"Bloodstained Roses"
May. 21st, 2022 02:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Bloodstained Roses"
4/14/1925
I.
"Will you stop using that stupid slang!" Bonnie yelled, making a few passers-by turn their heads.
Parker Ling Scott was hard to embarrass and impossible to deter. "Gosh, cousin, I didn't think you'd turn out to be such a flat tire."
Both were nineteen, born less than a month apart, but Bonnie Ling was an inch taller at five feet six and carried herself like an adult lady in her cotton sundress and wide-brimmed bonnet. In contrast, Parker slouched and shuffled beside her, hands deep in the pockets of his loose trousers and a straw boater pushed dangerously far back on his head. Both looked completely Northern Chinese. Parker's mother had remarried when he was three, her second husband being a white American but Parker had none of his blood.
"Your grandfather taught himself English at night after slaving on the canals long days. And he spoke better English than you do," she continued. Bonnie was carrying a round hatbox and a small overshoulder bag, while her cousin had a suitcase in each hand.
"To that, a hearty Bronx Cheer," Parker laughed. "Our folks worked so we'd have freedom to live our lives and to sling the dictionary around by its ears. My Hope Chest is busted, how's yours fixed for mooching a coffin nail?"
"You know I gave up smoking a year ago," Bonnie said. Despite the style of women having their hair bobbed to chin level, she had kept her long glossy black mane so it flowed down past her shoulders. In the clear April sunlight, it shone as she started walking down Plattner Street again. Her irises were a bright jade-green that everyone complimented her on.
"Vile habit, young man," she grumbled.
"You're sixteen days older than me, not sixteen years, Bonnie." Parker took a deep breath and swung his arms back and forward. "Mmm. Spring at last. I thought that snow would never amscray. My smeller is unplugged for the first time in weeks."
"We're almost there," Bonnie said in quite a different tone. "Next block should be the Agatha Crispell Hotel For Young Ladies."
Parker's voice got noticeably more somber as well. "Cold feet, cuz? Not too late to chicken out if you don't feel up to this."
"I'm as brave as you are, Parker, only not as reckless. We've talked this over."
Pausing on the corner of Plattner and Brook, the Chinese-American youth studied the wooden Indian chief that stood in front of a tobacco shop. "Poor chump, what did you do to deserve landing a job like that. If I had a few more pennies, I'd ankle inside and claw me some Luckies."
"Never mind, you nicotine fiend," Bonnie said, taking his arm. "Better concentrate on what we're going to do when we get to that hotel."
"We? What 'we'? You're going to flap your lips while I imitate a deafmute. Things go smoother that way."
"For once you are right," his cousin said with a smug closed-mouth grin. "Let me do all the talking."
The Agatha Crispell building was a twelve story square of dark brick with narrow ledges running around each story beneath the windows. Over the wide double doors, a stone arch read RESPECTABLE LODGINGS FOR UNMARRIED YOUNG WOMEN. Seeing this, Parker laughed, "So when you walk down that middle aisle, this dive will give you the boot."
"Marriage is low on my list of goals," she said, shifting her shoulder bag to open the door and allow Parker to enter ahead of her. The lobby had passed its glory days of newness, the carpet was slightly worn and the potted plants sagged indifferently, but the air smelled fresh and free of must. Behind the reception desk, a wide middle-aged woman stood, dressed all in black as if for mourning. Behind her a wall of pigeonholes held mail and small packages.
Under his breath, Parker Ling Scott muttered, "Face Stretcher," and received a sharp elbow in the ribs for it. But it was true, the woman's excessive face powder and tightly pulled bun indicated she was trying to appear younger than her years.
Bonnie lowered her hatbag next to the desk and used her most winning smile. "How do you do, ma'am. I'm Bonnie Ling, I registered by mail to move in today."
"Yes, of course. My name is Mrs Crispell, not the Agatha Crispell who founded this establishment but a relative. And this gentleman...?"
"Oh. My cousin, Parker Ling Scott. I asked him to help. More luggage will be arriving at the station and the dear boy is SO strong he doesn't mind giving me a hand."
"Nobody asks the mule if he wants to pull the wagon," Parker grumbled.
Seeming not to hear that, Mrs Crispell said, "As it happens, we have a number of residents of the Oriental persuasion and several of our staff hail from Shanghai, so I assure you that you will not feel out of place, miss. Your draft cleared and your paperwork is complete. All you need do is sign here. Good. Here is your key, shall I have a porter show you to Suite 418?"
"Oh, that won't be necessary, thank you so much," Bonnie replied. "I believe the supper meal is at six?"
"Yes, dear. You may arrive as late as six-thirty and still be served. Tonight we offer lamb chops with asparagus and boiled potatoes, slices of pie are also available." She smiled, showing either new dentures or well-tended teeth. "Meals are extra I'm afraid but your dollar and twenty-five a day does earn you a plate from our afternoon buffet table."
"I'm looking forward to it," said Bonnie, taking the large wooden plaque with its old style key attached. "I'm sure I will be happy here. Ready, cousin?"
"I subsist solely to serve, sahib," Parker answered but he had not been paying attention to their conversation. Gazing around the lobby, he was lost in wondering what had happened to the five young women who had been registered here and who had disappeared in the past year as if they had fallen off the planet.
II.
Tiny as her room was, no more than ten feet by twelve, it was clean and in good repair. The peach-colored walls had been painted recently, the narrow bed was firm and the high window opened to the main street and not the side of an adjoining building. With a mirror across its top, the dresser offered enough room to store Bonnie's wardrobe.
"This is too bad," she ventured to say after a moment's survey.
"It's the cat's pajamas, cousin," laughed Parker. He opened a narrow unmarked door to reveal a bathroom with an identical door on its far wall. "Throw your peepers here. You share the necessaries room with whoever is next door. Hah! I predict some strain on your kidneys, kid."
A curious incident followed in the next half-second. Parker was standing with his back to her. Bonnie flung the room key at him with an overhand throw, but somehow as soon as her arm was moving forward, he had darted an open hand up to snatch the key out of the air.
"You have to teach me how you do that!" she begged.
Turning to toss the key back, he shrugged, "I can't teach what I don't understand, Bonnie. I've been doing it all my life. No why, as Grandpa said. The instant someone starts to do something I know what it is and usually I'm quick enough to react."
"It's magic, I swear it is."
"That's what Dad says. He calls it Chi, spiritual power, what the old Shaolin whitebeards used to catch arrows and walk up walls. If you swallow that guff, I never believed those crazy stories but now... well, I'm not so sure. It's a big help in a slugfest, I'll tell the cockeyed world it is."
