Hiss and Tell, page 11
“What. You just punch in an order?”
“Yes, but it’s coded. Sometimes the emojis will advertise a deal. Often it’s a high schooler or college kids. Older people know the codes but they are more clumsy about it. Let’s say there’s an emoji for painkiller. A high school football player wants that. Thinks he’s ordering Percocet. The pills come. Laced with fentanyl. One swallow. He’s dead. The young are especially vulnerable.”
“That’s awful.”
“Awful and growing. People think they can order Xanax, Adderall. It’s not so much cocaine and heroin, it’s painkillers and mood elevators. The uproar over COVID, wear a mask, don’t wear a mask, the shutting down of classrooms and some businesses have affected people. Young people want to be together. To party. Older people want to forget their troubles. I think. It’s social media and counterfeit pills.”
“Can you test for it?”
“Not if you’re someone buying what you think is a pill. You’d have to be a doctor or chemist to know how to do it. People say they can test for it but it’s not that easy. Remember this stuff costs money. It makes money. You can sell it as an inhaler, as a patch you put on your body, as a drug, in a drink. There are all kinds of ways to make it part of a drug cocktail. Whoever is selling it or stealing it isn’t paying taxes. Illegal anything, drugs, booze, sexual services, makes big money.”
“Ah.” Harry buckled up again, as they were back in the car.
“Well, the three who have been shot most likely weren’t selling it. They didn’t look like they had a lot of money. But who is to say they hadn’t been paid yet?”
“Cooper, I would never have thought of that.”
“You’re not a cop. It is unlikely they were selling but I have to consider everything and I still miss things.” She fired up the car. “Criminals come in two classes. The stupid, who react emotionally, and the truly intelligent, who can plan, wait, and cover their tracks. There is a bell curve for crooks, too.”
“Not a happy thought.”
“You asked. Let’s focus on Christmas, which is supposed to make us happy.” Cooper smiled.
“Right.”
16
August 2, 1789
Sunday
The clink of plates mingled with male voices. The Tavern’s meals outdid every other establishment in Richmond. Only men enjoyed the food. They never discussed this with other men, women, and most emphatically not their wives. Some men rejoiced in the food even more than the women. The pianoforte played outside the dining room and the parlor where the ladies sat, impeccably dressed. To chat, flirt, and Fiona, getting on in years but blessed with a haunting alto, sang.
“She’ll never be out of work.” Desmond Duff leaned toward Hale Van Vlies, captain of Duff’s ship, which had just come in.
Not only did it come in, the graceful, masted vessel sat low in the water; the goods were being removed. As the two men ate, listening to Fiona, they counted their profits as the furniture, silver, even horses were unloaded.
Tasting good bourbon, Desmond looked toward the sitting room. “Be easy for someone to steal goods while unloading. Small stuff.”
Hale folded his hands together. “My first mate will watch everything, plus two other men assist. Luther would break a thief’s jaw, crack his head, and throw him in the water. Maybe the man would swim out. Maybe he would drown. If he lives, he’ll have a hard time finding work. It also instills fear in anyone shipboard with ideas.”
“Ah.” Desmond exhaled. “Fear always works.”
“It’s easy to understand. The law isn’t.”
Desmond smiled at Hale. “You’re a good man to do business with. If you’d like a special dessert, allow me to oblige you.”
They rose, walking into the sitting room. Hale wasted no time. He selected Lily, young and pretty, while Desmond, weary, listened to the music.
The ladies, whose attributes were generously displayed, talked to him. It was all very pleasant. He indicated he was tired but thought they were pretty girls.
Georgina sometimes walked back to the music room, as she euphemistically called it. Usually on a big night…and this one was, as so many ships had come in…she stood in the large front hall to greet her patrons.
Before Punch, her eleven-year-old slave, a bright young man, could take a gentleman’s hat, cane, and gloves, Georgina had dispatched one of the girls to escort the man or men to the table, wishing them a good evening. She always wore a low-cut dress, leaning over to hand them menus when they sat. Georgina never missed a trick, literally.
Every man who walked through that door was made to feel important, unique, and most welcome.
One of those most welcome men, having eaten an early dinner, performed upstairs on the second floor. Livia Taylor happened to be working in the next room, but she could hear the thump, thump of the rocking bed.
Deborah, walking the hall, had made a quick $100, a large sum for forty minutes’ work with Sam Udall, who was besotted with her. Sometimes he became so excited he didn’t touch her. He lost all control. She babied him, played with him, would get him ready again, and tell him how exciting it was to watch him. One hundred dollars barely covered how fabulous this made him feel.
What Deborah felt at that exact moment was curiosity. She knew Beatrice Harbor’s customer was rich, peculiar, and oddly secretive. A large man, overweight, people would have assumed a man like that would pay for a woman one way or the other. A wife could collect unto eternity. A lady of pleasure would profit for a night, or as often as he wanted to see her.
But thump, thump, thump.
Standing outside the door, she wondered. Beatrice didn’t sound as though she was in trouble. Nor did Livia, whose bedsprings provided counterpoint to the thump, thump, thump.
A large “Ah” escaped Beatrice’s room.
