Haunting Melody (18 page)

She laughed. “Melody! I see why my brother is
fond of you. You have spirit. That’s very good. You may yet end up
substituting for that little French coward tomorrow night.”

“For what? Road show of the Follies?” I asked
with more bravado than I felt.

“For a ceremony that will allow my brother to
attain the status he richly deserves.”

“No offense, Anna, but that’s pretty cryptic.
Care to elaborate?”

“Let me ask you this. How familiar are you
with Egyptian history? Specifically Memphis gods? Those that
provide mortals with rebirth?”

I almost choked. Next thing I knew I’d be
asked to take place in fertility ritual to ensure the reincarnation
of some god who needed a little help with his karma.

“I’m not exactly up on my Egyptology, Anna.
Did see "Death on the Nile" and thought "The Mummy Returns" was a
way fun flick thanks to that wild bus ride across London but when
I’m not sashaying across the Follies stage or designing costumes
I'm not exactly digging pits in the sand. And while I remember some
ancient history from freshman year of college, I haven’t been
zeroing in on pyramids and scarab and ankhs lately.”

She smiled again, a slow, sly smile that made
me forget it was ninety degrees in the shade outside and nearly
that hot inside. I felt chilled down to my toes. The smile kept
growing as my bones kept freezing.

“Costume designs? How interesting. That could
definitely change the current situation.”

“What are you talking about?”

She shook her head. “That’s enough
information for now. Let me briefly tell you what will happen in
the next few days. First of all, your sweet beau will not be given
the opportunity to try out any of the lovely ladies who work for me
because Geb will shortly be escorting him from the house after he
discovers alcohol in his vest pocket. We do discourage breaking the
current Tennessee laws of Prohibition. So, your friend will not be
reaping the benefits of our – wares.” She laughed suddenly.
“Although, I might be revising my plans for Mr. McShan and taking
him for myself. I’m quite attracted to tall, dark-haired young men
with strong physiques and some modicum of intelligence. I would not
be adverse to putting his – gifts – to good use.” Her lips almost
twitched. “Starting with a session or two with me, of course.”

I stayed silent instead of spitting out,
“Damn! You have one major high opinion of your 'goods'." There was
no way I would give this woman the satisfaction of knowing how much
I cared about Briley, a little realization that hit me quite
fiercely the instant Anna first threatened his well-being, then
allowed her lust to show.

Apparently Anna was in love with her own
voice. She continued tormenting me with the scheduled events for my
immediate future. “Whether McShan stays or goes, you, Melody Flynn,
will remain. I have more than one patron who will be quite
intrigued by such an exotic, tall, beautiful, red-haired young lady
while I take the time to inform my brother of your presence and
consult with him as to how best to put your many talents to good
use.”

I jumped up. I couldn't stand this anymore.
“No way in hell, bitch! I didn’t come all the way from New York to
become a whore in the middle of Heartbreak Hotel. You try sending
one of your slimy customers up my way and he’ll discover this
exotic, tall, beautiful, redhead has a temper that matches that
hair.”

She narrowed her eyes. Within seconds,
something whizzed past my ear. A small, but lethal looking arrow
now protruded from the wall. It was less than an inch from my
head.

“That was a warning shot, Miss Flynn. Please
understand that you have no choice in the matter. And if my prowess
with a bow doesn’t scare you, let me assure you that some of my
customers can be a bit – rough. If their overtures are refused,
they will have no qualms about leaving bruises on that pretty face.
There’s a very lovely outfit in the wardrobe just about your size.
I’d suggest you don it after I leave, then prepare yourself for
visitors.”

I was shaking and trying not to throw up but
had to ask even if it meant the next arrow zinged into my body
instead of the wall. “What’s going to happen to Denise and
Nevin?”

She shrugged. “Don’t concern yourself with
the Dupres. The ritual is safe. They will not be injured – if
Denise cooperates. It will be a bit dirty but it won’t be
unpleasant - if she’s smart. Otherwise she’ll simply end up
floating down the Mississippi.”

She quickly opened the door and I caught a
glimpse of Geb just outside. She turned and sighed. “Don’t make
this harder than it has to be.”

The door slammed. I heard a bolt lock into
place. I was alone in a room filled with beauty created by a woman
with no soul.

