Bordello Walk Page 7

  “What are you doing?” she asked. She stopped at a red light and looked over.

  “It’s hot in here,” he said, pulling his arms out of the coat. “Can you knock the heater off?”

  Lacey did, pushing the temperature lever back to cool. She noticed again a sheen of sweat on his skin, and laid the back of her hand across his forehead.

  “You’re burning up,” she said. She turned on the A/C and tipped the vent toward him.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “That’s better.” He leaned forward and let the cool air bathe his hot face.

  “I hope you’re not getting sick,” she said. The light turned green and she stepped on the gas. She noticed Sam didn’t reply, but his eyes had a serious, thoughtful depth to them.

  As soon as she parked the car at the motel, Sam got out and pulled his coat with him, but didn’t put it on. The clear blue sky allowed them to feel the full effect of the winter sun, warm on the body even when the air temperature was still cool. Lacey could get used to winters like this.

  Inside the motel room, she tossed her own jacket down on the bed next to his. “It’s almost eleven,” she said. “Are you thinking about lunch yet?”

  “Mmm, not yet,” he said. “I’m not really hungry. Can I see your phone? I’d like to look at the video.”

  “Sure.” She tossed her phone to him and pulled out her laptop. As soon as she fired it up, it pinged with an email notifier.

  “Hey, hey,” she said happily. “Email from Francine.”

  “Oh, cool,” Sam said. “What’s she say?”

  Lacey started to scan the email, but saw there was quite a bit to it, so got comfortable and settled in. “It’s a long one,” she said. “Let me read it.”

  Dear Lacey,

  I think I’ll be able to narrow down your list of names. I found that Moonlight Mozelli died of consumption in 1911, so you can cross her off. I don’t have any death information on Queenie, but I have a note that she left Jerome. That leaves you Shorty and Cookie. According to the man I spoke with, Shorty was shot in the head, and Cookie froze to death just outside the Crystal Slipper, so it sounds like we have your ladies.

  I’m attaching my notes about the Crystal Slipper. I don’t know if they will help, but might lend some context to the stories of the women.

  Let me know if I can be of any more assistance, and please keep me posted on what you find. –Francine

  “Okay,” Lacey said. “Francine rules out Moonlight and Queenie, and her information on the deaths of Cookie and Shorty match up perfectly. There’s no doubt, now. She also sent some info about the Crystal Slipper. I’ll read that next.”

  “Good deal,” Sam said. In the background, Lacey could hear the muted voices on the video he was watching.

  She opened Francine’s attachment and began to read.

  The Crystal Slipper was a two-story brothel on Main Street, built in 1893. It burned twice, first in the fire of 1894, then again in 1898. Both times it was rebuilt and resumed a thriving business.

  The owner and madam was a woman named Linda “Irish Rose” McKinney. She was reported to have come to Jerome from Prescott and points south. She was accompanied by a man of German descent, “Big Al” Kunz. Although Kunz was a constant companion and held the title of “business manager,” he was never listed on the deed for the Crystal Slipper.

  McKinney was a shrewd and practical woman and ran the business with an iron hand. She insisted that her girls keep themselves clean, and arranged for periodic medical exams to keep venereal diseases under control. She protected her girls fiercely, calling the law in on those customers who were abusive, but was equally tough on any of her girls who flaunted her rules. One woman was stealing and was escorted out of the building at gunpoint with nothing but the clothes on her back. “Big Al” served as a bouncer as well as an enforcer. Those people—customers and working girls alike—who followed the rules were always welcome, while those who didn’t were banned for life.

  McKinney, along with the other madams, moved her business to the crib area on Hull Avenue in 1905, and operated there until her death in 1922. Al Kunz left Jerome in 1912 for parts unknown.

  Source: Interviews with Dewey Huffman, June 2008.

  “Interesting,” Lacey murmured to herself.

  “What?” Sam asked. He turned off the video function and tossed her phone aside.

  “Francine sent some notes from her file on the Crystal Slipper. It may or may not have bearing on Cookie’s story.”

  She read Sam the notes, putting slight emphasis on the sentence about the woman caught stealing.

