Violet saw the three notebooks, pages open and soaking into the muck. “Leave them,” she said hoarsely. “Come!”

“No!” Gold said. He ran and grabbed one, then the other. Violet couldn’t leave him to risk himself for her notebooks alone. She dove for the third as a shot rang out. She heard the bullet hit the shed.

“Run!” she screamed, clutching the third notebook. She ran, her dress twisting around her legs, her high heels sticking in the mud. A second shot, and Gold screamed. She looked back and saw him lying in the mud, the notebooks clutched to his chest. She had to get to the giant machine, she thought. She could hide behind it. She heard the third shot ping off the metal. She dove behind the monster.

Breathing hard, she stopped and listened. She could hear steps sucking the mud. She crept around the other side of the dredger. What had Caleb said? He had talked endlessly about it. Then she knew.

She scrambled up into the seat. It was a new invention. It could be started without a crank. You pulled on a starter cord. You pulled out a choke. A starter cord. She found something and pulled. Nothing happened. She pulled on another loop, and there was a strange rumbling. That was it, she thought. She pulled again sharply and heard another shot. She thought she could actually feel it go by. Once more, she pulled, and then hauled on the other, the first knob. That must be the choke. She prayed,
Let it be right
. The engine sputtered and then, as she pulled the choke harder, the beast roared to life.

The enormous Nevada dredger howled its power into the growing night. She crowed with it and pulled out the brake lever, as she had seen Mr. Dohrmann’s driver do. The great machine lumbered forward. She grabbed the steering wheel and saw, in the last of the light, Gold motionless on the ground and the astonished horror of Carson as the giant machine bore down on him and his car.

She thought she heard him scream to stop. She would have, if she had known how. But the Nevada did the work of a thousand men, and dredged one man, one car, and a world of horror into its hungry maw.

July 1, 1920

So ended my stay at Spanish Kitty’s El Verano Resort. It took only moments for realization to dawn in Agent Spires’ slow mind that cooperation with us was the better of two evils. His attempted rape would be forgotten and all deviation from standard federal procedure would be blamed on the rogue behavior of his former colleague.

I tied Spires’ shirt around Gold’s wounded leg, and Spires and I almost carried him back to the main road. In my other hand were my journals, sodden but safe, thanks to Gold. Eventually a cart came by, and after gawking at my disheveled state, the driver took us to the hospital in Petaluma, the closest town to where we had turned up.

I gave my statement to the Petaluma chief of police, and Spires corroborated it. The arrest for communism became an interview of potential witnesses. Carson, seeking fame and glory had turned on us, and had started shooting. I had hid in the Nevada dredger, and in my terror I had pulled something. The great machine had rolled over Carson. No one said anything about Spires’ assaulting me. I understood the deal and so did he.

Gold was in the hospital for seven days and was finally sent home to be nursed back to health. I sat with him in the hospital, having nowhere to go myself until Samantha came with my clothes and my money. I counted it up. In less than a month, I had made over two hundred dollars. No minimum wage could compete with that.

Once I had my money, I put up at a hotel in Petaluma until Gold was released, and I spent every day at his side. As soon as he was able to talk, he couldn’t stop. “I knew you weren’t really a prostitute. I knew you were something special.” He carried on about how brave I was and wouldn’t listen to a word of thanks for rescuing me from Spires and for saving my journals. He insisted that I read them all to him. The beginning still sounded hopelessly
ingénue
, but he was full of admiration.

“I wonder if Mr. Older will take the serial for the paper. Of course, I’ll have to change the names, but I don’t even know if he’ll like it.”

“You won’t have to change my name, just leave out the part where I tell you what my real name is. You’re the only one who knows up there in Sonoma.”

I smiled. “I’m the only one who can pronounce it. The rest don’t try.”

“It would be a better book than a newspaper serial. It’s too wild, too spicy, and too serious for the newspaper.”

“Oh, no one would ever publish a book of mine. I will just have to tame it down.”

On my last day in Petaluma, Samantha came with another letter for me and some more money. “What’s the money for?” I asked.