I had no idea how long it would be before
Bachelor Number One arrived to check out the new chick. Much as I
hated to do anything Madam Anna had asked of me I knew had to shuck
my black dress if I planned to escape. First, my long skirts would
inhibit a quick getaway. Second I was dressed far too differently
from Madam Anna’s other employees. In a normal setting, one woman
in a corset would stand out a Vegas showgirl. But an extra woman in
a corset wandering through a brothel is not as likely to attract
attention.

The outfit wasn’t half bad either. Black,
lace-edged tap pants (booty-shorts) and a lacy bodice with
spaghetti straps. Like a Kit-Kat dancer in the show "Cabaret." It
appeared clean and it was definitely cooler than I'd been in the
governess wannabe get-up. I dumped my ugly, thick stockings as well
but slapped my boots on again and laced them up in case I got the
chance to make a quick getaway.

A knock sounded at the door. It was loud and
insistent and too damn soon. The door opened. Geb walked in,
followed by my first “customer” of the night.

Geb stayed in the doorway, so hightailing it
out wasn’t happenin’. I wondered if I could toss the quilt over
both Geb and the client then book it downstairs while they
disentangled themselves from the embroidery.

Nope. Geb turned, made a fast exit, and
bolted the door behind him.

A freckled-faced kid who stood barely
five-four and weighed less than a hundred and ten pounds, smiled
tentatively at me from just inside the room. Then he took a deep
breath and began to swagger toward me in a bad imitation of John
Travlota’s strut from "Saturday Night Fever." I held up my hand to
motion him to stop. He did. I took two long strides to meet him
dead center, then glared down at the top of his head.

“How old are you?”

His smiled dimmed. “Twenny-one,” came the
response in a broad Southern drawl.

I snorted. “Try again.”

He swallowed. “Eighteen.”

“Not! Bzzzz! Thank you for playing! You may
now collect your prize. Which ain’t me. What are you really, you
little twerp? Fourteen - tops?”

His flush told me I was spot on.

I shook my finger at him. “What would your
mama say if she knew you were here?”

A look a terror crossed his face. “She’d whup
me good. Mama don’ wan’ me doin’ nuttin’ Pastor preaches ‘gainst
ever’ Sundee.”

I rolled my eyes. “Jeez. Look, kid, take the
coins you no doubt earned in the open air plantin’, hoein’, or
pickin’, then go downstairs. March yourself over to the mission
church, deposit those coins in the poor box, then beg the good Lord
your mama never finds out you darkened the door of a place like
this. Got that?”

He nodded, bit his lip then looked up at me
with innocent eyes. “Could I stay for a bit, ma’am? Uh, ah don’
wan’ nobody down thar to be thinkin’ ah didn’ git what I come
fer.”

“Fourteen, right? Yeah. Ten minutes. Any more
than that and they’ll be suspicious. That reminds me, since Geb the
goon locked the door, how do they figure out when someone is, uh,
done?”

“Bell-pull, ma’am. It rings downstairs.”

“Ah. Thank you.”

We chatted about the weather in Memphis and
what a flood would do to the cotton crop and whether Memphis would
ever have a baseball team that would rival those Yankees up north.
I did not tell this farmboy I was a hostage or that the nice lady
who’d allowed an underage teenager into a sleazy whorehouse was
involved in kidnapping and strange ritual sacrifices. He wouldn’t
be able to help me and I didn’t need to worry about somebody
else.

After ten minutes of chitchat, he pulled the
tapestry bell. Within seconds I heard the bolt draw back. I gave
the teenager a big hug and a kiss on his cheek and mouth, so he’d
at least be wearing the scent of Aunt Teresa’s Chanel Tabac Blond
I’d borrowed (feeling much envy for the women of 1919 being able to
wear it since it's damned hard to come by now) and have nice rouged
lips to show he’d achieved “what he come fer.” As soon as he left,
Geb twisted the lock again.

I scurried over to the one window in the room
and was surprised to see it was only about a foot away from the
widow’s walk that surrounded this house. If I swung myself away
from the window I could reach the balcony fairly easily. I had one
leg out the window before the door flung open again and in walked a
gorilla.

Monkey man was hairy and huge. He must have
been six foot seven. His beard was probably four inches long. His
hair hung loose around his face and neck and collarbones.

