The land is desolate, inhospitable, not quite desert, but not far from it. Low mesquite
trees, sage, and prickly pear cactus cover the rocky ground, home to scorpions,
centipedes, rattlesnakes, and black widow spiders. Most every living thing bites or pricks
or stings, sometimes fatally. The sky is huge and the sun scorches the earth seven months
out of twelve. The terrain is generally flat, but every few miles a dome-shaped hill rises
several hundred feet above the plain.
It's been a long tense night atop one of these hills, filled with mala vibra, as the
Mexicans say. Now it's almost dawn, the sky gray, yet less so by the minute. The air is
still and the only sound is of people arguing, accusing, the hate so palpable even the
reptiles and insects take cover, sensing something bad is about to happen... Then it does.
The deafening roar of an eight-gauge shotgun being fired twice in rapid succession fills
the air, followed quickly by another explosion, this one not quite as loud.
A short while later, a pair of fat Whitewing doves sail in on a soft breeze and land
in the hilltop's lone mesquite tree as a golden-red sun breaks over the horizon.
CHAPTER ONE
October, 1892
Maricruz O’Malley slipped into a turquoise dress, checked herself in the mirror,
and stepped out of her room and down the hall to the parlor where the men met the girls.
The night was just beginning, but the place was already filling up with well-dressed
gentlemen. A few of them were young, a few of them were old, most were in-between.
All had money to spend. Some were relaxing on red velvet sofas and settees. Others
stood near a small bar where an elderly black man in a white linen jacket poured liquor,
wine, and brandy. Several women in their twenties, all very pretty, circulated among the
guests, flirting with them, laughing at their jokes, and listening raptly to their
conversation. As usual, things were running smoothly at Miss Clara’s, far and away San
Antonio’s finest brothel.
Everyone noticed Maricruz when she entered the parlor. Tall and slender and
beautiful, she had long raven hair, cinnamon skin, and emerald-green eyes. She wasn’t
flashy, didn’t use much makeup or wear revealing dresses, but she was always the most
sought-after of Miss Clara’s girls. Maricruz wasn’t at all stuck-up, but she was picky,
and she stood alone for a couple of minutes, surveying the clientele. When she had
settled on an acceptable candidate, she gave him a shy smile, and he started across the
room to introduce himself. But before he could reach her, someone upstairs cried out for
a doctor.
It was too late. Miss Clara Porter was dead of a heart attack at the age of sixtythree.
****
The next afternoon a group of mourners gathered around a freshly-dug grave to say goodbye to the lady they all loved. Miss Clara’s current girls were there, along with more
than a dozen other women who had worked for her in the past. Also on hand were
Thomas and Mattie Washington, the black couple who handled the bartending and
domestic duties. Aside from Thomas, only two other males were present. They were
Alfred Oltorf, Miss Clara’s attorney, and Whiskey Dick Cantrell, the brothel’s most
faithful customer for as long as anyone could remember. There were plenty of other men
Miss Clara had considered friends, many of whom were members of the city’s business
and political elite, and while a lot of them had sent flowers and condolences, all claimed
to have prior commitments. There was no clergyman on hand. Clara hadn’t been inside
a church in over forty years, and everyone had agreed she would much rather have Alfred
and Whiskey Dick say a few words before the lowering of the casket.
Alfred Oltorf went first. In his early sixties, he was distinguished-looking, wore
steel-rimmed glasses, and was of medium height. His perfectly-tailored blue suit hid the
extra pounds he carried around his mid-section. Though it was late October, the day was
warm and muggy, and beads of sweat formed on his bald head.
He cleared his throat and began. “I first got to know Clara before most of you
ladies were even born. She had just opened her first place of business. It wasn’t anything
special, nothing like the house you all know. She was still working some herself, taking
care of certain fellows like me. I was struggling to get my law practice going, but
whenever I had a few extra dollars, I’d pay her a visit. She was a real pleasure to be
around. After I’d get my business taken care of, we’d usually lie there in bed, just taking
it easy, no clock running. Telling each other our life stories, talking about our dreams.”
He paused and wiped away a tear before continuing. “Through the years,
especially once she started making some real money, she helped a whole lot of girls like
yourselves. She gave them good food, doctoring when they needed it, and a clean, safe
place to ply their trade. In short, she was an all-around great lady. So Clara, may you
rest in peace, sweetheart. We’re sure going to miss you.”
Alfred stepped back and Whiskey Dick Cantrell came forward. He was a former
lawman and range detective, and he, too, was in his sixties and bald, except for an unruly
fringe of white hair above his ears. He was thin and wiry and his face was brown and
leathery from a lifetime spent outdoors chasing cattle thieves from one end of Texas to
the other. Most of the time there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye. But not today.