“It’s the end of the month. Miss Kitty says you get all your Caleb tips back.” I shook my head. I never did figure out why she was holding them. “To keep you from falling in love with him.”

“Well, please tell Miss Kitty that money doesn’t make me fall in love.”

“No wonder you didn’t work out at the resort,” Samantha said.

The letter she brought, though, had bad news. Maud Younger couldn’t take me on her ride. “I know that Frances Joliffe will bug out on me, but I’m committed to take her, as she knows about car motors, and so I must decline. I hope that I will see you at one of our stops. Very Truly Yours…”

I almost didn’t care anymore. So much had happened since I first wrote to her. I told Gold the next day as I was saying goodbye. “You are brave," he said. "You dare to write your convictions and suffer for them. I want to continue our acquaintance.”

So formal, yet so sweet. I told him I would let him know where I landed.

As I was packing up to go to the train back to San Francisco, Caleb came to call. He took my bag, as natural as can be, and walked with me to the railroad station. While we waited for my train, he didn’t say much. Finally, only ten minutes before the train was due, he cleared his throat. “Violet,” he started.

“My real name is Violetta,” I said.

“Violetta, then. Will I see you again?”

I touched his arm. He was so beautiful, so manly. And his Nevada dredger had saved my life. “I hope so. But of course, it won’t be the same.”

He blushed, and his eyes crinkled. “Of course not. But could I, I don’t know, I can’t afford to set you up, you know…”

“No, I don’t want to be kept. Come and call, and take me to dinner.”

“That would be a first!” He laughed, but I could see he was sad. “You know, I just may. I found it hard these past ten days without you. But I can’t see us as sweethearts. Maybe we’re too old for that.”

“Maybe that’s it,” I said.
There are no marriage prospects for a former whore.

* * * *

July 10, 1920

San Francisco

I have just had a business meeting with Fremont Older. For the past ten days, I have been at Jacqueline’s, revising, shaping, and typing my serial, calling it
A Working Girl Learns A Lesson
. I didn’t think the title
The Harlot’s Pen
would work in a family paper. I gave it to him this morning, and he read a good bit before calling me into his office. I was so nervous, I could taste my heart.

At last he put it down. “You want to get us picketed, killed, or sued for libel?”

I could feel the blanket of defeat upon me. Such much suffering had gone into the living of the story and the writing of it as well. “None of those,” I whispered.

He patted my hand. “No, no, don’t be so easily disheartened. It’s not bad. A little
risqué,
too much, of course for a family newspaper, but well written.”

“It was far racier before I sanitized it.” And before I took out all mention of the local politicians, to say nothing of deleting the appearances of the paper’s owner.

“Given the topic and your residence in a brothel, I would hope so. Well, you clearly devised quite a tale, true, and it certainly proves your point: women must be paid more to keep them from the horrors of prostitution.”

“It certainly does,” I replied, aware that the serial did nothing of the sort.

“So, we can use it. I’ll have Tim Smith ghost write it for you, and of course it will appear under his by-line, but I will pay you for the tale.”

“What? How does… why would it be ghost-written? I don’t need a ghost writer!” I was outraged, insulted, and flummoxed.

“My dear. You must face reality. No one could possibly believe that a woman wrote that. It would mean that I had hired a harlot. No, it must be tempered with a masculine pen, and you mustn’t have your name associated with it.”

I sat for a bit, then realized he was probably right. I thought about the reaction to
The
Rape of the Working Woman
and the trouble it brought me. It was one thing to stumble into trouble unknowingly, but to court it was a whole other brand of foolishness.

“But I do have something else for you,” Fremont Older said. “I’ve been looking for a junior editor for the Sacramento desk. I’ve hired women as junior editors before and found them to be devoted workers. Are you interested? The pay isn’t bad. Not what a high class whore would make, but then again, you can keep your clothes on for this job.”

So, I got a job as a newspaper woman! I told Jacqueline and Francis at dinner while thanking them profusely for everything. “Oh, don’t thank us,” Francis said. “You have always brought such a measure of excitement to our lives that I hesitate to think how dull we’d be without you!”