“Let me open the door. You’re overheated,” Deborah heard Beatrice offer. The door opened to reveal Bayard Ernst, swathed in a fine silk dress, low-cut bodice, a wig with massive curls, shoes made for such large feet, a telltale drip on the floor from underneath the skirt.
Deborah walked past him to check the window, which she opened farther as Beatrice ran downstairs for a drink for her customer.
Recovering a bit, Bayard sank into a chair. “Oh please, Deborah, don’t tell anyone.”
“What I want to know is where did you find that fabric, that apricot color?”
Brightened by this question, he beamed. “My sister imports fabrics from Milan. She helps me.” He reached for the drink that Beatrice, having dashed up the stairs after running down, offered him.
“Precious lamb, thank you,” Bayard gasped.
Deborah, turning away from Bayard, mouthed silently, “Precious lamb.”
Beatrice pinched Deborah’s forearm then focused exclusively on Bayard. “Take a deep breath. Drink more of Georgina’s cool wine. You outdid yourself, lovie. I need a sip of your libation myself.”
This was too good to leave, so Deborah put her hand on Bayard’s shoulder. “We all like you here. You need to take care of yourself.”
“Nobody knows.” His voice quivered.
“Of course not,” Beatrice quickly said. “The only reason Deborah knows is I opened the door to get you some air. You overexerted yourself and physical congress was not made for wearing a full gown on a hot night.”
Deborah checked the door, which Beatrice had closed on her way back. She couldn’t be too sure. Bayard handed out money freely, often asking Fiona for special songs. A large man, a tidy beard, seeing him in women’s clothing was startling but Deborah and many of the girls had learned to handle anything, including raising the dead, which took skill and diplomacy. No man wants to fail at getting an erection. A good lady can usually fix that unless someone is falling ill and doesn’t know it.
Another deep swig from the good wine. Georgina only served good stuff, and the heavyset man brightened.
Beatrice put her hand on his exposed shoulder, the gown was low cut. “Would you like me to help you out of this beautiful gown?”
“Yes, thank you.” Bayard looked at Deborah, who headed for the door then stopped.
“Who is your seamstress? She’s very good.”
He smiled. “I have a woman on Shockoe Slip. Sworn to secrecy.” He smoothed his skirt. “I love to touch my clothing. The fabrics feel so soft against my skin, and the colors…” He paused. “I’ll fix an appointment for you. She is very discreet.”
“I can see that. Well, I’m glad you are recovered.” Deborah left.
As she approached the stairs, Livia came out of her room so the maids could change the sheets, the water, and the water bowl, plus anything that needed scrubbing.
The two women stared at each other then Deborah broke the silence. “You are wise to stay here. Wait until you get enough money for a house.”
Livia sniffed. “That’s what men are for.”
Deborah smiled, did not respond, started down the stairs. Livia trailed her, reached the bottom, the music provided soothing tunes.
A short man, mid-forties, stood upon seeing her. She walked to him, kissing him on the cheek. Some of the girls laid claim to their richer customers in similar fashion.
“Let’s listen to the music for a little bit.”
“Of course.”
Mignon, a tiny woman, peeked into the room. She took a break from working in the kitchen with her husband. Ducking back, she motioned to a young girl, perhaps fourteen, not yet working but learning the trade, and the customers. “Sally, see that the drinks are refreshed.”
A half curtsy. “Yes, Miss Mignon.”
Mignon looked back, counted heads, noting that Livia, who had torn the place apart, was now docile. She walked back to the kitchen.
Eudes, her talented husband, looked up. “Busy night.”
“It is.” She put her hands on her hips. “Livia is sitting next to Nestor Tilton. She is smiling, chatting with the other girls; swooning over Nestor takes imagination.”
Eudes laughed. “His business must be doing well. People need grain. He spends so much time here. What we need in Richmond are more mills…big mills and more bridges.”
“There are a number of grain dealers.” Mignon usually accompanied her husband as they bought fresh food for the day.
“Middlemen. Middlemen always make the money. It’s better to go to the mill, but who has the time?” He finished turning the edges of the pastry. “You are the baker. I’m the chef.”
“Here.” She stepped to his side, expertly flipping the paper-thin crust.
Outside the kitchen, the talks sounded louder.
“A lot of people,” Eudes noted.
“Keeps the boss happy.”
“That it will.”
Men crowded the dining room. The music room was also crowded and some men and their escorts sat outside in the long backyard filled with lilac bushes, crepe myrtles in full bloom, and dense boxwoods to hide patrons from view. One would have to walk into the back alleyway, open the garden gate, and come in to see who was really there. Even the stables had bushes to obscure the view. The men could rest assured that a wife would not be tiptoeing in the alleyway. Then again, so few even suspected their husbands’ entertainments. But just in case, best to make sure no one knew anything.
Georgina, wearing a thin long-skirted dress, a light scarf over her shoulders, walked back in from outside. She’d needed a breath of air, but the air wasn’t moving.
Turning for her office, Deborah left the music room to tell her in a low voice, “Nestor is here. Livia’s next customer.”
“Tell Christopher to be on the alert. Nestor’s rig is in the stable, along with his horse.”
“Yes.”