Bonnie dropped down wearily on the bed. "We walked all the way from Coffey Station, up these dreadful San Francisco hills. My poor feet."
"Your dogs are barking. You should grab some Zs. While you're sawing wood, I'm going to get me a deck of Luckies. I still got a fin."
"What worries me is that I'm getting to understand you. Oh, look. They're not even swollen." She wiggled her stockinged toes with relief.
At the door, Parker Ling Scott hesitated and turned his head to look back at her. "You ARE going to lock this of course. I'll say 'nio hao deng' so you know it's me."
Bonnie granted him a grateful smile. "When you use square talk like that, I know you're being serious, Parker. Yes. I will be careful. Hurry back in time for supper, I'd hate to face a table of white face strangers by myself."
"This is from the heart, as Dad says. Five young babes checked in here who haven't been found. The badge swingers are of no earthly use, as you might expect. The newsrags scream headlines about White Slavery and Tong kidnappings. Horsefeathers! I intend to put a stop to whatever is going on."
Watching him from her perch on the edge of the bed, Bonnie said, "I don't believe there are any Hatchet Men any more."
"Of course not, they went out with mustache wax and bustles," scoffed Parker. "But crime will always be us, sad to say. I'll be back to put on the feed bag."
III.
Into a well lit chamber that reeked of sharp acrid fumes, Mrs Crispell moved cautiously. The many tables and counters were crammed with assorted glass beakers, jars and tubs in which colored fluids sat. More than one open-topped container had visible fumes wafting up from its surface. Shelves along one wall held scrolls tied with red ribbons, bundles of papers and decaying old books, some locked shut with iron hasps.
Approaching the gaunt figure which sat on a high stool next to one counter, Mrs Crispell gingerly sank to one knee and bowed her head in silence.
"You are given leave to speak," said a low, mellow voice. "Rise, trusted servant."
"Hen Lao De-Ren," she replied, meaning a term of respect for a very old man, "I came as summoned, and bringing good news."
The ancient turned to face her. Unremarkable in height and build, his baggy black trousers and white lab smock of heavy material had nothing out of the ordinary about them either. But his actual person was bizarre. A round shaven head with a high forehead over narrow oblique eyes and a grim slit of a mouth was striking enough. But his skin was a bright lemon yellow that no Asian of any background displayed, and his ears rose to distinct points. The long knobby fingers ended in nails so sharp-pointed as to seem menacing. "Is it so? Continue."
"A new rose has signed in today, master. A mere nineteen, pretty indeed, slender and well-proportioned. Bonnie Ling from Boston."
"What, one of my race?" scoffed the Manchurian. "Our customers cry out for blondes, blue-eyed and white-skinned. This is well known to you."
"She has green eyes. Bright and clear as the eyes of a cat, elder one."
The Manchurian's impassive face relaxed enough to smile. "Is it so? Good. Green eyes in a Chinese girl are rare. Yes, I know fat old Faizan will be interested. I'm pleased, my faithful one, but there is more to tell?"
"Yes, sir. She says she has no family on this coast. An insolent cousin has escorted her to this city, but he leaves tonight for his home. After that, she may well be taken with impunity."
"A male cousin?" asked the ancient. "Could he be trouble?"
"Bah. He is so Westernized as to be weak and harmless. His words are uncouth, his manners are coarse. Even if he came back here looking for her, he has no subtlety."
"We shall see. I have not outlived generations of men without learning caution. The situation sounds excellent. Proceed then. Before dawn, this blossom will be plucked and join our display of bloodstained roses."
IV.
Tucked away in corner table, Bonnie looked over the crowded dining room with mingle admiration and dismay. So many beautiful girls and all so American, with skin like milk, big round blue eyes and shining hair of every color. She felt drab in comparison. Bonnie Ling was pretty but not movie star material, with her best feature being a warm and genuine smile with friendly eyes. Against these confident "It" girls, she thought she might as well be invisible.
Her cousin certainly had enough self-assurance for both of them. When a tall young redhead stood up from her own table, she stretched luxuriously and Parker said, "I love my wife but oh you kid!"
"Parker, no. Be a gentleman," Bonnie hissed at him. But the redhead flashed a smile at him as if it were a present and sauntered away blithely.
"She was poured into that dress," Parker laughed. He leaned back and twirled his straw hat around one finger. "I have got the lay of the land. I walked up and down and back and forth until I know how all the streets connect. Putting my time to good use. Afer all, I know Boston down to each inch but we're new out here."
"You might have simply bought a map."
"Banana oil to using maps. When you're being chased in the dark by big hairy gweilo carrying baseball bats, there is no time for maps."
Seeing the waiter approching with their meal, Bonnie shook her head. "We don't want action like that, Parker. Leave it to the police. I'm going to be a student here and you're part-time at the LAUGHING DUCK back on Grand Street. We are not dime novel adventurers."
Before he could make a snappy comeback, thin china plates were laid in front of them on the white linen tablecloth. Each serving offered two lamp chops, a mound of boiled red potatoes, asparagus tips and a side bowl of cinnamon pear slices. Coffee steamed in generously large mugs.
"Let's wrap ourselves around this," he urged, seizing knife and fork with eagerness. But even as the food was being shoveled down his throat, he managed to keep talking. "Did I tell you the time Pops almost blew his top because I left chopsticks standing up in a bowl of rice? His face was red as a radish!"
"Oh, you must have known better," she smiled, nibbling much more daintily on a chop. "That looks like a funeral offering. It's incredibly bad luck to do that."
"I forgot. Sue me." As always, he was finishing the last bits of his meal while his cousin was not halfway through. "And I lugged your steamer trunk up here from the train station. It's waiting out in the hall, I can see the edge of it from here."
"This is an outlandish plan you have come up with," Bonnie said. "I still don't understand why you want to take such risks. There is no reward money. You won't get any material benefit even if you uncover these people smugglers."
When Parker Ling Scott dropped his sassy mannerisms, he suddenly seemed older and more imposing. Even his voice deepened. "Because these White Slavery headlines get my goat, cousin. Every day the rags scream about how Chinamen are kidnapping innocent litle white women and selling them to be used as, well, you know."
"I'm skeptical about all that," she replied, arranging the final forkful of vegetables. "Maybe there are such infamous crimes going on, but surely the numbers are exaggerated?"
"You're missing the point, which bugs me! It's all the finger pointing at our people. Chinese still aren't safe from curb stomping and even rope dancing if mobs get their fur rubbed up. If you ask me, it's white people behind the disappearances. And I intend to prove it."