Clutching his old hat in both hands, he began. “Like Clara, I’ve never been much
of a church-goer, but I don’t suppose the Man upstairs will mind if I say a few words on
her behalf. So, if y’all will bow your heads…
“Lord, I reckon you know how Miss Clara made her living. That’s how I met her,
a long, long time ago, and, like Alfred here, I surely enjoyed her company. Maybe what
she did wasn’t Christian, but she put an awful lot of happiness into our lives—and into
the lives of a bunch of other lonely men like us. I figure that ought to count for
something.
“Also, she was as generous with her time and money as she was with her
affection. In all these years I never once knew her to refuse help to anyone who needed
it, or to hurt anybody who didn’t darn-well deserve it. She was a good woman who
brought a lot of kindness into a world that can be awful cruel at times. So, Lord, when
you balance the books on Clara Porter, we’d be much obliged if you’d take into account
all the good she did. We’re pretty sure it’ll out-weigh the sinning. Amen.”
As the grave diggers eased Miss Clara into the ground, the mourners tossed
handfuls of dirt upon the casket. After a few minutes they turned and slowly walked
away, except for Whiskey Dick, who knelt in the sparse shade of a gnarly mesquite tree
to be alone with his memories.
****
After the burial, the girls, the Washingtons, and Alfred Oltorf returned to Miss Clara’s.
Mattie brought out a chocolate cake and a pot of coffee, and Thomas set a bottle of
whiskey on the big kitchen table. The cake was cut and passed around, the coffee
poured, and everyone took their seats, including Thomas and Mattie, for Clara had never
tolerated discrimination at her table.
Alfred declined the cake and poured himself a straight shot of bourbon, downed
it, and refilled his glass. He wasn’t a particularly heavy drinker, but the day had been a
rough one. Maricruz sat on one side of him, and Alma, one of Alfred’s favorites, sat on
the other. For a little while everyone sat in silence, staring down at their cake and coffee.
Eventually, Alfred said, “I reckon y’all are wondering what’s going to happen to
the business.” He sipped his liquor. “As far as the long haul goes, I simply don’t know.
But here’s what I can tell you: You all know Clara was from back East. What most
people don’t know was that she came from a wealthy banking family in Boston and she’d
had a terrible falling out with her folks when she was a young lady, way back before the
war. All those years she never had any contact with her people. Then a little over a year
ago, she decided to try to get in touch with her only sibling, a brother, and wrote to him at
the family bank. It turned out he was still alive, and he wrote back telling her, among
other things, that he had a son, an only child. Since Clara had never married or had
children of her own, she was real excited to find out she had a nephew.
“That one letter was all she ever got from her brother. The second time she wrote
to him, she got a note back from someone at the bank saying he had passed away of a
heart attack—a sudden, unexpected death, like Clara’s. I reckon that got her to thinking
about her own mortality, because she had me draw up a will, leaving everything she had
to her closest kin, the nephew. I’m guessing he’s just out of college about now. All the
money she’s put away through the years and this house now belong to that young
fellow.” Alfred drained his glass and poured himself another drink.
“First thing in the morning I’m going to send him a letter letting him know about
Clara’s death and the will. It’s possible he doesn’t even know she ever existed, so the
news might come as quite a shock. I’ll suggest he get down to San Antonio as quick as he
can to settle her affairs, but I won’t say much else. No telling how he’d react if I let him
know right off that he’s inherited a whorehouse. I hear those old-money Eastern folks
can be mighty narrow-minded.”
Everyone exchanged glances, amazed at what they were hearing. It seemed
strange somehow that Miss Clara would have family back East, or anywhere else, for that
matter. This, they had always thought, was her only family.
Finally, Alma said, “What do you suggest we do for now, Uncle Alfred? All us
girls and Thomas and Mattie, I mean?” Alma was a real beauty, with milk-white skin
and a voluptuous figure.
“This is our home, Uncle Alfred, nuestra casa,” Maricruz said. “It is all we
have.”
He patted her hand reassuringly. “Now, I don’t want y’all worrying about
anything, at least not for the time being. I figure we’ll just keep things going like always.
In a day or two, when everybody’s feeling a little more cheerful, we’ll open up again. I’ll
come by every couple of days and collect the house cut to pay the overhead with, and I’ll
hold what’s left over for Clara’s nephew. We all know she’d want to keep the place
operating.”
Kate, a lanky redhead from Alabama, spoke up. “What about when the fellow
shows up? What then?”
“Why, we’ll just do our best to persuade him to stay in business,” Alfred said. “It
shouldn’t be hard for me to convince him this place is a gold mine. I am a pretty good
convincer, you know. It’s what I do for a living.”
Then, for the first time since learning of Miss Clara’s death, Alfred Oltorf
managed a smile. “And I’ve got a hunch you ladies will do your part to make the young
man feel at home. So what do y’all say?”
Everybody agreed that it sounded like a pretty good plan.
