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I ENTERED A shipping room.
The concrete floor echoed the light tread of my pumps. Cartons and crates stood at attention. Metal shelving reached to the ceiling. Yellow stripes marked out safety paths. Fluorescent lights lit the cavernous space. My heart fluttered. My knees knocked. My life flashed before my eyes. I turned back and tried to open the door. Like all the others, this one had automatically locked. Security was tighter than a streetwalker’s ass.
A tall man dressed in black shirt, black tie, black trousers, and shined shoes strode my way, his bearing cocksure and his expression inscrutable. Roughly my age, he was built like a boxer, muscular but light on his feet. His eyes were as black as his shirt. He reached for my wrists. I balked, but he had the strength of high-gauge wire. He lifted my arms, and with hypercritical eyes, followed the curves of my figure. He liked what he saw. He released my wrists and stood back in thoughtful appraisal, rubbing his chin.
He stepped forward once more. I recoiled. He cocked his head to one side. The tiniest smile curled his lips. His eyes became bottomless wells. He licked his lips. They were sexy lips outlined in cruelty. He was looking forward to putting me in my place, the easy way or the hard way, it didn’t much matter to him. I approached. He combed his hands through my hair, fluffing and primping; spun me around and assessed my backside; turned me back and smiled broadly. I returned the smile. He lowered his jaw. I aped him. He stuck out his tongue and said, “Ah.”
“I’m not a goddamn horse.”
“Clean?” he asked.
“I took a bath this morning.”
His snigger lacked humor. He flagged his hand for me to come along. Concrete steps and a red-painted handhold led upstairs. Upon reaching the top, we passed into a hallway. Around the next corner, the cavernous murk gave way to opulent cheerfulness. Our climb continued on one of two semicircular staircases shooting up through the heart of a four-storey open court. The ground-floor salon was fitted with red velvet furniture, marble columns, a grand piano, and potted palms. A succession of evenly spaced dayrooms protected by curved balustrades encircled each of the upper floors.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Call me Joe.”
We climbed to the upper floors via an inner staircase. A strong perfume meant to mask the latent essences of pine cleaner, sweat, liquor, and cigarette smoke failed its appointed task. The walls closed in. Each successive footstep took me deeper into a cavern from which escape was a notion. I wondered where Starr had gotten himself off to and whether he gave a damn about my whereabouts. I decided he wasn’t the rescuing type. I was in this alone.
When we reached the top floor, Joe opened a door to the inner curving walkway. We followed the balustrade past room after room, some closed and locked, and others left open and available for inspection. Four-poster beds, frilly canopies, brocaded drapes, and Oriental throw rugs furnished ten-by-ten foot dimensions. Except for the predilections of the occupants, each room was identical to all the others. Platinum blondes, fake redheads, and natural brunettes wearing bustiers and G-strings, satin lingerie and garters, or evening gowns and kid gloves led clients in and out of dayrooms. In some of the rooms, idle girls roused themselves enough to poke lazy heads into the hallway. Other girls glided barefoot across the floor, slipstreams of chiffon and silk billowing in their wakes.
Disturbing the businesslike tranquility of the bordello, a commotion arose. At the far end of the hall, one of the girls had reached boiling point. She screamed at the top of her lungs, flung every object within reach, and kept everybody at bay. “Fuck you! Fuck this place! And fuck the Li sisters!”
Girls had gathered around to witness her tirade. Joe barked an order. They reeled away. He rushed in. The girl retreated and slapped the door of her dayroom shut. His fist knocked it back. She screamed. He applied a bear hug. She shrieked. He slapped a hand across her mouth. She chomped down hard. He flinched, shook his hand, and used the same hand to wallop her across the face. She wailed. A sharp jab to the front of her throat rendered her mute. She grunted and slumped in his arms. He whispered something in her ear. She blanched. To drive the point home, he jabbed a fist into her belly. Without a peep, she doubled over. Joe held onto her like a ragdoll. When breath returned, she groaned, then moaned, and finally sobbed. Unintelligible words of forgiveness dribbled past bloodied lips. He pitched her onto the bed and locked the door after himself.
The other girls had slinked away. Joe and I were alone. He looked me over with newfound respect. “You’re a tough cookie.”
“I don’t crumble like an Oreo.”
He grabbed an arm and guided me along. “Sorry you had to see that.”
“See what? That she’s ready for a new profession. Or you like yours.”
He directed me to a room in the far corner. “They’re waiting on you. Say yes or no, and don’t talk back.” He threw open the door and flung me inside. The door clicked at my back.
I faced a salon furnished with lounges, love seats, armchairs, and sofas. The pleasing arrangements promoted intimate conversations and romantic interludes. Archways led to other parts of the suite, presumably private rooms designed for decadent activities. The overall setting was one of subdued Oriental elegance: furniture lacquered in black, lampshades fashioned from rice paper, screens decorated with willowy women, and a series of Qing Dynasty ink-on-rice-paper paintings. I swept past them, admiring each for their subtlety and contemplative brushstrokes. The gallery ended at a bank of windows that looked out toward the lake. Down on the street, several cars were parked in the alley. One of them was a green Ford Woody.
Somebody entered from one of the archways. Hands locked behind my back, I twisted away from the panorama and confronted my captors or hosts, whichever fate decreed.
“Please, dear.” Carrying a silver tea set, a woman as graceful as the Oriental ladies depicted in the paintings tiptoed into the room. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
A second woman of Chinese descent entered. Resembling the first but slightly shorter, younger, and not as attractive, she toted another tray, this one covered with dainty French pastries. “You may wish to sit over there,” she said, indicating one of the intimate seating arrangements. “It has a most pleasant view. Wouldn’t you agree?”
In their late thirties or early forties, they were elegantly dressed in form-fitting silk dresses with side slits, cap sleeves, and Mandarin collars. The familial resemblance was striking. These unimpressive women no one would give a second glance if they passed them on the street were the infamous Li sisters.
“Oh, I do, I do. For instance,” I said, pointing below. “Does that car belong to Alderman Kirk?”
The elder sister stepped up to the windows. “Which car would that be?”
“The green station wagon.”
The younger sister joined the first and squinted below. “Did you say green?”
“Oh, that one,” the elder sister said. “That car belongs to Joe. You just met him. What a dear man. We rely on him for so much. We really couldn’t do any of this,” she said, waving her arm in a broad arc, “without him.”
“Oh, yes,” I agreed. “What a dear, dear man.”
Side by side and with synchronized precision, they sat on a loveseat and prepared afternoon tea.
“I’m really not one of your girls,” I said, lowering myself on an adjacent chair.
“Of course, you’re not, dear,” the younger sister said. She held out a linen napkin. “Who would suggest such a thing?”
“Cream? Sugar?” the elder sister said, pouring tea into one of the dainty cups. “I’m sorry. We forgot to introduce ourselves. I’m Ada Li. And this is my sister Minna. And you’re Iris Grenadine, reporter with the Chicago Daily Standard, here to ask after a former client of ours.”
“Try one of the éclairs, Miss Grenadine,” Minna said. “Pierre’s specialty.”
I really wasn’t hungry, but to be polite, I took a dainty bite and sipped some tea. “By the way. Do you own a white Plymouth Fury?”
The women stole cautious glances at each other. “Why do you ask?” Ada said.
“Because it’s parked in front of the Harmon Hotel.”
Minna raised her teacup. She blinked at her sister and received tacit permission before saying, “I’m sure Crystal will return it shortly.”
“I’m afraid she won’t be able to,” I said. “Ever.”
The teacup fell from Minna’s hand.