Bonnie wiped her mouth with a linen napkin, placed some change under her plate and stood up. "I don't feel about it as strongly as you do, cousin, but please do not take me the wrong way. I respect your conviction and your willingness to act when you see something wrong." She slid her chair forward against the table. "We had better get going. Seven is curfew here."
"Hah! That's when Mrs Wrinkle acts like the house Fire Extinguisher, right? As if these babes want a chaperone."
"Those are the rules and I agreed to them," Bonnie sighed. "No males in the building after seven, even relatives. Shall we get my trunk up to my room?"
"That rule's applesauce in my book," he snorted, "But I don't want to take a bounce. Getting streeted is rough on my togs."
Following him from the dining room, Bonnie muttered, "I'm not only getting to understand everything you say, I'm starting to like the way you talk..."
V.
Her calligraphy was hopeless. Bonnie put down the brush and sighed with digust at her efforts. She had realized at some point that her parents were guessing what characters she attempted to write for them. The smooth flow needed for proper calligraphy seemed to be outside her ability.
She had left the door to her room half open, so the gentle clatter of a cart outside got her attention. At the knock, she called out, "Come right in," and turned with relief away from the clumsy attempts she had made to write her own name.
Mrs Crispell brought in a white teacup and saucer, which she placed carefully on the nightstand by Bonnie's bed. The older woman had added a thick cardigan sweater to her attire. "Good evening, miss. Most evenings, we do offer complimentary tea this time when the rounds are made."
"That's thoughtful, thank you kindly." Bonnie rose to her feet and fought back a yawn from a long day. "I believe I will retire early, at that."
Without saying anything, Mrs Crispell examined the bathroom which connected to the adjoining room, then peered inside the closet which held only a few of Bonnie's lightweight dresses. The iron-framed bed was so high that it was clear no one could be concealed under it. "Very well, then. I hope you understand that this curfew is for the safety of our young ladies. A city like San Francisco harbors many unsavory ruffians."
"It's quite all right with me," Bonnie replied. "I shouldn't sleep well knowing strange men might be out in the hall."
"I wanted to say goodbye to your cousin, Parker his name was?"
Bonnie smiled. "He was running late as usual. I daresay he had to sprint to catch his train before it pulled out. If Parker was ever on time, I would be alarmed."
"Punctuality is a virtue to be encouraged. I will be on my way, then. Breakfast is served at seven on the dot, you remember. Dear me, what interesting stickers." She took a step toward the five foot long black steamer trunk in the far corner. "London. Rome. My heavens, you've seen a bit of the world."
"Not me, I'm afraid," Bonnie said. "That belonged to be my father. As a young man, he worked his way across Europe. This trip is the first time I've been out of sight of Boston."
"I see. A few of our residents visit each other at this time but we do ask that everyone be settled in for the night by ten. The building is silent overnight so that our young ladies are fresh in the morning. Good night, dear. I hope to see you at breakfast."
As the woman exited, Bonnie called to her, "Thank you for all your kindness." She yawned again, rubbed the back of her neck and sat down on the bed to take off her sensible pumps. Getting to sleep should be no problem. Forcing herself back up again, she made sure the door was locked. Bonnie took off her dress but felt unwilling to change into nightwear. Clad in her lacy pink slip, she turned down the edge of the blanket and was about to climb in when she remembered the cup that Mrs Crispell had left for her.
Still steaming, the tea had a pleasant citrus flavor she didn't recognize. After a tentative sip, she drained the contents and placed the empty cup down on the saucer. Bonnie leaned over toward the door and flicked the light switch down. Now the only illumination came from the gauzy pale rectangle of the curtained window letting in street light.
As she stretched out under the covers, Bonnie somehow felt flushed and uncomfortable for no reason. Was it stuffy in here? It hadn't been a moment ago. In an instant, she dropped off, not into natural sleep but into a drugged stupor.
VI.
At five minutes to eleven, the building had been hushed for over an hour. Not even a radio could be heard from behind any door. It was so silent that the ticking of a wall clock in the hall could be distinctly heard in Bonnie's room.
The door to the bathroom swung open on well-oiled hinges, but no light showed. Two men rolled a chest high wicker laundry cart out to stop beside the bed where the young woman dozed so deeply that she was not awakened when they carefully pulled the blankets off. Working together, the men lifted Bonnie Ling and placed her inside the wicker cart. They took care to arrange her limbs securely but to also make sure her head was raised so that she could breathe easily before they lowered the lid and fastened it shut.
The way the men moved through the gloom showed they knew the layout of the room. One cracked the door open a fraction of an inch, holding his breath and listening, then peered out into the hall. When he tugged on one end of the laundry cart, his partner rolled it out and they closed the door behind them. The click as the door closed was the loudest noise they had made.
But even as that door shut, the top of the steamer trunk swung open. Nimble as an acrobat, Parker Ling Scott vaulted out and rushed to follow. Long hours curled up inside that trunk had not made the young man stiff, nor had he been tempted to sleep. His eyes had adjusted to the murk enough that he had seen through a peephole his cousin's abduction.
Barely a second after the hallway door had closed, it was swung open again as Parker stuck his head out. Down the hall, the two thugs were pulling shut the metal accordion outer door of the elevator. Their attention was on the wicker cart but Parker would not have cared if they had seen him. His anger was boiling and he would have charged at them. Even as the top of the elevator cage was descending, Parker raced toward the open staircase and leaped down three steps at a time. The elevator did not stop at the floor below. Parker swung his legs over the bannister and dropped lightly down to the landing on the first floor where a single standing lamp illuminated the deserted lobby.
As he had feared, the elevator did not stop there either. It must be descending into the basement. While Bonnie had been checking in, Parker had studied the layout of the lobby. The door to the basement was unlocked. He plunged in and nearly dove down the narrow concrete steps in his haste.
There was the furnace with its bin of coal beneath the chute leading up to the street, there was the hot water boiler, there was a muddle of broken furniture and general debris waiting to be thrown out. Part of the brick wall had been swung outward to give a glimpse of some bizarre laboratory of black enamel and gleaming glass, but Parker gave no thought to that. Two men in dark clothing whirled around the thud of his landing on the floor, swinging away from the wicker cart in which Bonnie was secured.
Both were Asian, most likely Chinese, with hair cut so close their heads might have as well have been shaven. Both whipped up wicked long-bladed knives from inside their shirts and charged at him without a word.