CHAPTER TWO
November, 1892
Alexander Porter climbed the front steps of the four-story Beacon Hill town house
where he had lived most of his twenty-one years. Boston winters came early, and the
damp wind added to his dismal mood. Today was Friday, and Monday he was supposed
to start the first real job of his life, as a junior officer in the family business: the city’s
oldest and wealthiest bank. From here on out, quite possibly until the day he died, he
would go to the same building every day at the same hour to study more or less the same
ledgers and loan applications. Soon he knew he would be encouraged to settle down with
a proper young lady from one of the right families and start a family of his own. After
graduating from Harvard the previous spring, he had spent the summer and a good part of
the fall touring Europe. He had been back for three weeks now, and it had become
impossible to put off doing what was expected of him any longer.
It wasn’t that he was opposed to work or to the idea of marrying and raising
children. On the contrary, Alexander was very responsible and had always done well in
his studies. He had never been rebellious and had always conducted himself according to
form. Still, he couldn’t help wishing for a more colorful and adventurous life than the
one that had been laid out for him. He told himself things weren’t really all that bad, that
he should be thankful. After all, most men were shackled to truly miserable existences,
like working in coal mines, or on loading docks, or in slaughterhouses. But it didn’t help.
He closed the front door, removed his topcoat, and went into the cozy living room
where his mother, Eleanor, sat by a nice fire with a newspaper in her lap. She was an
attractive woman in her mid-forties who kept herself up and was just beginning to show a
little gray in her blond hair. Alexander kissed her cheek and asked what was new.
“They are saying it's official, sweetheart. Grover Cleveland has defeated
Benjamin Harrison and will be returning to the White House. I thought four years ago
we’d gotten rid of that man for good. I do so hate it that those awful Democrats are back
in power. Just hate it.”
She put the newspaper down and picked up an envelope that was on the table
beside her. “Oh, Alexander. Strangest thing. A letter came for you today from San
Antonio, Texas, of all places. Looks like it’s from a law office there.”
Alexander opened the envelope and read the letter. Then he and said, “I never
knew Father had any siblings. Mother, why didn’t he ever tell me he had a sister?”
Eleanor Porter stared at the fire for a long moment, then finally said, “Your father
didn’t like to talk about it. And he forbade me to ever say a word to you about her.”
“But why?”
“Well, it seems she was involved in some rather scandalous behavior. I really
don’t know much about it. But it seems when she was a young woman, eighteen or
nineteen years old, she got involved with the wrong kind of man, someone the family
wouldn’t hear of her marrying. And, well, she just took off with him. Headed west,
apparently. Can you imagine? It just devastated your grandparents—and your father. I
don’t have the slightest idea where she ended up or what became of her. All I know is
she never returned to Boston or had anything more to do with the family. Or they with
her.”
“So you never met her?”
Eleanor shook her head. “She and your father were much older than me. All that
took place when I was just a little girl.”
He finished the letter and said, “Well, he must have been in communication with
her, because she obviously knew of my existence. It says here she recently passed away.
Had a sudden, fatal heart attack, same as Father. And since she never had children of her
own, she left everything she had to me.
“It says the inheritance involves a substantial piece of real estate in downtown
San Antonio and a very successful business enterprise, though it doesn’t say what kind of
business it is. Her attorney is hoping I can come to Texas as soon as possible to see the
property and discuss the business and decide what I’m going to do with it.”
“But what about your job at the bank, dear?”
“I suppose it’ll have to wait, Mother. After all, what are a few more weeks? The
bank has been in business for more than a century. Chances are it’ll be here when I get
back.”
Alexander folded Alfred Oltorf’s letter and dropped it on the coffee table. All of
a sudden he was feeling much better.
“Sure is something, huh? Father had a sister. I’m going to Texas. What do you
think, Mother?”
“Oh, dear.”
****
Two weeks after receiving Alfred Oltorf’s letter, Alexander checked into the Menger
Hotel in San Antonio. He had traveled by sea down the eastern seaboard, around the tip
of Florida, then on to Galveston. From there he had traveled by rail over more than a
hundred miles of the flattest country he had ever seen, until the flatness gradually gave
way to gently rolling terrain.
Alexander was amazed by what he’d seen so far of San Antonio, with its odd
mixture of Mexicans, Germans, Italians, Anglos, and blacks. Some of the architecture
reminded him of places he had seen in southern Spain the previous summer, and as in
Spain, the narrow streets seemed to run in all directions. But there were also grand brick
and stone homes with balconies and elaborate woodwork, like ones that could be seen in
the largest American cities, and there were buildings in the central business district that
stood several stories tall. The weather amazed him, as well. The sky was a brilliant blue
and the temperature was in the seventies, even now in late autumn—a welcome relief
from cold, damp Boston. He took off his coat and looked out the hotel window at what
was left of the old Spanish mission known as the Alamo, famous for a battle fought fiftysix years earlier.
He was weary from the long trip, but after a bath and a short nap he felt like going
out. He ordered a steak in the hotel restaurant, which looked out onto a beautiful
courtyard filled with exotic-looking plants. When the waiter came to refill his coffee cup,
Alexander asked where a man might have a little fun before retiring.