  “Does that feel like a match? I know you said cheating, not stealing, but the part about being locked out with only the clothes on her back might be a fit.”

  Sam considered that. “It’s possible,” was all he could say. “I wish we had more.”

  “Me, too.” She turned back to the screen. “You know, there’s a notation here about where she got this information, an interview with a Dewey Huffman in June of 2008. Let me check something.” Quickly she closed the attachment and went back to the first email they’d received from Francine. “Okay, I thought so. She said she interviewed a man in Jerome ten years ago—2008—and he knew a lot of old stories.” Lacey tapped the screen. “I wonder if he’s still around. Maybe we can interview him, too.”

  Without waiting for Sam’s encouragement, she opened her browser and did a search for the man. The background check website she subscribed to found him without a problem.

  “He was born in 1938, so he’s eighty now. And”—she turned to grin at Sam—“he lives here in Cottonwood now.”

  Sam peered at the screen. “Are you sure it’s the same man?”

  “Pretty sure,” she said. “Look, it shows he also lived in Jerome, and it lists relatives. One is a Caryn Roberts, age fifty-seven, also of Cottonwood. Could be a daughter. Maybe she moved him down here so he’d be closer to her.”

  “Same address?”

  “No. Either he’s still living on his own or maybe he’s in a senior home or something.” She grabbed a pen and jotted down some numbers. “I’ll call him.”

  Two rings. Three. Four. Lacey wondered if the man had trouble getting around.

  “Hello?” A male voice, rather thin and airy.

  “Hello, is this Mr. Huffman?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Lacey Fitzpatrick. I was referred to you by Francine Sawyer, an author who wrote about prostitutes in Jerome. She said she interviewed you about ten years ago. Do you remember her?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said immediately, giving Lacey hope he still had all his faculties. “Nice lady. Listened to me for hours.”

  “I can imagine,” Lacey said with a smile. “I’ll bet you had some stories to tell.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Well,” Lacey said, “my partner and I are trying to find out about two specific women who worked in Jerome. Would it be okay if we sat down and talked to you for a little bit?”

  “When?” he asked. “Now?”

  “Uh, well, anytime you like. We’re in Cottonwood. We could come to you.”

  “Not now,” he said. Lacey’s heart sank. “I’m eating lunch now, and then I take a nap. I always take a nap after lunch. How about… oh, 3 o’clock?”

  Lacey perked up. “Three is perfect. Let me just verify your address…”

  By the time she hung up, she felt very hopeful again. Huffman sounded like a sweet old man and eager for some company.