Parker Ling Scott had never taken any boxing lessons and had never studied the Black Mantis martial art that his father had suggested. He relied on instinct and the fact that he was both fit and pugnacious. The first kidnaper slashed at him in a low backhand meant to disembowel him. Parker's inexplicable gift told him how the man would move the exact instant that the man's subconscious mind had initiated that move, letting him hop to one side out of the arc and to crack a tight hooking punch into the center of the man's face.
The kidnaper staggered back. Parker was already wheeling around as the second thug lunged straight forward with his own knife but Parker again jumped aside and the thrust slid past him, missing by half an inch. Surprise made the kidnaper's brutal face seem comical in its bafflement, but a second later Parker kicked him square in the crotch and the man gasped as he dropped to his knees.
A shovel was propped up next to the coal bin. Without knowing he was going to do it, Parker snatched it with both hands and pounded at the two dazed men until they slumped to the bare stone floor. He had no way of judging how badly he hurt them. He wouldn't have cared in any case. Dropping the bloodied shovel, Parker tore open the lid of the wicker cart and clumsily got the senseless form of his cousin up and out onto the floor.
She was alive. Her breathing was deep and regular. He fumbled for a pulse and was too agitated to count it, but at least it felt steady and strong. For the first time since he had chased after the kidnapers, Parker calmed down enough to think clearly. His hand hurt horribly from punching that one thug, and his own breathing was rapid and shallow. He needed to get ahold of himself.
The sex trade was real, then. White Slavery it may have been called by the newspapers, but here Bonnie had been about to smuggled away to God alone knew where. The harem of some Mid-East Sheik, a brothel right here in San Francisco, the cellar of some millionaire pervert? It didn't matter. He was going to get her to safety, then he would fetch every copper in the city to this hellhole!
The irrelevant and minor thought crossed his mind that he had no idea what had happened to his hat. His weird talent alerted him that someone nearby was about to throw an object, not at him but to the stone at his feet. Parker leaped back an instant before a glass vial broke apart on impact where he had been standing. A stinging, sour odor rushed up at him. To his horror, he felt his arms and legs stiffening up. Parker reeled back and fell to a seated position as he became paralyzed. What had happened? What had been in that small glass tube that could have affected him this way? He was breathing but he couldn't move, not even his head. Even his eyes resisted turning to follow the man in white who stepped out of the brightly lit room beyond the opening in the wall.
When he saw the unnatural lemon colored skin and pointed ears on the man, Parker immediately wondered if that gas had made him lose his mind. No human being looked like that. He watched helplessly as the bizarre figure came closer and regarded him with mild annoyance.
"What a nuisance," hissed the yellow man. "For all I know, you have already alerted the police. You may have friends on their way here now to assist you. You dog! Now I must move to my other stronghold before I had intended." The hateful expression softened slightly and the Manchurian almost smiled. "Ah, but I remember being young and rash and filled with illusions. You dared pursue my men to rescue your kinswoman. For showing courage and loyalty, I salute you. You will not die at my hands." With that, the ancient Alchemist went back into his laboratory and returned with a white sheet which he threw over Parker's head.
Darkness and silence were all that Parker Ling Scott knew while he sat paralyzed and afraid.
VII.
Eventually, Parker came to full awareness. He must have blacked out, either from the gas he had inhaled or from falling asleep. Wait. He was outside. He was propped up against the outer wall of the Crispell building, in a dead-end alley. It was dawn. Parker grunted and found he could move again. Next to him, mumbling and stirring as if trying to answer the ringing of an alarm clock, Bonnie was likewise leaning back against the wall. She had on the same dress she had been wearing the day before.
Long minutes sped by as he struggled to figure out what had happened. The craziest dream of his life...but, no. His right hand was swollen and sore from punching that kidnaper. It had been no dream. Parker saw the steamer trunk and Bonnie's other luggage neatly piled next to her. His mind took forever to begin to sort out the events of the night before.
Then, as his cousin yawned and stretched, she went through the same process. Over an hour of conversation passed before they felt ready to get up and face the situation.
"I do have the most dreadful headache," Bonnie said, finally managing to walk back and forth as she warmed up. "What did that horrid woman put in my tea?"
Parker himself ached and his stomach was queasy. "Ugh. I feel like something the cat dragged in. Come on, Bonnie, we need to at least see what that hag has to say about all this."
"Go back in there? Are you joking, Parker? I'd say we're lucky you're not dead and I'm not a sex slave."
He took some deep breaths and straightened out his clothing, tugging down the wrinkled jacket. "I can't go through life not knowing the score. If we tell anyone what happened, they'd think we spent the night at a speakeasy and clouded our heads with bathtub gin. You can wait outside if you want."
"Not on your life! I'm sticking to you like a shadow." Bonnie took his arm and did indeed press up against her cousin. They made their way to the front of the building, seeing early morning traffic beginning to fill the streets, and entered the lobby.
Standing behind the registration counter was a severe man with a pencil-thin mustache and hair slicked down by pomade. He tilted his head at their entrance. "May I help you?"
"You bet your buttons," Parker said. "Where's that Mrs Crispell witch?"
"I don't understand. Agatha Crispell passed away twenty years ago, although this hotel still bears her name. I'm William Stilton, may I help you?"
Bonnie stepped up to the counter. "Good morning. My name is Bonnie Sue Ling and I checked in yesterday. I'm in Room 418, may I see the register?"
"I believe you may be confusing the Crispell House with some other facility. Here we are." He opened the large red leather ledger to the entries from the day before. "As you can see, right here, that room was taken by a Miss Julianne Boughton of Fresno."
"I.. don't understand," Bonnie said after staring at the page. "That's right where MY signature was."
Next to her Parker gave a disgusted snort. "We've been buffaloed and good. Don't ask me how, somehow that yellow-puss geezer erased your writing and they put in this name. And I'll bet my eyeteeth that we won't be able to find that door in the cellar either!"
The clerk cleared his throat at his outburst. "Yes. Well, I can only suggest you look at other hotels in the area, miss."
"Save the oil, chump," Parker snapped. "Come on, Bonnie, let's vamoose from this dive."
With a half hearted attempt at apologizing for bothering the clerk, she went with her cousin back out into the street. "We must have been dealing with a well-organized group of criminals," she told him. "They didn't leave any sign of my presence. It's genuinely terrifying to think about."
"Ah, I'm mortified," Parker said. "But never mind all that hokum for the moment, at least you're safe. That's the important thing. And we still have enough savings for you to register somewhere else. Let's go your kit and start..." His voice trailed off.
From the rear window of a taxi at the curb, the bright yellow face of the Manchurian grinned at him. Then the cab pulled away, rounded the corner and was gone from sight.