The waiter grinned and said, “You just go up to any one of them coachmen
parked out there in the front, sir. Tell them to take you to the best place in San Antonio
fitting for a gentleman like yourself. Any of them will know what you got in mind, and
they’ll see to it you get there.” He smiled broadly and left Alexander to finish his meal.
After a piece of apple pie and a third cup of coffee, he took the waiter’s
suggestion. As his coach traveled the brick-paved streets, Alexander wondered what
tomorrow would hold in store. He and Mr. Oltorf had exchanged telegrams, arranging to
meet in the attorney’s office the following morning at ten. He still had no idea what
made up the estate his mysterious aunt had left him. But he had a powerful feeling that
his life had already taken a drastic turn. Whether for better or worse, he hadn’t a clue.
****
“Are you certain you’ve taken me to the right place?” Alexander asked the coachman as
he stepped down and paid the fare. “It’s just a redbrick two-story house.”
The driver nodded and said in a thick German accent, “Sir, just go up the stairs
and walk right on in the front door. No need to knock. They’ll treat you right.” He
tipped his hat and moved on.
Alexander did as told, left his bowler hat on a stand and stepped hesitantly into a
big, elegantly furnished parlor. More than a dozen people filled the room, a few more
men than women. Everyone had a drink in his hand and seemed to be having a good
time. It took him a moment to realize he was in a very nice brothel, not the saloon with
gambling and music he had expected. He walked over to the bar and ordered a brandy.
“Welcome, sir,” the bartender said. “My name is Thomas. Anything you need,
please let me know.” Thomas Washington poured Alexander’s drink and asked, “This is
your first time here with us, isn’t it, sir?”
Alexander said that it was, left a generous tip, and stood by the bar, feeling a bit
uncomfortable. When it came to sex, his experience was limited. There had been a
girlfriend in college he had clumsily taken to bed a time or two, and there had been a
woman he had spent a few days and nights with in France the previous summer. But he
had never before set foot in an actual whorehouse. It just wasn’t the sort of thing the
fellows in his circle did. Or if they did, none of them had ever invited him along. He felt
an arm around his waist and turned to see a pretty redhead smiling at him.
“I’m Kate,” she said. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you here
before.”
Alexander smiled and was about to offer to buy the young woman a drink when
he was struck by the rare beauty of a Spanish, or maybe Mexican, girl entering the parlor.
Kate noticed the way he was looking at Maricruz. She moved away saying,
“Well, I just wanted to let you know we’re glad you’ve paid us a visit. Hope it’ll be one
of many.”
****
A few minutes later they were sitting close together on a love seat. Maricruz was sipping
red wine and Alexander was nursing his second brandy. The parlor was getting crowded
now, and the talk and the laughter were growing louder by the minute. But Alexander
hardly noticed. All his attention was focused on Maricruz.
She, too, was looking at him intently, studying his face.
“What?” he asked.
“You make me think of someone,” she said.
“Oh?”
She let it go and changed the subject. “You are not from Texas, are you,
Alejandro? You mind if I call you by your Mexican name?”
“By all means. It has a nice ring. And no, I’m from Boston, Massachusetts. This
is my first trip to Texas. I’m here on business.”
“Do you like San Antonio?”
“I do, very much. It’s quite different from where I’m from. Everything is so
colorful. Lots of different people, different types of architecture.”
“Different is good, no?” She took a sip of wine, her eyes not moving from his.
“You like Mexicanas?”
“You’re the first one I’ve met, but I definitely like you. You’re a beautiful
woman, Maricruz.”
“Gracias. Y tú eres muy guapo. Guapísimo. Me gustas.”
He wasn’t sure what she had said, but he was fascinated by the way she’d said it.
She had her hand on his knee, liking the way he looked and smelled, liking his
wavy, sandy-blond hair and pale blue eyes. He was well-built, not too tall, not too short,
and clean-shaven. And just a little nervioso. Which was good. She never liked the loud,
overly-confident ones, los machos.
They sat for a little while without talking. Then she said, “Would you like to go
to the room with me, Alejandro?”
“You certainly get right down to business, don’t you?”
“Perdóname. I do not mean to offend you.”
“No need to apologize. I just feel a little strange, that’s all. Truth is, I’ve never
been in a place like this.”
“They do not have places like this where you are from?”
“I’m sure they must. It’s just that I’ve never been to one.”
“But you have been with mujeres, ¿verdad?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve had several girlfriends,” he said, exaggerating. “But I didn’t pay
them.”
“Of course you did. You paid them with regalos, with gifts. You took them to
nice restaurants, I bet. Maybe you took them on little trips. You paid them.”
Alexander could see the logic in that, but then said, “But I’m afraid I’d feel a bit
uncomfortable going to your room, where you take all the others.”