  “We’re in,” she told Sam. “We can go grab some lunch and head out after ‘nap time.’”

  ~~~

  ELEVEN

  Huffman’s place was a tiny little house in an older part of town. The dark green paint was faded from the sun, the white trim peeling in places. The front yard had more dead weeds than grass, plus a few skeletal bushes. Lacey guessed Mr. Huffman was not up to much maintenance.

  They stood on the front porch and Lacey rang the bell. It took a couple minutes bef
ore the locks on the door clicked and the door swung open.

  “Hi, Mr. Huffman,” Lacey said. “I’m Lacey Fitzpatrick. This is my partner, Sam Firecloud. We’re so glad you can talk with us.”

  “Come in,” he said, backing away to give them room.

  The house was dim inside, all the windows hung with lace curtains. The dark carpet seemed to suck up all the ambient light, and the muddy blue walls didn’t help. The place could have used a good airing out.

  Once Huffman closed the door, Lacey stuck out her hand to him. “So nice to meet you.” Sam offered his hand as well.

  “Sit down,” Huffman said, motioning toward the living room. “Can I get you anything? Coffee or water?”

  “We’re fine,” Lacey said. She noted one overstuff chair facing the TV and took a seat on the brown tweed couch. Sam settled next to her.

  She pulled her notebook and a pen from her pack, and also laid her digital recorder next to her. “Do you mind if I tape this?” she asked. “Just so I don’t miss anything.”

  He shook his head as he lowered himself into the chair. He was not a big man, under six foot, and thin. His work pants and flannel shirt hung on his frame.

  “Are you writing a book, too?” he asked. He peered at them through round-lensed glasses.

  “No,” Lacey said with a smile. “We’re working for Lorraine Kraft in Jerome. Do you know her?”

  “Know the name,” he said, nodding.

  “She owns the Crystal Slipper,” Lacey provided. “And she’s having trouble with ghosts.”

  Huffman did not look surprised. “Lots of ghosts in Jerome,” he said. He aimed his remark at Sam.

  “We’re working to release them,” Sam said. “With Francine Sawyer’s help, we’ve identified them. We just need to know the story behind their deaths.”

  “My grandfather worked for the undertaker, man named Willet, I believe. My grandfather was young—in his early twenties—but said he saw enough to last a lifetime.”

  “I’ll bet,” Lacey said. “Between the mine collapses and the explosions, the fires, it must have been pretty grim.”

  “It was that,” Huffman agreed. “People died every day in the hospital.”

  “We’ve read about that,” Lacey said, eager to skirt that subject. She tapped her notebook. “Do you remember hearing about a woman named Cookie Brooks?”

  Huffman raised his gaze up toward the ceiling. “Cookie, Cookie,” he mused. “That sounds familiar.”

  “She froze to death one night just outside of the Crystal Slipper,” Lacey said. “Apparently she and the madam, a woman who went by Irish Rose McKinney, had an… argument, and McKinney locked Cookie out of the building.”

  “Froze to death?” Huffman repeated. “I do remember my grampa talking about that. Said she was froze so hard in a fetal position, it was hard to get her straightened out for the casket. Almost had to break her arms and legs.”

  Ugh, Lacey thought. “Do you remember what the argument was about? Did your grandfather talk about that?”

  “Well, there was always arguments at the cat houses,” Huffman said. “Fights over men, drunken brawls, fights over money…”

  He drifted off, and Lacey wondered if they were losing him. Nap time again?

  “Money,” he said, nodding to himself. “It was about money. As I recall… Cookie had been raising her prices, telling her customers but not the madam, and pocketing the difference. I seem to remember…” He stared down at the gray carpet. “Yes, I think she’s the one. Had quite a little slush fund under her mattress. Couple thousand dollars, I believe. When the madam found out, she had her bouncer kick Cookie out. Kept the money, of course. Why the whore didn’t go somewhere to get out of the cold, I don’t know. My grampa said they heard her caterwauling for quite a while on Main Street. Maybe she thought they’d let her back in.” Huffman looked over at Sam and Lacey. “Guess she thought wrong.”

  “Do you remember ever hearing her given name?” Lacey asked. “Maybe for the funeral or the death certificate?”

  Huffman screwed up his face and stared down at the carpet. “Kat,” he said. “Must have been short for Katherine or Katrina or something. I always wondered why she’d take a nickname when she already had a short name like Kat. Didn’t make sense to me.”

  Lacey glanced over at Sam, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. One down, one to go.

  “That’s exactly the kind of information we need, Mr. Huffman. Thank you so much. Now, the other one is Shorty Stewart. What we know about her is that she was shot point blank in the forehead by a man. They’d been fighting in an upstairs room…”

  “Shorty!” he exclaimed. “Oh, yeah, I remember hearing about her. She was a little buzz saw. She’d cut your heart out, my grampa said. Nobody messed with her.”

