The Secret Life of Anna Blanc (35 page)

“Just leave 'em on the bed,” Charlene said. “They'll be out for a while.”

“This is a three-minute enterprise,” Madam Lulu said. “If they blink, they'll miss it. When they wake up, tell them they missed it.”

Charlene smiled lasciviously. “And they were sooo good.”

Madam Lulu, Big Cindy, and Charlene whooped at the joke. Anna smiled, though she wasn't sure she understood.

Night enveloped the brothel like a dark window dressing. Anna paced alone in Peaches' bedroom, while ragtime music floated in from the grand salon. It reminded her of Joe Singer and made her feel breathless and desolate. She looked in the mirror and saw an entirely different girl—a blond with conspicuous Princess Pat cheeks, carmine heavy on her lips, a crown of silk flowers, and Bohemian hair that trailed down to her elbows like the curly tendrils on a grape vine. Her eyes were lined with Kohl and her knees showed under the hem of her flimsy gown. She shook her head at the spectacle. How she wished she were undercover at the Poodle Dog, where the girls had better taste.

What would her father think? What would Edgar think? She knew what they would think. What would Joe Singer think?

She took Cook's paring knife from her purse, wrapped it in burlap from a potato sack she had found in the kitchen, and fastened the makeshift sheath onto her garter. She reinforced it with a second garter. The garters made a nice tool belt, though the lace was stiff and chafed a little. She flipped on a floor lamp and spun around to look at herself from behind. When backlit, the gown was ever so sheer.

She saw the silhouette of her petticoats, plain and clear for anyone to see. Anna scrunched up her face in distress. She could not go through with it. She couldn't go out in front of all those men dressed like an actress in her underwear. Madam Lulu would simply have to find a different girl to investigate—someone more selfless, who was willing to expose herself for the good of womankind.

Anna sat on the grandmother quilt, feeling defeated, uselessly righteous, and unredeemable. She raised one leg and unhitched a frilly
black garter. If this was what being a detective took, if this was what being a good person took, she didn't have it in her. She was going to get out of the brothel as soon as possible, climb back up the tree and through the broken window before anyone missed her, and hope that Joe would solve the crimes.

Madam Lulu burst in without knocking. She wore yards of cherry red taffeta. “Look at you. Your mother'd be proud.”

Anna snorted miserably. Her mother would drop dead, if she hadn't been dead already.

“Then I'm proud,” Madam Lulu said. “Here. I got you a little present.” She handed Anna a glossy mahogany box. Anna opened it. Lying on blue velvet lining was a shiny new pistol.

“A rod!” Anna snatched it from the box and examined it. The gray steel cooled her hand. It smelled faintly of oil. She held it out straight and looked through the sight, aiming at a large stuffed bear.

Madam Lulu smacked a box of bullets down on the toilet table. “It's a Browning, semi-automatic. Have you shot before? I mean, besides shooting Joe?”

Anna pretended to shoot. “Yes. I stole my father's hunting rifle once and shot cabbages in the garden. Briefly. I was caught.”

“Ya just pull the trigger. Here, hitch up your skirts and heel yourself.” She tossed Anna a thigh holster.

Anna caught it, set the presents down, and threw her arms around Madam Lulu. “Thank you.” She kissed her rouged cheek.

Madam Lulu flushed as florid as a fire truck. “Good god, girl, get off me.” Anna dropped her arms and backed off, smiling. Madam Lulu took a bottle from the dresser and sprayed Anna in the face with a cloud of rose perfume. It went straight up Anna's nose and made her eyes water. She sneezed.

“Now go kill 'em, Princess. And don't talk prissy,” Madam Lulu said.

Anna looked at her reflection in the mirror. The half-naked Bohemian blonde with the overly rosy cheeks stared out at her, looking unsure. Then she remembered Eve, smiling at the march, and how she was dead, and how a million Hail Marys could not bring her back.