“Then we go to your room. How can you argue with that?”
He agreed that he couldn’t, and five minutes later they were out the door.
The night was clear, the temperature now dipping into the forties. An almost-full
moon and lots of stars shone brightly. A coach was waiting nearby, and Alexander
signaled it over and helped Maricruz aboard. When he climbed in beside her, she
snuggled close to him and entwined her fingers in his.
Now feeling more at ease, Alexander asked, “Have you lived in San Antonio all
your life, Maricruz?”
“Oh, no. Just a couple of years, dos o tres.”
“And before that?”
“I grew up en un rancho.”
She offered no more information, and they rode without saying much, enjoying
the cool, quiet evening and the soothing sound of the horse’s hooves on the brick street.
Within minutes they arrived at the Menger Hotel, and Alexander escorted Maricruz into
the lobby. There were several men passing the time, relaxing in chairs that lined the hall,
smoking and talking quietly. Alexander briefly wondered if it was all right to take a
young woman to his room, but as they passed through no one seemed to mind in the least.
If anything, they looked at Maricruz with admiration and at him with envy, and he really
began to relax and enjoy the moment.
In the room, they took off their coats and sat on the bed. She kissed his cheek and
his neck and began to unbutton his shirt while he undid his tie.
“I’m sure glad I let you talk me into this, Maricruz.”
“It was not very hard to do,” she said, kissing him lightly.
He dimmed the lamp on the bedside table, and she stood up and stepped out of her
dress. Standing there, wearing absolutely nothing, was the most beautiful sight Alexander
had ever seen. He got up to undress, and she slipped under the covers and watched, her
eyes big and mysterious.
“You are one gorgeous creature,” he said as he stepped out of his pants.
“Gracias.”
She smiled and held out her hand, indicating for him to join her. He lay down
beside her, and she moved close to him.
Putting an arm around her, he said, “I could get very attached to you very
quickly.”
“Oh, no, Alejandro,” she said, turning serious. “You must not do that.”
“But why do you say that?”
“Because of who I am. Porque soy una prostituta.”
“But I…”
She put a finger to his lips. “No hables más, por favor. Do not talk, do not think.
Just relax and let me please you. Para eso estoy aqui.”
Then she rolled over on top of him, warm and soft and smelling wonderful, and
he put everything out of his mind and did exactly as he was told.
CHAPTER THREE
Sunlight shone through the hotel window, bringing Alexander out of a deep sleep.
Eyes barely open, he reached across the bed for Maricruz and discovered she was gone.
He was disappointed, though it wasn’t as if he didn’t know where to find her. And he
couldn’t wait to see her again. He found his pocket watch on the bedside table, saw that
it was well after nine, and dragged himself out from under the warm covers. Always
careful to be punctual, he quickly set about washing, shaving, and dressing. A half-hour
later he stepped out into the crisp, brilliant morning and walked the few blocks to Alfred
Oltorf’s office on Commerce Street.
It was a two-story brick building with lots of light and high windows and polished
hardwood floors. He was greeted by an attractive young receptionist-secretary who sat
alone on the first floor at a desk in a big room filled with books in bookcases that rose to
the ceiling. She accompanied him up a spiral stairway to the second level, which, like the
first floor, had lots of windows and crowded bookcases. Alfred stood up from behind a
big mahogany table which served as his desk and, smiling broadly, welcomed Alexander
with a warm handshake.
“I swear, I could run into you on the street anywhere in the world and peg you for
a relative of your Aunt Clara,” he said, motioning for the young man to take a seat at the
table. “I’m so happy you could come all this way. Did your trip go smoothly?”
“Yes, sir. No problems whatsoever. But I’m still in a state of shock over this
whole affair. I was never told by anyone in my family that I had an aunt on my father’s
side. As you can imagine, I’m full of questions.”
The secretary returned, carrying a tray with china cups and saucers and a silver
pot of hot coffee. The two men helped themselves and Alfred offered Alexander a cigar.
They lit them up and settled into their chairs.
“I can certainly understand how you must feel,” Alfred began, exhaling a cloud of
smoke. “Clara—I call her Clara because she was not only a valued client, she was also a
very dear friend for many, many years—died suddenly and unexpectedly, as you know
from my letter. She often told me she hoped to meet you one day, to get to know you and
tell you about her life. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out that way, so it’s up to me to
tell you her story.”
