Page 53 of If Looks Could Kill
Cora bit her lip. Her whole body seemed taut with fear. “Others will be here any minute.”
Pearl had gone quiet. Her face was sickly pale. She swayed upon her feet.
“Quick,” I hissed. “A chair. She’s going to faint.”
Freyda handed me a low stool, and I guided Pearl to sit down upon it. She flopped her head down on the table before her.
“She’s passed out,” I reported.
The severed snake slipped through her fingers and fell to the floor.
The bodies on the floor began to show groaning signs of life. One was the same man I’d seen walking Cora back here from the brothel. Joe, with the swollen ear. They’d probably all hurt Cora and Freyda. I wanted to kick them.
“Oh, God, they’re waking up,” Freyda fretted, “and now Pearl’s down.”
“Gather up their weapons,” I said. Freyda collected them and laid them on the table.
I turned back to Pearl. Before my astonished eyes, her snakes folded themselves in and back on themselves. The golden serpents disappeared, and Pearl’s golden curls returned, loose and unbound.
She was herself again. Thank the Lord.
I took my handkerchief and gingerly picked up the severed snake body at Pearl’s feet, then placed it in my coat pocket.
There was no avoiding it now. The stunned toughs on the floor were definitely coming to.
“Are there any other girls here?” I whispered to Freyda.
She shook her head. “Everyone else is… working this evening.” Her jaw clenched. “Mother Rosie specializes in young girls. From good families. Better educated. She caters to the swells.” Her bitterness was bottomless. “The ones who can afford the best.”
I began to pat Pearl’s face, which was resting on one cheek on the table. I wanted to weep with relief at the sight of her own face again, but now wasn’t the time.
“Pearl,” I whispered. “Please wake up.Pearl!”
“Tabitha,” Freyda hissed, “we’ve got to go now.”
“Pearl,” I cried softly. “We need you on your feet.”
She moaned in reply.
“Hurry,” Cora whispered. “Someone’s coming.”
“I always say,” came a voice from the stairwell, “that if you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.”
Tabitha—Our Charming Hostess(Sunday, December 2, 1888)
We froze. A small-boned, finely dressed woman stepped into the orb of light, as jeweled and elegant as the so-called Four Hundred attending one of Mrs. Astor’s society balls.
“Though doing it myself,” she added, “ain’t how I generally like to do business.”
I heard Freyda’s terrified exhale. “Mother Rosie.”
The brothel madam opened the clasp of her satin handbag and pulled out a diminutive pistol, then waved it nonchalantly at us. She stared in fascination at the bodies on the floor.
“That’s a nice bit of work,” she observed. “How’d you do it? Laying out three—no, four—of my men? I don’t see any blood.”
“Four?” asked Freyda, ever the reporter.
“Incredible, ain’t it?” Mother Rosie and Freyda might’ve been old friends. “Found Mugsy on the sidewalk a ways away from here. What’d you do, drag him?”