Anna strapped the holster to her thigh, next to Cook's paring knife, and inserted the pistol. She slid them around to the back of her leg and practiced strolling with them. With the gun, Anna felt more like a detective. Maybe she could do this thing for Eve if she got to keep the gun.

Madam Lulu gave her a shove. “Go!”

Anna took a deep breath and passed through the door.

Anna stood on the balcony overlooking the grand salon, and stared down at a sea of hatless male heads, some bald, some covered in hair. A large black man and a young woman with an elaborate wig pounded out turkey-trot rags on the two Steinways, playing a sort of mad duet. Girls and men danced, holding each other in sweaty embraces, stepping high, flapping their arms, and swinging their legs around like the hands on a clock. Anna saw Big Cindy's blonde curls shimmy violently across the floor. A few fools ate the chicken Anna had smelled burning earlier. Everyone drank benzene. The crowd spun so dizzily, Anna felt as if she'd been drinking whiskey, too.

Charlene, her eyes as red as wine, led a soft, pink-faced man up the stairs to a room where dark and mysterious deeds were done. Her lips were curled in a hazy smile. The lascivious look in his pig eyes, and her solicitude, made Anna's stomach sick. When he tried to kiss Charlene's mouth, Charlene turned her cheek.

Anna felt guilty. She would never have to make love to an odious stranger. She would conduct her investigation and go home to her father, Edgar, and their money. Anna had an ambitious plan—to meet each and every man, compile a list of suspects for investigation, and avoid the doing of dark deeds. She would casually ask men about their lives, their religion, and when they had come to town, because Madam Lulu said the killings had started in January. If she were lucky, one of the men might ask her to meet him on the side.

Anna descended the stairs. She reached the first floor and wondered
if she knew anything at all about the world. “Jupiter.” A man from her parish sat on a barstool singing, “My Sweet Marie from Sunny Italy.” He was terrible.

Madam Lulu came up behind Anna. “Told ya you'd need a disguise.” She waltzed off into the room, greeting guests with grand gestures, her fox stole swaying to the music. No sooner had Anna clipped off the last step, than Snow came in with several patrolmen from the force. They were laughing. Anna froze, standing like the statue of a nymph, as if that would somehow make her invisible. Snow's eyes perused her. He grunted his pleasure and drifted over to the bar, proving either that her disguise was a success or that Snow was an idiot.

Anna crossed the room proffering tight, disgusted smiles. She wouldn't speak to any man of her acquaintance. She already knew something of their lives and it was too risky. She would simply add their names and information to her list. As she wandered through the dizzying crowd, someone began to wail, “Aaaaaa Naaaa!” Panic choked her. She broke for the stairs. Small arms clamped around her middle. She tried to pull free, but her feet got tangled and she fell to her to her knees. One stocking pulled and ripped. Anna covered her face with her hands and trembled. She knew the voice. It was Douglas Doogan, fresh back from his trip to Cincinnati. He could send every eye in the room her way, just by calling her name.

The large black piano player leapt from his bench and delivered a blow to Douglas Doogan's neck. He pried him off Anna and dragged him to the door, hurling him into the night. A customer lifted Anna to her feet and brushed her off, planting an unwanted, one-hundred-proof kiss on her cheek. Anna wriggled away. The crowd went on merrymaking, as if tackling Anna Blanc in a brothel happened every day.

Anna retreated to a corner, shrinking behind a plaster statue of Venus, who, oblivious to the crush, calmly admired herself in a mirror. Anna cast her eyes to the floor. Madam Lulu's cherry skirts swished into Anna's line of vision. Trembling, Anna hiccupped the words, “He recognized me. Douglas Doogan recognized me.”

“Yeah, but Douglas Doogan's half dog. He didn't recognize you by
sight, he sniffed you out. You look more like me than you do like you, so I wouldn't worry about it.”

Anna had to agree. She didn't recognize herself.