He drew a deep breath and looked Alexander in the eye. “Before I start, I’m
going to ask you to listen with an open mind. Clara told me a lot about the people and
the place you come from, and I imagine what I’m about to tell you is going to be tough
for you to take. But please try to set aside whatever prejudices you might have and put
yourself in your aunt’s position, if you possibly can.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“All right, then. Let’s start at the beginning. Way back, over forty years ago,
way before the war, a young lady from one of Boston’s best families, your Aunt Clara,
made one hell of a mistake: She fell in love with the wrong man. She had always been
the perfect daughter, had never gotten into the slightest bit of trouble. But just at the age
when she was expected to get serious about some young gentleman from one of the other
families of your social class, she happened to cross paths with a handsome, sweet-talking
devil who was dead-set on marrying his way into a whole bunch of money. He dressed
well, walked around with plenty of cash in his pocket, and put on a good front. But your
grandparents could see right through him from the start. Nobody could figure out what
he did for a living, and his explanations proved to be one lie after another. But Clara was
smitten, and in her eyes the fellow could do no wrong. She flat refused to listen to her
parents or her brother—your father. By God, she was going to marry the man.
“Anyway, the no-account son of a bitch talked her into running off with him. He
convinced her that her folks would eventually have to accept him, if only to avoid a big
scandal. So, he and Clara just took off, heading west. To the day she died your aunt
couldn’t believe she’d been such a fool.
“When they got to Cleveland, the fellow reckoned her family had had time to
realize she was serious, so they found a place to stay for a couple of weeks and she wrote
home to let everyone know she was all right. Told them if they were ready to accept the
man she loved, she’d be happy to come back home. She waited and waited, but got no
reply. The man said to just give them time, they’d come around.
“They headed on, because however he was coming up with money for them to get
by on, he probably figured it wasn’t a good idea to stay in one place for too long. When
they got to St. Louis, she wrote her folks again, but still got no answer. By this time I
suppose the scoundrel realized her people weren’t ever going to accept him, so he folded
and flat-out abandoned Clara. Didn’t even leave a good-bye note or—what’s worse—a
little money to get by on. Can you imagine how she must’ve felt? Heartbroken, nobody
to turn to, not a dollar to her name, and suddenly finding herself in such a situation.”
“No, sir, I can’t. And it’s very disappointing to learn my grandparents didn’t at
least respond to her letters.”
“Well, it gets worse.” Alfred removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his
nose, then continued. “Clara was stubborn as a damn mule. That, and ashamed and
embarrassed over the crazy thing she’d done. She also couldn’t believe that her parents
hadn’t gotten back in touch with her, if only to let her know they were glad she was alive
and well. She told me she was so hurt she probably wouldn’t have gone back to them no
matter what. So there she was: broke, abandoned, and not knowing a single soul in a
strange city.
“Alexander, you get hungry enough, you’ll do damn-near anything to survive, and
back then there were very few ways for a young woman to make a living. After a couple
of days on an empty stomach, she took the only job she could find, which was serving
whiskey in a saloon. Her second or third day there, some animal dragged her out back
and took her by force, right there in the alley. She told me she was so humiliated she
didn’t say a word to anybody about what had happened. Of course, it probably wouldn’t
have made any difference even if she had, because back then most people figured any
woman working in a saloon had to be a whore. So she just kept on doing what she was
doing, just to stay alive. Then a few weeks later it happened again, with a different man.
By then Clara was feeling so soiled and beaten-down, she decided if this was the way it
was going to be, then she would at least make it happen on her own terms.” Alfred
paused a moment, then said, “Alexander, that’s when your aunt turned to prostitution.”
Alexander’s jaw dropped, and he sat speechless, waiting for Alfred to go on.
Alfred puffed on his cigar, letting what he had said sink in for a moment, then
went on. “She asked around for the best whorehouse in St. Louis and went to work there.
As hard as it must have been, Clara was a strong woman, and she somehow made it
through. Back in those days in the West—and St. Louis was considered ‘out West’ in the
fifties—men greatly outnumbered women, and I’ve no doubt she got her share of
marriage proposals from well-to-do clients. But after everything that had happened to
her, she wasn’t about to put her trust in any man, and she swore she’d rely on nobody but
herself from then on out. She learned all she could about the business, and after a couple
of years she had enough money saved up to open her own place.
“She headed down to Texas and stopped for a while in Fort Worth, and then in
Austin, but neither town was exactly what she was looking for. In the latter part of the
fifties San Antonio was on the edge of the frontier. Back then it had a population of only
seven or eight thousand, but it was growing fast, and she decided to give it a try. She
invested most of her savings in a small house and some used furniture and hired a few
girls. At first, everything went real well. But then came the war, then the Federal
occupation, and times got tough. Still, she managed to hold on. Finally, by the end of
the seventies, she was able to buy the kind of place she really wanted. It’s a real nice
house on Navarro Street, just a couple of blocks from where we’re sitting. That house
and the business that goes with it now belong to you.”
Alfred leaned back in his chair and waited for Alexander’s reaction.
Alexander got up from his chair and walked over to one of the big windows and
stared down at the busy street. After a while, he said, “Mr. Oltorf, I don’t know what to
say. I find it incredible that someone from my family, my own father’s sister, lived such
a life. It’s going to take me a while to assimilate everything you’ve told me.”