5/1/2022
4/14/1925
I.
"Will you stop using that stupid slang!" Bonnie yelled, making a few passers-by turn their heads.
Parker Ling Scott was hard to embarrass and impossible to deter. "Gosh, cousin, I didn't think you'd turn out to be such a flat tire."
Both were nineteen, born less than a month apart, but Bonnie Ling was an inch taller at five feet six and carried herself like an adult lady in her cotton sundress and wide-brimmed bonnet. In contrast, Parker slouched and shuffled beside her, hands deep in the pockets of his loose trousers and a straw boater pushed dangerously far back on his head. Both looked completely Northern Chinese. Parker's mother had remarried when he was three, her second husband being a white American but Parker had none of his blood.
"Your grandfather taught himself English at night after slaving on the canals long days. And he spoke better English than you do," she continued. Bonnie was carrying a round hatbox and a small overshoulder bag, while her cousin had a suitcase in each hand.
"To that, a hearty Bronx Cheer," Parker laughed. "Our folks worked so we'd have freedom to live our lives and to sling the dictionary around by its ears. My Hope Chest is busted, how's yours fixed for mooching a coffin nail?"
"You know I gave up smoking a year ago," Bonnie said. Despite the style of women having their hair bobbed to chin level, she had kept her long glossy black mane so it flowed down past her shoulders. In the clear April sunlight, it shone as she started walking down Plattner Street again. Her irises were a bright jade-green that everyone complimented her on.
"Vile habit, young man," she grumbled.
"You're sixteen days older than me, not sixteen years, Bonnie." Parker took a deep breath and swung his arms back and forward. "Mmm. Spring at last. I thought that snow would never amscray. My smeller is unplugged for the first time in weeks."
"We're almost there," Bonnie said in quite a different tone. "Next block should be the Agatha Crispell Hotel For Young Ladies."
Parker's voice got noticeably more somber as well. "Cold feet, cuz? Not too late to chicken out if you don't feel up to this."
"I'm as brave as you are, Parker, only not as reckless. We've talked this over."
Pausing on the corner of Plattner and Brook, the Chinese-American youth studied the wooden Indian chief that stood in front of a tobacco shop. "Poor chump, what did you do to deserve landing a job like that. If I had a few more pennies, I'd ankle inside and claw me some Luckies."
"Never mind, you nicotine fiend," Bonnie said, taking his arm. "Better concentrate on what we're going to do when we get to that hotel."
"We? What 'we'? You're going to flap your lips while I imitate a deafmute. Things go smoother that way."
"For once you are right," his cousin said with a smug closed-mouth grin. "Let me do all the talking."
The Agatha Crispell building was a twelve story square of dark brick with narrow ledges running around each story beneath the windows. Over the wide double doors, a stone arch read RESPECTABLE LODGINGS FOR UNMARRIED YOUNG WOMEN. Seeing this, Parker laughed, "So when you walk down that middle aisle, this dive will give you the boot."
"Marriage is low on my list of goals," she said, shifting her shoulder bag to open the door and allow Parker to enter ahead of her. The lobby had passed its glory days of newness, the carpet was slightly worn and the potted plants sagged indifferently, but the air smelled fresh and free of must. Behind the reception desk, a wide middle-aged woman stood, dressed all in black as if for mourning. Behind her a wall of pigeonholes held mail and small packages.
Under his breath, Parker Ling Scott muttered, "Face Stretcher," and received a sharp elbow in the ribs for it. But it was true, the woman's excessive face powder and tightly pulled bun indicated she was trying to appear younger than her years.
Bonnie lowered her hatbag next to the desk and used her most winning smile. "How do you do, ma'am. I'm Bonnie Ling, I registered by mail to move in today."
"Yes, of course. My name is Mrs Crispell, not the Agatha Crispell who founded this establishment but a relative. And this gentleman...?"
"Oh. My cousin, Parker Ling Scott. I asked him to help. More luggage will be arriving at the station and the dear boy is SO strong he doesn't mind giving me a hand."
"Nobody asks the mule if he wants to pull the wagon," Parker grumbled.
Seeming not to hear that, Mrs Crispell said, "As it happens, we have a number of residents of the Oriental persuasion and several of our staff hail from Shanghai, so I assure you that you will not feel out of place, miss. Your draft cleared and your paperwork is complete. All you need do is sign here. Good. Here is your key, shall I have a porter show you to Suite 418?"
"Oh, that won't be necessary, thank you so much," Bonnie replied. "I believe the supper meal is at six?"
"Yes, dear. You may arrive as late as six-thirty and still be served. Tonight we offer lamb chops with asparagus and boiled potatoes, slices of pie are also available." She smiled, showing either new dentures or well-tended teeth. "Meals are extra I'm afraid but your dollar and twenty-five a day does earn you a plate from our afternoon buffet table."
"I'm looking forward to it," said Bonnie, taking the large wooden plaque with its old style key attached. "I'm sure I will be happy here. Ready, cousin?"
"I subsist solely to serve, sahib," Parker answered but he had not been paying attention to their conversation. Gazing around the lobby, he was lost in wondering what had happened to the five young women who had been registered here and who had disappeared in the past year as if they had fallen off the planet.
II.
Tiny as her room was, no more than ten feet by twelve, it was clean and in good repair. The peach-colored walls had been painted recently, the narrow bed was firm and the high window opened to the main street and not the side of an adjoining building. With a mirror across its top, the dresser offered enough room to store Bonnie's wardrobe.
"This is too bad," she ventured to say after a moment's survey.
"It's the cat's pajamas, cousin," laughed Parker. He opened a narrow unmarked door to reveal a bathroom with an identical door on its far wall. "Throw your peepers here. You share the necessaries room with whoever is next door. Hah! I predict some strain on your kidneys, kid."
A curious incident followed in the next half-second. Parker was standing with his back to her. Bonnie flung the room key at him with an overhand throw, but somehow as soon as her arm was moving forward, he had darted an open hand up to snatch the key out of the air.
"You have to teach me how you do that!" she begged.
Turning to toss the key back, he shrugged, "I can't teach what I don't understand, Bonnie. I've been doing it all my life. No why, as Grandpa said. The instant someone starts to do something I know what it is and usually I'm quick enough to react."
"It's magic, I swear it is."
"That's what Dad says. He calls it Chi, spiritual power, what the old Shaolin whitebeards used to catch arrows and walk up walls. If you swallow that guff, I never believed those crazy stories but now... well, I'm not so sure. It's a big help in a slugfest, I'll tell the cockeyed world it is."
