The Secret Life of Anna Blanc (20 page)

She looked up at Joe, watched his lips, set in his square Arrow-Collar-Man jaw, and began to chew on her own. He looked ahead, scanning the area for a rape fiend or for Wolf, barely aware of her. She smiled at her mistake. He wouldn't kiss her. He didn't even like her, and she didn't like him. Perhaps he didn't like women. Perhaps he was one of those men who would never marry, who lived out their lives in the
company of other bachelors. She let out a long, low sigh. He glanced down at her with raised eyebrows. “You all right, Sherlock?”

She nodded and cast her eyes to the lawn. These were silly thoughts to have while conducting a police sting operation. She should take his example and focus on their mission. So in the interest of authentic police work, she whispered, “Do you have much experience with lovers' trysts, because I imagine you should be making love to me. Most of the night, your conversation's been rather hostile. He could be shadowing us, listening from the bushes. He would know something was wrong. Real lovers like each other. They'd be crooning or spooning or something.”

“All right.” He smiled his amused half smile. “I'll make love to you, if you want me to.” He looked down into her eyes with his profligate Arrow-Collar-Man peepers, and against her will she blushed. “Sherlock, you're uncommonly pretty. No. Beautiful. A man could look at you all day…but you know it. You're clever, but you'd be useless in the home. I doubt you could fry an egg. I trust you about as far as I could throw you, but it makes you kind of interesting.”

Anna scoffed. “You're terrible at making love.”

“I'm not done yet. You're a tattletale, but those tattletale lips…I'm guessing they're honey sweet.”

He stopped. Anna made a little ironic noise. “No girl could resist that speech.” In truth, she liked it very much. Her heart was sinking lower, lower, lower.

“It was heartfelt,” he said.

Anna sniffed. “It's my turn to make love to you.” She held his liquid eyes. “Officer Singer, you're a blackmailer. But when you're sober I don't mind you. You're musically accomplished. I could listen to you all night. You dress like a vagrant, but without your clothes you'd look very nice.”

Anna stopped, realizing she had misspoken in a most unfortunate way.

“Sherlock, I'm flattered,” he said, and kissed her.

Anna opened her mouth to protest—and didn't. He was minty delicious, dazzling, better than Louis Taylor—much, much better. That
is to say, much, much worse. His kiss was melting, fiery, and burned with all the intensity of their situation, all the passion required to overcome it. Poor boy, rich girl, a jealous fiancé, a powerful father, a fundamental dislike of the other person, and a rape fiend lurking somewhere in the neighborhood.

When they parted lips, she was trembling. His eyes had changed from vigilant, and occasionally hostile, to deep, dark velvet. His Arrow-Collar-Man mouth curled up in a dreamy half smile. “Honey sweet,” he murmured.

He was a peppermint candy she wanted to eat. A man she wanted to see in his bathing suit. A man who could ruin her. His hand slipped down to her tiny waist and her nether parts sang. Loudly.

Anna was in peril. Her heart pounded like an Indian drum. When he lifted her chin to kiss her again, she hesitated, and then did what any girl would do in her situation.

She felt for his gun.

Grabbing the revolver, Anna leapt off the bench, lifted the weapon, and pointed it at him.

“Don't you think you're overreacting? It was just a kiss!” he said. He slowly rose to his feet and raised his hands in surrender.

She badly wanted to kiss him again, so she kneed him in the groin. “Fresh!” As he crumpled to the grass holding his man parts, Anna fled.

He groaned. “Sherlock! We're supposed to be lovers! I was just trying to be convincing!”

Anna ran toward the edge of the park and hid behind a juniper bush, in shadows, beside a dripping marble fountain, her insides all a flutter, her lips still burning from his kiss. The damp earth was emerald with the tiny leaves of baby tears. In a moment, she heard Joe's feet slapping the soggy ground cover, pounding the spongy grass, charging toward the street. When she peeked out from behind the greenery, she saw him standing at the edge of the park, still bent a little at the waist. He patted down his torso. “Damn it! That was my gun.”