“I understand completely,” Alfred said, standing up, coming around the table, and
putting a hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “Let me suggest you take the afternoon to think
about what you’ve just heard. Take a nice walk and get to know our city a little. I’d
hoped to spend the day with you and show you around myself, but I’ve got to be in court.
How about we meet later for supper, then I’ll show you the house and introduce you to
everybody?”
Alexander said that would be fine, then thought for a second and asked, “Are we
talking about a very nice two-story redbrick place by any chance?”
“Why, yes, it is. Don’t tell me you’ve already been there!”
“As a matter of fact, I was there last night.”
They said their good-byes and Alexander stepped out into the bright mid-morning
sunshine, his head spinning.
****
Just after dark, Alexander and Alfred were sitting at one of San Antonio’s many open-air
chili stands. This one, across from the Menger Hotel, consisted of wooden planks
covered by an oil-cloth. Brightly-colored coal-oil lamps provided a festive atmosphere.
They were eating spicy-hot Mexican-style beef stew and corn tortillas and drinking Pearl
beer brewed by a recently-established local brewery.
“So what are your thoughts, Alexander?” Alfred asked. “About Clara and the life
she had.”
“I really don’t know what to think. Please understand, I’m not judging my aunt.
But it’s all just so foreign to what I’m accustomed to. And rather sad.”
“Well, let me tell you a bit more about your aunt, a few things that’ll help you
understand her better.” Alfred took a bite of chili and said, “It’s true Clara’s life was
mighty tough there for a while. But after she settled in San Antonio things got a lot
better, especially once she opened up the place you’re inheriting.
“Around the time she bought the house on Navarro, we got connected by rail to
the Gulf of Mexico and the town really took off. Hell, we recently passed Galveston to
be the biggest city in Texas. We’ve got almost forty thousand folks here now. All
through this growth, she had the best clientele the town had to offer. A lot of the top
businessmen and political leaders were—and still are—her customers. Not to mention
the well-heeled fellows who are always passing through. I don’t know how it is where
you’re from, but here in South Texas a lot of us like to visit a whorehouse from time to
time. We might not advertise it, but that doesn’t mean we don’t do it.”
“After last night, I’m beginning to understand the appeal of it, myself.”
“Anyway, she made money hand-over-fist and almost never had the kind of
problems other folks in her business have. She hardly ever had rowdy drunks to deal
with. The law never harassed her, never tried to shake her down. Her place has been,
and still is, a very sweet, very profitable operation.”
Alexander finished his meal and ordered another beer, enjoying the cool night air
and Alfred’s company.
“Clara did a lot of good in this life, too,” Alfred said. “She gave all kinds of
money to charity, always helping folks out in one way or another. But the main thing she
did was help the girls who worked for her, and there have been a lot of them over the
years. Almost all of them came to her in circumstances as bad, if not worse, than she’d
found herself in back in St. Louis when she got abandoned. She took them in, gave them
a home. Most of them stay a year or two, then move on, maybe marry. Some save their
money and start their own business. Thanks to your aunt, a lot of hard-up women have
gotten back on their feet and made a good life for themselves. Clara’s greatest pleasure
was helping those girls. It’s what made her life worthwhile. Your aunt may have been a
prostitute and later a madam, but I’m almost positive that if there’s a God in heaven, He’s
proud to have her up there with him. So don’t be worrying about her having had a sad
life. She had it rough at first, but she came out on top.”
“That’s good to know, Mr. Oltorf. I appreciate you taking time to explain things.”
“My pleasure, Alexander. And how about calling me Alfred from now on?”
Alexander finished his beer and said, “Thank you, Alfred. I’ll do that.”
They rose, and with a big grin, Alexander said, "Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like
to pay a visit to that nice redbrick house on Navarro Street.”
****
When Alma noticed Alfred and Alexander entering the parlor, she crossed the room to
greet them. She gave Alfred a big hug. “It’s sure good to see you, Uncle Alfred. The
mayor and I were just talking about you.”
“The mayor?” Alexander asked.
“We get all the big shots in here, honey,” Alma said to Alexander. Then to Alfred
she said, “He just this minute went back to the room with Etta, and I don’t reckon he’ll be
out for quite a while. You know how he loves Etta and their long, drawn-out pokes.”
“Well, if I miss him tonight, please give him my regards,” Alfred said. Then,
putting his hand on Alexander’s shoulder, he said, “Alma, I’d like for you to meet Clara’s
nephew from Boston, Massachusetts, Mr. Alexander Porter. He has come to claim his
inheritance.”
Earlier that day Alfred had sent word to the girls and the Washingtons that
Alexander had arrived and they would be coming by. Everyone was prepared to be
especially accommodating.
Alma held out her hand for Alexander to shake, her smile sparkling. “It’s a
pleasure to meet you, Mr. Porter. I sure did love Miss Clara. All of us did. By the way,
didn’t I see you in here last night? And you didn’t say a word about who you were,” she
chastised him playfully.