Bonnie dropped down wearily on the bed. "We walked all the way from Coffey Station, up these dreadful San Francisco hills. My poor feet."
"Your dogs are barking. You should grab some Zs. While you're sawing wood, I'm going to get me a deck of Luckies. I still got a fin."
"What worries me is that I'm getting to understand you. Oh, look. They're not even swollen." She wiggled her stockinged toes with relief.
At the door, Parker Ling Scott hesitated and turned his head to look back at her. "You ARE going to lock this of course. I'll say 'nio hao deng' so you know it's me."
Bonnie granted him a grateful smile. "When you use square talk like that, I know you're being serious, Parker. Yes. I will be careful. Hurry back in time for supper, I'd hate to face a table of white face strangers by myself."
"This is from the heart, as Dad says. Five young babes checked in here who haven't been found. The badge swingers are of no earthly use, as you might expect. The newsrags scream headlines about White Slavery and Tong kidnappings. Horsefeathers! I intend to put a stop to whatever is going on."
Watching him from her perch on the edge of the bed, Bonnie said, "I don't believe there are any Hatchet Men any more."
"Of course not, they went out with mustache wax and bustles," scoffed Parker. "But crime will always be us, sad to say. I'll be back to put on the feed bag."
III.
Into a well lit chamber that reeked of sharp acrid fumes, Mrs Crispell moved cautiously. The many tables and counters were crammed with assorted glass beakers, jars and tubs in which colored fluids sat. More than one open-topped container had visible fumes wafting up from its surface. Shelves along one wall held scrolls tied with red ribbons, bundles of papers and decaying old books, some locked shut with iron hasps.
Approaching the gaunt figure which sat on a high stool next to one counter, Mrs Crispell gingerly sank to one knee and bowed her head in silence.
"You are given leave to speak," said a low, mellow voice. "Rise, trusted servant."
"Hen Lao De-Ren," she replied, meaning a term of respect for a very old man, "I came as summoned, and bringing good news."
The ancient turned to face her. Unremarkable in height and build, his baggy black trousers and white lab smock of heavy material had nothing out of the ordinary about them either. But his actual person was bizarre. A round shaven head with a high forehead over narrow oblique eyes and a grim slit of a mouth was striking enough. But his skin was a bright lemon yellow that no Asian of any background displayed, and his ears rose to distinct points. The long knobby fingers ended in nails so sharp-pointed as to seem menacing. "Is it so? Continue."
"A new rose has signed in today, master. A mere nineteen, pretty indeed, slender and well-proportioned. Bonnie Ling from Boston."
"What, one of my race?" scoffed the Manchurian. "Our customers cry out for blondes, blue-eyed and white-skinned. This is well known to you."
"She has green eyes. Bright and clear as the eyes of a cat, elder one."
The Manchurian's impassive face relaxed enough to smile. "Is it so? Good. Green eyes in a Chinese girl are rare. Yes, I know fat old Faizan will be interested. I'm pleased, my faithful one, but there is more to tell?"
"Yes, sir. She says she has no family on this coast. An insolent cousin has escorted her to this city, but he leaves tonight for his home. After that, she may well be taken with impunity."
"A male cousin?" asked the ancient. "Could he be trouble?"
"Bah. He is so Westernized as to be weak and harmless. His words are uncouth, his manners are coarse. Even if he came back here looking for her, he has no subtlety."
"We shall see. I have not outlived generations of men without learning caution. The situation sounds excellent. Proceed then. Before dawn, this blossom will be plucked and join our display of bloodstained roses."
IV.
Tucked away in corner table, Bonnie looked over the crowded dining room with mingle admiration and dismay. So many beautiful girls and all so American, with skin like milk, big round blue eyes and shining hair of every color. She felt drab in comparison. Bonnie Ling was pretty but not movie star material, with her best feature being a warm and genuine smile with friendly eyes. Against these confident "It" girls, she thought she might as well be invisible.
Her cousin certainly had enough self-assurance for both of them. When a tall young redhead stood up from her own table, she stretched luxuriously and Parker said, "I love my wife but oh you kid!"
"Parker, no. Be a gentleman," Bonnie hissed at him. But the redhead flashed a smile at him as if it were a present and sauntered away blithely.
"She was poured into that dress," Parker laughed. He leaned back and twirled his straw hat around one finger. "I have got the lay of the land. I walked up and down and back and forth until I know how all the streets connect. Putting my time to good use. Afer all, I know Boston down to each inch but we're new out here."
"You might have simply bought a map."
"Banana oil to using maps. When you're being chased in the dark by big hairy gweilo carrying baseball bats, there is no time for maps."
Seeing the waiter approching with their meal, Bonnie shook her head. "We don't want action like that, Parker. Leave it to the police. I'm going to be a student here and you're part-time at the LAUGHING DUCK back on Grand Street. We are not dime novel adventurers."
Before he could make a snappy comeback, thin china plates were laid in front of them on the white linen tablecloth. Each serving offered two lamp chops, a mound of boiled red potatoes, asparagus tips and a side bowl of cinnamon pear slices. Coffee steamed in generously large mugs.
"Let's wrap ourselves around this," he urged, seizing knife and fork with eagerness. But even as the food was being shoveled down his throat, he managed to keep talking. "Did I tell you the time Pops almost blew his top because I left chopsticks standing up in a bowl of rice? His face was red as a radish!"
"Oh, you must have known better," she smiled, nibbling much more daintily on a chop. "That looks like a funeral offering. It's incredibly bad luck to do that."
"I forgot. Sue me." As always, he was finishing the last bits of his meal while his cousin was not halfway through. "And I lugged your steamer trunk up here from the train station. It's waiting out in the hall, I can see the edge of it from here."
"This is an outlandish plan you have come up with," Bonnie said. "I still don't understand why you want to take such risks. There is no reward money. You won't get any material benefit even if you uncover these people smugglers."
When Parker Ling Scott dropped his sassy mannerisms, he suddenly seemed older and more imposing. Even his voice deepened. "Because these White Slavery headlines get my goat, cousin. Every day the rags scream about how Chinamen are kidnapping innocent litle white women and selling them to be used as, well, you know."
"I'm skeptical about all that," she replied, arranging the final forkful of vegetables. "Maybe there are such infamous crimes going on, but surely the numbers are exaggerated?"
"You're missing the point, which bugs me! It's all the finger pointing at our people. Chinese still aren't safe from curb stomping and even rope dancing if mobs get their fur rubbed up. If you ask me, it's white people behind the disappearances. And I intend to prove it."