Madam Lulu punched her arm. “Buck up. People see what they expect to see. No one expects you here. There's not another man in this room who looks at you and sees Anna Blanc. And if he did, he wouldn't believe his eyes.”

It took several minutes before Anna had the courage to leave the corner and begin her task again. She moved stiffly, like a china doll, introducing herself to new faces, batting her lashes furiously. “Say, are you Catholic?” Men liked to talk about themselves, especially when they were drunk. She pretended to admire them, flattered them, and pried friendly fingers off her body. When men invited her upstairs, Anna made excuses and slipped away. She made periodic trips to the smoky, burnt-smelling kitchen to record names and facts in a notebook. No one asked to meet her on the side.

Big Cindy snuggled up to Snow at the bar, trying to get him to buy her a drink. She winked at him with pinprick pupils. Anna watched with narrowed eyes. Madam Lulu came behind Anna. “Biggy's my best B-girl. Sells more whiskey than the rest of 'em put together.”

Snow bought Big Cindy a whiskey. She elbowed him in the ribs. “Now you're talkin'!” Charlene brushed by and, quick as a wink, exchanged Big Cindy's full glass for an empty one. Cindy slammed the empty shot glass on the bar. “Another!” Charlene gave the full whiskey glass to the bartender and he sold it to Snow a second time. Anna raised her eyebrows in respect.

She heard shouting and turned to see the piano player muscling another man toward the door. The man had a thin, stiff mustache. One side had bent in the wrong direction.

Anna pushed back her fake hair. “Who's that?”

Madam Lulu scoffed. “Miguel Martinez. Spanish devil.”

Anna's face soured with distain. “The one who drugs young girls and ruins them? And you allow him in here?”

“Does it look like I allow him in here?”

Charlene swayed over and bumped into Anna, towing a staggering man by the shirtsleeve. She tipped his chin up with one finger. He leaned like the tower of Pisa, slobbering from the corner of his mouth.

It was Louis Taylor.

Anna pressed two fingers to her lips. “Jupiter.”

Charlene winked. “Aimee Amour, this gentleman wanted to meet ya. Why don't you get him a drink?”

“Deeeelighted.” Anna swished off to the bar and discreetly mixed him a drink—two parts whiskey, one part spit, and a heaping double helping of the mysterious white powder. She swirled it around, and delivered it to her former lover with a nasty smile. Louis mouthed the edge of the glass like a suckerfish and slurped it down.

He swayed. Anna helped him to the floor with a discrete shove. He collapsed unconscious.

Madam Lulu scoffed. “Weakling.”

Anna knelt beside him and bent down as if to kiss his sweaty face, and left a perfect imprint of her carmine lips on his shirt collar. “A little message for Mrs. Curlew-Taylor.” She wiped any invisible trace of Louis Taylor from her mouth, inadvertently smearing her rouge from her lips to her cheek.

“Didn't you marry him?” Madam Lulu asked.

Anna looked up and made a face.

“God damn it, girl. Go fix your kisser.”

As there is nothing more gruesome than makeup done wrong, Anna hurriedly complied. She weaved her way through the guests and pattered up stairs. When Snow saw Anna go by, he followed her, his dull eyes glued on her swaying hips.

Anna continued past the second floor, where she heard moans and high-pitched cries, like bird calls, from behind closed doors. She jogged to her room on the third floor, where there was no one, no party, just relative quiet. The calm lulled her, and for a moment she let down her guard. She put her room key into the lock and jiggled it.

A man pushed her from behind, pinning her against the wood with his bulk. “I'd like a screw.” His breath was foul with decay and whiskey. The voice and the smell were familiar. Officer Snow.

Anna's muscles turned to rock. “I ain't on duty now.” She slipped her hand down, trying to reach her knife.

He pressed against her harder, trapping her arms at awkward angles. “This won't take long.”

She winced. “I ain't on duty, I said.”

Snow made a stupid, grunting pig sound. “Don't I know you? You sound familiar.”