A real gorilla would have smelled better than
Bachelor Number Two.

Shame had worked as a deterrent to conjugal
relations with the farmboy, so I thought I’d stick with that.
“What’s your name?”

“George” he grunted.

“George. How nice. Um. Are you married,
George?”

“Yep.”

Good. Marriage vows. Could be a winner in the
shame game. “Wouldn’t your wife be upset over you being in a place
like this?”

A leer crossed his face. At least it looked
kind of like a leer. It was hard to tell with all the hair hiding
his features. He took a step toward me.

“Wife don’ care. Matter of fact, missy, ma
wife is morndn’ happy to be relieved of her duties. Frigid ol’
biddy.”

Ouch. Oh-kay. Shame was a non-starter. Maybe
a nice conversation about crops? Politics? Prohibition?

“Well, I haven’t been in Memphis long, but
I’ve sure noticed this town is a hotbed of wild politicians. Isn’t
Boss Crump just one wild major player?”

“Don’t give a shit one way or the other. And
I’m losin’ patience. Les git on with it.”

Oh-kay. Not a political junkie. Maybe the
truth – or some semblance of it – would work? Worth a shot.

“Look, uh, George. Madam Anna was supposed to
hire me as a maid, but decided I should be in service instead.
Well, let me just point out that I’ve always heard that called
white slavery. Can we say illegal, illegal, illegal! And nasty. You
don’t want to end up on cable tv, do you? So, howzabout pullin’ the
bell and tellin’ them you’d prefer another girl? One a bit more
accommodating? I’m sure you don’t want to use force here.”

George of the Jungle growled. “Bitch, I
didden come here to chat. I don’t give a damn whether you’re a
regular or not and I like ‘em red-haired and there ain't none
'ceptin' you. Now, I’m up fer a li’l less talk, and a lot more
action.”

Dang! It was nearly a direct quote of one of
my favorite Elvis songs, "A Little Less Conversation/ A Little More
Action." I started singing it, hoping he’d think I was either too
entertaining to just pounce on or too crazy.

He yelled, “Shut up, an’strip it down it, you
slut! Paid my damn money, I’m ready, and I ain’t got all day.”

“Well, in that case, I’m simply going to have
to refuse. I am not providing you with sex. Not today. Not ever.
Got that?”

“Just say no” wasn’t in George’s limited
vocabulary. He slapped me across my face and then flung me to the
side of the bed with one yank of my forearm.

I went into shock. No one had ever slapped me
before. I repeat - ever. Any leftover amusement vanished.

George got busy unbuttoning his shirt. It
gave me enough time to jump up away from the bed. A standing
position gives a girl much better fighting stance than lying down.
Even though George was much bigger and taller, I figured I could
still find a way to take him down. Savanna’s older male siblings
had taught me a few tricks from their own playbook of Fighting
Dirty for Dummies and Younger Sisters.

George unbuttoned the shirt and carefully
hung it across the only chair in the room. For one very brief
moment, I felt sorry for the man. I’d bet this was his only decent
shirt and he wanted to be sure it wouldn’t get dirty or torn.

All misguided sympathy vanished when I
realized I’d been given an opportunity to find a weapon since
George was now facing away from me. I silently ran to the stove
then grabbed a pan.

George turned. He growled, “Get over here. I
didden come for no cookin’.”

That comment spurred me to grab the can of
olive oil and toss it at his head. It only delivered a glancing
blow. Oil spilled across the floor.

He lunged at me again, grabbed my throwing
arm and threw me onto the bed. I closed my eyes, unwilling to
believe I was about to be raped. I heard a cry of pain. I opened my
eyes and discovered that George, in his haste to get to the bed,
had slipped on the oil. He’d landed headfirst on the side of the
clawfooted tub. He was alive but woozy. Blood dripped from his
right temple.

Playing fair with this goon was not an
option. If I had to damage his reproductive organs I would. I
sprang up and delivered a kick to his back, close enough to the
kidneys to be painful, but far enough away to allow George to spend
his remaining years without the need for dialysis.

I wasn’t satisfied. The anger I’d bottled up
toward Denise’s kidnapper combined with my hostility toward Anna
and her nasty client. I added the sparks of fear and desperation
and rage buidling within me the moment I realized George intended
to take what would not be given.