Bonnie wiped her mouth with a linen napkin, placed some change under her plate and stood up. "I don't feel about it as strongly as you do, cousin, but please do not take me the wrong way. I respect your conviction and your willingness to act when you see something wrong." She slid her chair forward against the table. "We had better get going. Seven is curfew here."
"Hah! That's when Mrs Wrinkle acts like the house Fire Extinguisher, right? As if these babes want a chaperone."
"Those are the rules and I agreed to them," Bonnie sighed. "No males in the building after seven, even relatives. Shall we get my trunk up to my room?"
"That rule's applesauce in my book," he snorted, "But I don't want to take a bounce. Getting streeted is rough on my togs."
Following him from the dining room, Bonnie muttered, "I'm not only getting to understand everything you say, I'm starting to like the way you talk..."
V.
Her calligraphy was hopeless. Bonnie put down the brush and sighed with digust at her efforts. She had realized at some point that her parents were guessing what characters she attempted to write for them. The smooth flow needed for proper calligraphy seemed to be outside her ability.
She had left the door to her room half open, so the gentle clatter of a cart outside got her attention. At the knock, she called out, "Come right in," and turned with relief away from the clumsy attempts she had made to write her own name.
Mrs Crispell brought in a white teacup and saucer, which she placed carefully on the nightstand by Bonnie's bed. The older woman had added a thick cardigan sweater to her attire. "Good evening, miss. Most evenings, we do offer complimentary tea this time when the rounds are made."
"That's thoughtful, thank you kindly." Bonnie rose to her feet and fought back a yawn from a long day. "I believe I will retire early, at that."
Without saying anything, Mrs Crispell examined the bathroom which connected to the adjoining room, then peered inside the closet which held only a few of Bonnie's lightweight dresses. The iron-framed bed was so high that it was clear no one could be concealed under it. "Very well, then. I hope you understand that this curfew is for the safety of our young ladies. A city like San Francisco harbors many unsavory ruffians."
"It's quite all right with me," Bonnie replied. "I shouldn't sleep well knowing strange men might be out in the hall."
"I wanted to say goodbye to your cousin, Parker his name was?"
Bonnie smiled. "He was running late as usual. I daresay he had to sprint to catch his train before it pulled out. If Parker was ever on time, I would be alarmed."
"Punctuality is a virtue to be encouraged. I will be on my way, then. Breakfast is served at seven on the dot, you remember. Dear me, what interesting stickers." She took a step toward the five foot long black steamer trunk in the far corner. "London. Rome. My heavens, you've seen a bit of the world."
"Not me, I'm afraid," Bonnie said. "That belonged to be my father. As a young man, he worked his way across Europe. This trip is the first time I've been out of sight of Boston."
"I see. A few of our residents visit each other at this time but we do ask that everyone be settled in for the night by ten. The building is silent overnight so that our young ladies are fresh in the morning. Good night, dear. I hope to see you at breakfast."
As the woman exited, Bonnie called to her, "Thank you for all your kindness." She yawned again, rubbed the back of her neck and sat down on the bed to take off her sensible pumps. Getting to sleep should be no problem. Forcing herself back up again, she made sure the door was locked. Bonnie took off her dress but felt unwilling to change into nightwear. Clad in her lacy pink slip, she turned down the edge of the blanket and was about to climb in when she remembered the cup that Mrs Crispell had left for her.
Still steaming, the tea had a pleasant citrus flavor she didn't recognize. After a tentative sip, she drained the contents and placed the empty cup down on the saucer. Bonnie leaned over toward the door and flicked the light switch down. Now the only illumination came from the gauzy pale rectangle of the curtained window letting in street light.
As she stretched out under the covers, Bonnie somehow felt flushed and uncomfortable for no reason. Was it stuffy in here? It hadn't been a moment ago. In an instant, she dropped off, not into natural sleep but into a drugged stupor.
VI.
At five minutes to eleven, the building had been hushed for over an hour. Not even a radio could be heard from behind any door. It was so silent that the ticking of a wall clock in the hall could be distinctly heard in Bonnie's room.
The door to the bathroom swung open on well-oiled hinges, but no light showed. Two men rolled a chest high wicker laundry cart out to stop beside the bed where the young woman dozed so deeply that she was not awakened when they carefully pulled the blankets off. Working together, the men lifted Bonnie Ling and placed her inside the wicker cart. They took care to arrange her limbs securely but to also make sure her head was raised so that she could breathe easily before they lowered the lid and fastened it shut.
The way the men moved through the gloom showed they knew the layout of the room. One cracked the door open a fraction of an inch, holding his breath and listening, then peered out into the hall. When he tugged on one end of the laundry cart, his partner rolled it out and they closed the door behind them. The click as the door closed was the loudest noise they had made.
But even as that door shut, the top of the steamer trunk swung open. Nimble as an acrobat, Parker Ling Scott vaulted out and rushed to follow. Long hours curled up inside that trunk had not made the young man stiff, nor had he been tempted to sleep. His eyes had adjusted to the murk enough that he had seen through a peephole his cousin's abduction.
Barely a second after the hallway door had closed, it was swung open again as Parker stuck his head out. Down the hall, the two thugs were pulling shut the metal accordion outer door of the elevator. Their attention was on the wicker cart but Parker would not have cared if they had seen him. His anger was boiling and he would have charged at them. Even as the top of the elevator cage was descending, Parker raced toward the open staircase and leaped down three steps at a time. The elevator did not stop at the floor below. Parker swung his legs over the bannister and dropped lightly down to the landing on the first floor where a single standing lamp illuminated the deserted lobby.
As he had feared, the elevator did not stop there either. It must be descending into the basement. While Bonnie had been checking in, Parker had studied the layout of the lobby. The door to the basement was unlocked. He plunged in and nearly dove down the narrow concrete steps in his haste.
There was the furnace with its bin of coal beneath the chute leading up to the street, there was the hot water boiler, there was a muddle of broken furniture and general debris waiting to be thrown out. Part of the brick wall had been swung outward to give a glimpse of some bizarre laboratory of black enamel and gleaming glass, but Parker gave no thought to that. Two men in dark clothing whirled around the thud of his landing on the floor, swinging away from the wicker cart in which Bonnie was secured.
Both were Asian, most likely Chinese, with hair cut so close their heads might have as well have been shaven. Both whipped up wicked long-bladed knives from inside their shirts and charged at him without a word.