Joe looked up and down the empty road. “Sherlock!” He picked a direction and ran. When Anna felt sure her lips were safe, she extricated
herself from the juniper. She rubbed the tiny stinging welts that rose on her hands where her skin had touched the shrub. She could hear Joe calling on the next block, “Sherlock! You're being an idiot! Holmes!”

Anna walked in the opposite direction, cautiously scanning the empty streets. The storefront windows were dark. The signs, barely legible in the moonlight, were written in letters she could not decipher. Where was Wolf? Had the rape fiend gotten him?

Anna needed to get out of Boyle Heights. In the distance, she saw the
Los Angeles Herald
building, glowing like a beacon. The presses might still be working, and the trolley stopped there, at Ink Alley. If it wasn't too late, she could catch the Owl back to Angel's Flight. She lifted her skirts and ran.

Anna reached the
Los Angeles
Herald
building, sweaty and out of breath. Her tapered shoes pinched her toes, and her heels had angry blisters. She slowed to a walk, stowing the gun in the pocket of her skirt. The cold metal bumped her leg as she walked.

Under the burning gas lamps, drivers slumped in wagon seats, softly snoring, reins wrapped around their fists, the horses flicking their manes. Newsboys loitered in their caps and knee pants or slept in the backs of wagons. A clock chimed once. The building's big doors opened and the night crew poured out. Newsboys roused themselves and formed a chain, hauling bundles of papers from the building to their wagons.

Anna approached a worker on the steps and addressed him. “Excuse me. Did I miss the trolley?”

“You shouldn't be out alone, Miss. There's a criminal about.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Take the Owl with the printers. It's the last car of the night, but it's coming soon. You miss the Owl, you'll have to walk home, and you might not ever arrive.”

Anna thanked him and melted into the shadows to wait. It was the natural place for Joe to look for her, and she didn't want to be found.

Soon, the trolley rolled up, and workers from the
Herald
crowded
on. Anna ran from the shadows and hopped in front. As she made her way to the back, she saw Joe on the street, striding next to the trolley, searching every face on board, looking for Anna. All the dreaminess was gone from his eyes, replaced by worry and, for the first time that night, fear.

Joe's eyes landed on Anna and flashed. His fear became anger. Anna crossed her arms and turned her back on him.

“This isn't a game, Holmes! You can't just walk off in the middle of a job because you got your feelings hurt!” he said.

Anna huffed. She knew he was right. A man would never behave thus, and she had been the one to suggest that they make pretend police love. Still, she clung to her indignation, because it seemed like the right thing to do.

“Holmes!” he shouted.

“Oh, all right!” She crossed the aisle to the back door and jumped off just as the trolley picked up speed. The landing hurt her blisters. She adjusted the straps on her lovely, brutal shoes as the tram disappeared around the corner. Anna straightened up and looked for Joe on the street. She turned full circle and didn't see him. She called his name. He didn't answer.

Around her, the night shift scattered like mercury. The wagon drivers were pulling away, newsboys perched atop the stacks of papers. The lights at the
Herald
began to go out one by one. Anna steeled herself to assess the situation. Wolf was missing. The Owl had gone, and she was going to have to walk home. Joe was gone, probably on the Owl. This was a good thing. It would be safer for Anna to do the walk alone than to do it holding Joe's arm, with her lips mere inches from his mouth.

Anna's house stood a good five miles northwest of Boyle Heights—seven if she avoided the bad neighborhoods near the red light district. If she started now, and didn't get lost, she could make it back before the servants woke up and declared her missing. Anna started hustling west.

Blocks ahead, a swarm of printers swam down the street like minnows, heading west. Two peeled off from the group and entered
a brick house. When the door closed, the swarm traveled on. Several buildings up, they halted and waited as one climbed the steps to an apartment.

There was safety in swarms. Anna sped in their direction. The printers crossed the road and disappeared down a tributary. When Anna reached the intersection, they were gone. She turned in a circle and saw no one. Not even a stray dog.

The night felt ten degrees colder. Anna limped west on swelling feet, hoping to find the printers. She soothed herself by fingering Joe's gun, humming Joe's song, though from her lips, it would have been hard to recognize the tune. His gun felt heavy in her hand, but she dared not pocket it. Anna wished Joe back, even if it meant kissing him passionately in the pampas grass until morning.