Neither woman needed to say more. If one were to make an escape, a night when many ships were docked at the slip, or a Sunday, which created crowds and diversions, was perfect.
Beatrice, walking with Bayard, squeezed his hand as he prepared to go out to the stables. “You must bring me some of your fabrics.”
“Yes, of course.”
“You do have a rich sense of color. If I might make a suggestion. You need more comfortable shoes.”
His eyebrows wrinkled. “Where can I go? Someone discreet.”
“Try Isaac Berg on Broad, near the slip. If you will permit me, I will tell him you will pay a call and would like to be measured in private.”
“Oh, would you?”
“Of course I will, Bayard. You are my favorite,” she searched for the right word, “caller. Such excellent taste.”
He bounced down the stairs a happy man.
Beatrice came back into the music room, where Deborah sat in a corner with Sam Udall. Upon seeing Beatrice she rose, excused herself, took Beatrice by the arm, walking her down the hall.
“How can he get through those skirts,” she teased.
Beatrice smiled. “It is time consuming, but more interesting than buttoning britches. He is a gentle soul.”
“Does he want to be a woman?”
“No. But he likes the clothing, he likes to lavish the clothing, textures, colors on himself.”
“His jewelry is impressive.”
“His mother’s.”
“Ah.” Deborah walked to the front bar. Picked up a glass of lemonade. She didn’t drink while working.
“He plucks it out of his wife’s jewel box. He presented her with the jewelry after his mother died.”
“Old Mrs. Ernst wore big stones.” Deborah appreciated anything expensive. “I do wonder what would happen if Bayard’s wife wanted a necklace, opened her jewel box to find it missing?”
“He has an excuse for that. If it happens, he’ll tell her he took it to the jewelers, as the clasp was loose.”
Deborah tilted her head. It was as good an excuse as any. She was more curious about the expensive clothing and jewelry than what he desired from Beatrice. Deborah felt she had seen or provided any manner of desires. The stranger the desire, the bigger the bill. Some of the girls specialized. Fiona, in her prime, would tie up and beat her customers with riding whips. Hard to believe that violence came from a woman with such a haunting voice. Fiona said what was pleasing to her was the money. Most of her customers wanted to be whipped until their cheeks were red. Some wanted their genitals tied up. But all wanted some form of humiliation or release. Or so she believed.
The night, heat slowly subsiding, provided typical entertainment. A few men passed out, were placed on chairs outside. Others became louder. Some, deep in the grape, would leave their girl, come down the stairs with their britches unbuttoned, their equipment exposed. Usually one of the girls back in the music room would point to the offending article. If he was too drunk to tuck it in, she would do it for him. Buttoning his britches. Rarely, a fight would break out.
Mostly, Georgina’s gave the men escape from their daily lives. The place meant a good time. Good food. Pliant women. Then, too, business deals could be made. A happy man is generally a more optimistic one.
By three in the morning, the night dark, some of the customers slept with their girls. Others went home. Deborah, wide awake, as was Georgina, turned off the lantern in the office, the door being closed to the back door. They heard steps, quietly, coming down the back stairs. Steps in front of the office. The back door opened. Deborah silently slipped out of Georgina’s office. She ducked back in.
“She’s on her way.”
“Christopher will follow to the corner, then get in our wagon, Michael driving.” Georgina shrugged. “Fool.”
“Many are.” Deborah shook her head slightly.
“Yes,” Georgina agreed.
Michael Raines, a carter, knew every road into and out of Richmond, every place you could hide yourself, too. A man in his position needed to escape thieves and the revenue man from time to time. He had carried goods to and from Georgina’s for years, including girls. Those coming into the business, those retiring mostly due to age or infirmity, and a few brought and bought against their will. Georgina treated her girls well. She taught them how to dress, to speak, good manners. She took fifty percent of their earnings. The men paid directly downstairs. Never paid the girls. But Georgina kept honest accounts, giving each girl her earnings once a week. A smart young woman could set money aside for the future, the vain ones spent a lot on themselves, but that was their choice. Many sank into poverty when their beauty faded. Others moved far from Richmond, setting up boardinghouses, became seamstresses or cooks. Others managed households. No one had any idea of their former employment. Some married. For a girl to leave in her prime meant something was wrong.
In the distance, Michael and Christopher could see Livia and Nestor.
“Christopher, drive the wagon. I’m going on foot, he’s heading for the west end. I can reach it before he does if I go through alleyways, back of the houses. Meet me at Grace Church.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Michael, glad for the darkness, covered the ground quickly, emerging as Nestor and Livia passed by the Episcopal church. Sprinting, he came up behind the wagon, pulled a scarf up over his face, easily reached Nestor. He pulled the startled man out of his seat and onto the road. The horse stopped. Livia had the presence of mind not to scream as Nestor tried to climb back in. Michael knocked him out, hitting Nestor with the heavy butt of his knife. Livia picked up the reins. Before she could duck, Michael grabbed the reins from her with his left hand, held on to her arm with his right.
“You can’t stop me. I didn’t steal anything.”
“Whoa,” he called to the horse.
The horse obediently stopped.
“Out,” Michael ordered.
“No.”