Parker Ling Scott had never taken any boxing lessons and had never studied the Black Mantis martial art that his father had suggested. He relied on instinct and the fact that he was both fit and pugnacious. The first kidnaper slashed at him in a low backhand meant to disembowel him. Parker's inexplicable gift told him how the man would move the exact instant that the man's subconscious mind had initiated that move, letting him hop to one side out of the arc and to crack a tight hooking punch into the center of the man's face.
The kidnaper staggered back. Parker was already wheeling around as the second thug lunged straight forward with his own knife but Parker again jumped aside and the thrust slid past him, missing by half an inch. Surprise made the kidnaper's brutal face seem comical in its bafflement, but a second later Parker kicked him square in the crotch and the man gasped as he dropped to his knees.
A shovel was propped up next to the coal bin. Without knowing he was going to do it, Parker snatched it with both hands and pounded at the two dazed men until they slumped to the bare stone floor. He had no way of judging how badly he hurt them. He wouldn't have cared in any case. Dropping the bloodied shovel, Parker tore open the lid of the wicker cart and clumsily got the senseless form of his cousin up and out onto the floor.
She was alive. Her breathing was deep and regular. He fumbled for a pulse and was too agitated to count it, but at least it felt steady and strong. For the first time since he had chased after the kidnapers, Parker calmed down enough to think clearly. His hand hurt horribly from punching that one thug, and his own breathing was rapid and shallow. He needed to get ahold of himself.
The sex trade was real, then. White Slavery it may have been called by the newspapers, but here Bonnie had been about to smuggled away to God alone knew where. The harem of some Mid-East Sheik, a brothel right here in San Francisco, the cellar of some millionaire pervert? It didn't matter. He was going to get her to safety, then he would fetch every copper in the city to this hellhole!
The irrelevant and minor thought crossed his mind that he had no idea what had happened to his hat. His weird talent alerted him that someone nearby was about to throw an object, not at him but to the stone at his feet. Parker leaped back an instant before a glass vial broke apart on impact where he had been standing. A stinging, sour odor rushed up at him. To his horror, he felt his arms and legs stiffening up. Parker reeled back and fell to a seated position as he became paralyzed. What had happened? What had been in that small glass tube that could have affected him this way? He was breathing but he couldn't move, not even his head. Even his eyes resisted turning to follow the man in white who stepped out of the brightly lit room beyond the opening in the wall.
When he saw the unnatural lemon colored skin and pointed ears on the man, Parker immediately wondered if that gas had made him lose his mind. No human being looked like that. He watched helplessly as the bizarre figure came closer and regarded him with mild annoyance.
"What a nuisance," hissed the yellow man. "For all I know, you have already alerted the police. You may have friends on their way here now to assist you. You dog! Now I must move to my other stronghold before I had intended." The hateful expression softened slightly and the Manchurian almost smiled. "Ah, but I remember being young and rash and filled with illusions. You dared pursue my men to rescue your kinswoman. For showing courage and loyalty, I salute you. You will not die at my hands." With that, the ancient Alchemist went back into his laboratory and returned with a white sheet which he threw over Parker's head.
Darkness and silence were all that Parker Ling Scott knew while he sat paralyzed and afraid.
VII.
Eventually, Parker came to full awareness. He must have blacked out, either from the gas he had inhaled or from falling asleep. Wait. He was outside. He was propped up against the outer wall of the Crispell building, in a dead-end alley. It was dawn. Parker grunted and found he could move again. Next to him, mumbling and stirring as if trying to answer the ringing of an alarm clock, Bonnie was likewise leaning back against the wall. She had on the same dress she had been wearing the day before.
Long minutes sped by as he struggled to figure out what had happened. The craziest dream of his life...but, no. His right hand was swollen and sore from punching that kidnaper. It had been no dream. Parker saw the steamer trunk and Bonnie's other luggage neatly piled next to her. His mind took forever to begin to sort out the events of the night before.
Then, as his cousin yawned and stretched, she went through the same process. Over an hour of conversation passed before they felt ready to get up and face the situation.
"I do have the most dreadful headache," Bonnie said, finally managing to walk back and forth as she warmed up. "What did that horrid woman put in my tea?"
Parker himself ached and his stomach was queasy. "Ugh. I feel like something the cat dragged in. Come on, Bonnie, we need to at least see what that hag has to say about all this."
"Go back in there? Are you joking, Parker? I'd say we're lucky you're not dead and I'm not a sex slave."
He took some deep breaths and straightened out his clothing, tugging down the wrinkled jacket. "I can't go through life not knowing the score. If we tell anyone what happened, they'd think we spent the night at a speakeasy and clouded our heads with bathtub gin. You can wait outside if you want."
"Not on your life! I'm sticking to you like a shadow." Bonnie took his arm and did indeed press up against her cousin. They made their way to the front of the building, seeing early morning traffic beginning to fill the streets, and entered the lobby.
Standing behind the registration counter was a severe man with a pencil-thin mustache and hair slicked down by pomade. He tilted his head at their entrance. "May I help you?"
"You bet your buttons," Parker said. "Where's that Mrs Crispell witch?"
"I don't understand. Agatha Crispell passed away twenty years ago, although this hotel still bears her name. I'm William Stilton, may I help you?"
Bonnie stepped up to the counter. "Good morning. My name is Bonnie Sue Ling and I checked in yesterday. I'm in Room 418, may I see the register?"
"I believe you may be confusing the Crispell House with some other facility. Here we are." He opened the large red leather ledger to the entries from the day before. "As you can see, right here, that room was taken by a Miss Julianne Boughton of Fresno."
"I.. don't understand," Bonnie said after staring at the page. "That's right where MY signature was."
Next to her Parker gave a disgusted snort. "We've been buffaloed and good. Don't ask me how, somehow that yellow-puss geezer erased your writing and they put in this name. And I'll bet my eyeteeth that we won't be able to find that door in the cellar either!"
The clerk cleared his throat at his outburst. "Yes. Well, I can only suggest you look at other hotels in the area, miss."
"Save the oil, chump," Parker snapped. "Come on, Bonnie, let's vamoose from this dive."
With a half hearted attempt at apologizing for bothering the clerk, she went with her cousin back out into the street. "We must have been dealing with a well-organized group of criminals," she told him. "They didn't leave any sign of my presence. It's genuinely terrifying to think about."
"Ah, I'm mortified," Parker said. "But never mind all that hokum for the moment, at least you're safe. That's the important thing. And we still have enough savings for you to register somewhere else. Let's go your kit and start..." His voice trailed off.
From the rear window of a taxi at the curb, the bright yellow face of the Manchurian grinned at him. Then the cab pulled away, rounded the corner and was gone from sight.
5/1/2022