After an hour, the streets began to replay themselves—the sites of previous crimes where Joe had taken her over and over. Somewhere, she'd lost west. She tried a different way, placing one blistered foot in front of the other, padding softly, staying in the shadows. The sidewalks and street lamps disappeared. A trash bin overflowed with trimmings from unfamiliar vegetables—the Japanese section.

Anna was still in Boyle Heights.

Blood pounded in Anna's ears. She turned around and hurried back the way she came. Up ahead, she saw the silhouette of the
Los Angeles Herald
building. There was the synagogue with the yellow star. There was the fire hydrant with the straw hat. And there, leaning up against a building, trimming his nails with a long, sharp knife, was Douglas Doogan. He looked up at her with red, gleaming eyes.

Anna ran. She ran like prey. The heel broke off her buckled shoe and she left it behind. She didn't stop, didn't look back, turning, running, turning again. Clumsy with fatigue, she tripped on a crack and spilled onto the pavement. She lay like a puddle on the dirty sidewalk, thoroughly and completely lost, her chest heaving, her stolen skirt torn, the heels of her hands raw and stinging.

Above her, the synagogue's gold star shone. Douglas Doogan was gone. A cigarette glowed under the awning of the men's club, which
had long since closed. A man in a suit smoked in the shadows. Wolf. Her heart lifted. She scrambled to her feet. “Detective Wolf!”

The man tossed his cigarette and walked gracefully off in the opposite direction. She caught a glimpse of white-blond hair beneath his hat. It was the man from the trolley. She hurried after him, calling out, but when she reached the corner, he was nowhere to be found. Maybe it wasn't the man from the trolley.

Anna walked for another half hour before succumbing to exhaustion. She found a darkened doorway near the mouth of an alley and sat curled up like a pill bug, knees to chin, paring knife in one hand, gun in the other. She felt like a girl made out of tissue paper, crouching in the rain.

If the rape fiend or Douglas Doogan didn't find her tonight, someone would find her in the morning and bring her home to her father. He would take the gun away and lock her up in the cellar, where she would turn green and fuzzy from mold. She thought of Edgar and what he'd think of her when he learned that she'd bribed the Widow Crisp, lied to everyone, and set out to trap criminals.

With all her strength, Anna willed her eyes to stay open. Time stood as still as a truly dead possum. Or did it fly by, she didn't know. Her eyelids were soggy. Clouds drifted off toward the mountains.

A man's soft voice brought Anna to attention. “Take off your clothes. If you scream or run, I'll kill him.”

Her eyes focused, but a cloud had covered the moon, and she saw no man, nothing but shadows. For a moment, she thought she was caught in a dream, that this whole night was a dream. But in the stillness, she could just discern a faint whimper.

She eased herself up quietly, clutching the gun, her mind and body moving without her, as if she'd done this before. She had fired a gun only once, a hunting rifle she had pilfered from her father and which he quickly repossessed. But she had never fired a revolver, and never at a man. She cocked the trigger and stepped out from her hiding place.

Nothing. No one. She crept forward and heard the whimpering again, coming from the alley. Somehow, her soggy tissue-paper-self
began to solidify like papier-mâché around the balloon core of a piñata—the kind of piñata you have to whack hard to get the candy. She slipped to the edge of the building and peered around the corner into the dark depths. She saw nothing, heard nothing.

The scent of the night was spoiled with urine smells and the stink of garbage. Overlaid on this rank perfume, Anna smelled her own fear. Her revolver shuddered. The cloud floated away from the moon, restoring its light to the dark streets. It illuminated a scene of terror.

Halfway down the alley, a man lay in the muck, tied and gagged, his eyes bulging with frustration, his trousers wet at the groin. Against the brick wall, a woman fumbled with her corset, her dress in a heap on the ground. A second man, dressed as a printer, sleeves stained with ink, stood watching the bound man and unbuckling his belt, a long sharp knife between his teeth.

Anna watched for a moment, as if it were a play—the humiliated man, the ink-stained villain with the knife, the trembling woman, all actors performing for her class at the convent, only it was the wrong play. She stepped into the alley, lifted the gun and aimed. Her throat was hard, made of steel. She was made of steel. She shouted, “Reach for the roof!”