  “Well, apparently someone did,” Lacey said. “Do you know who shot her?”

  “Oh, yeah. Her husband.”

  “Husband?” Lacey exclaimed. “She was married?”

  He nodded. “As I recall…” He drifted again, accessing those long-ago memories. “I believe she was from Chino Valley, Skull Valley, somewhere out that way. She and her husband had a place there, just a dirt farm and a passel of kids. The story was that she left him—and the kids—and went to Jerome to start a new life. After some time—I don’t know how long—her husband got wind of where she was, what she was doing. He came to Jerome to try to drag her home, but she wasn’t having it. Shot her dead. He was tried for murder, but with all those kids and all, he was only fined something like fifty dollars.”

  “Fifty dollars? For murder?” Lacey was astounded.

  “Well, you have to remember how money was then. Fifty dollars then was like a thousand now; maybe more. Those working girls only charged a dollar a throw, maybe two or three if they were high-priced.”

  “All right,” Lacey said, agreeing that was a whole different world. “Now, do you remember hearing her given name? Or the name of her husband?” She figured they could track Shorty by her husband if necessary.

  “Hmm.” Huffman thought. “He was Edgar… no, Ethan. Yeah, I think that’s it. Ethan. Ethan and… Julie. No, it was fancier than that. Julianne. Ethan and Julianne.” He nodded. “Yes, that was it. I’m sure of it.”

  Lacey wrote the names in her notebook. Perfect, she thought. She glanced over at Sam and saw his slight nod.

  “This is great, Mr. Huffman,” she said. “Exactly what we needed. Thank you so much.” She chuckled. “Have you ever thought of writing all these stories down?”

  “Oh, no,” he said, waving the idea away. “That’s for people like you and that Francine Sawyer.”

  “Well, we won’t be writing any books, but we’ll certainly clear the old ghosts out of the Crystal Slipper.”

  Huffman leaned forward and stared directly at Sam. “You do that? Truck with ghosts?”

  Lacey saw the same shock she felt in Sam’s eyes. Had the old man heard of Sam?

  Sam nodded. “And you?” he asked.

  Huffman laughed once. “I seen ‘em,” he said. “There’s one working girl that walks across Main Street late at night. And there’s a miner that appears in that spot where an explosion leveled several buildings. His arms has been blown off.”

  Lacey felt a chill crawl up her spine.

  “There will be two less after tomorrow,” Sam said. “I can’t speak to the others.”

  “Plenty of ‘em,” Huffman said. “The ground there is soaked in blood.” He leveled that intense stare at Sam again. “Surprised you even go up there.”

  “They’re trapped there,” Sam said. “They don’t want to be there, but they can’t move on. I like to help if I can.”

  “Good for you,” Huffman said. “Most folks just want to stay away—or film ‘em for TV. I don’t find that entertaining.”

  “We don’t, either,” Lacey said. “Which is why we do what we do.”

  “Good,” the man said. “Just don’t tell them ghost tour people. They won’t be happy about yo
u making their ghosts disappear.”

  “We won’t,” Lacey agreed. She flipped her notebook closed. “Well, thank you, Mr. Huffman. You’ve helped us a lot. We appreciate you taking the time to talk to us.”

  “Oh, sure,” he said. He put his gnarled hands on the armrests of his chair and started to push up out of it. It was a struggle.

  “Why don’t you stay put?” Lacey said. “We can let ourselves out.”

  “Oh?” Huffman blinked at her. “Yes, all right. I get a bit stove up.”

  “Just relax,” she said, patting his arm. “And thank you again.”

  Back in the car, Lacey tossed her pack into the back seat and started the car. “This was great,” she said. “We’ve got everything we need.” Piloting the car back toward the motel, she said, “I think I’ll look up death records for both of them, just to validate it now that we have their whole names. Then…” She glanced at Sam. “Wanna finish up tomorrow?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Finish up and get out of here.”

  “I’ll call Lorraine and set it up. And I can return the book to Zane while we’re at it.”

  She, too, would be glad to be done. Sam’s eagerness to be away from Jerome was worrying.

  “How do you think Huffman knew about your talent?” she asked. “He didn’t say anything about reading about us.”

  “I think he’s sensitive, himself,” Sam said. “Maybe that’s why he left Jerome.”

  So, Lacey thought, Sam wasn’t the only one.

  She set a time with Lorraine for ten a.m., then did a quick search for death records. She got hits for both women under their given names. Shorty died in 1901, Cookie in 1903. There was no doubt, now, that they were the right ones.

  She also sent off a quick email to Francine to report the news and thank her again for her help. They would have been hard pressed to get what they needed without her.

  Finally they walked to the Mexican restaurant and settled gratefully into a padded booth. Lacey was ready for some comfort food and a good night’s rest.