“Last night I didn’t know who I was.” He laughed at himself and said, “What I
mean is, until this morning I didn’t know what it was my aunt had left me.”
Alma called Thomas and all the girls over to say hello to Miss Clara’s nephew.
He had met Thomas and Kate the night before, and he was introduced to Julia and Fanny.
Julia was of medium height and had very black hair and very white skin. Fanny was a
petite brunette with a perfect hour-glass figure.
“Who would have ever thought our new boss would be so good-looking?” Fanny
said as she kissed Alexander on the cheek.
“Y con esos ojos azules tan bonitos,” added Julia. She had recently come up
from Monterrey and hadn’t been in America long enough to learn much English.
They exchanged pleasantries for a while longer, then Alfred said, “If you folks
will excuse us, I’d like to show Alexander the rest of the house.”
As they headed down the hallway, Alexander looked around for Maricruz. He
had been thinking about her all day, but he didn’t see her. He hoped she would be in the
parlor when they finished the tour.
Alfred led Alexander past four bedrooms—two on either side of the hall—to the
kitchen, where he introduced him to Mattie Washington.
“You sure favor Miss Clara,” Mattie said, beaming. “Lord, I loved that lady. I
surely did. Mr. Alexander, anything you want, you just tell me, and I’ll cook it right up.
Any way you like it.”
“She can do it, too,” Alfred vouched. “I’ve eaten some of the best meals of my
life right here at Mattie’s table.”
Alexander thanked her, and they excused themselves and went upstairs. On the
top floor were four more bedrooms: two for the girls, one for the Washingtons, and a
much larger one overlooking Navarro Street. Alfred opened the door to the big one and
led Alexander into what had been Miss Clara’s quarters.
He shut the door behind them and said, “We left everything just as it was,
everything but her clothes. We donated those to charity, which is what I’m sure she
would have wanted.”
“Of course,” Alexander said, taking a long look around the room. The furniture
looked expensive: a large armchair with a matching ottoman, a dresser with a mirror
above it, a roll-top desk, bookcases filled with bound volumes, and two small tables on
both sides of a brass bed. The walls were covered with framed photographs.
A tintype of a woman who looked to be in her forties immediately caught
Alexander’s eye. She was standing proudly in front of this very building. He was struck
by the remarkable resemblance between her and him.
“That was taken the day she closed the deal on this place,” Alfred said. “I
remember it vividly. I had handled the legalities and was standing right beside the fellow
when he took it.”
“You were right this morning when you said we look a lot alike,” Alexander said,
staring at the picture.
Then he asked, “Can you tell me about her communication with my father? I
mean, how did she even learn of my existence?”
Alfred sat down on the edge of the bed. “Well, a year or so ago she started
talking about trying to get in touch with him. She didn’t even know if he was still alive.
She wrote him in care of your family’s bank, told him where she was and a little about
her life, not getting too specific. She asked him to please let her know how he was and if
he’d married and had children. She assumed your grandparents had passed away, and she
wanted to know how their lives had been.
“He answered her letter promptly, telling her about you, letting her know how
proud he was of you. And he told her that, yes, your grandparents had both died a good
while back and that Clara’s leaving home had been the greatest sadness of their lives. He
said that for a long time they had been angry and unforgiving, but that over the years their
attitude had changed. They realized they had made a tragic mistake in being so rigid.
Your father went on to say how sorry he was, too, for having lost his only sibling for all
that time.”
“All such a shame, “Alexander said. “I wish it could’ve been different, for all of
us.”
Alfred nodded, then said, “But she was thrilled to find out about you, Alexander,
and wanted to know all about you. She wrote him back right away, but then a few weeks
later someone at the bank sent her a note telling of your father’s passing. That’s when
she had me draw up the will, making you her sole heir. She talked about getting in touch
with you, but wasn’t sure if she should.” He paused, then said wistfully, “Damn, I wish
you two could’ve met.”
Alexander sat down on the bed beside Alfred, and for a little while neither one
spoke, each lost in his own thoughts.
Finally, Alexander asked, “So what now? Where do you suggest we go from
here?”
“Well, I’m hoping you’ll take a while to think things over before you decide what
to do. You can stay here for a few days, move right into this bedroom. That way you can
get to know the girls, the Washingtons, the business. These folks need for this place to
continue operating, Alexander. At least for a while. Whatever you do, please take them
into account. They’re good people and they deserve to be treated fairly. That’s what
your Aunt Clara would want, I guarantee you that.”
Alexander agreed not to rush into any decisions, and they went downstairs.
Alfred excused himself. He had an early appointment in the morning. Alexander,
anxious to see Maricruz again, stayed. He asked Thomas for a double scotch and sat
down on a sofa, thinking about all he had learned that day. He had certainly been right
the night before when he’d sensed his world was about to change.
Seeing him alone, Kate and Alma excused themselves from the men they were
talking to and came over. “You look lonesome, Alexander. Or should we call you, Mr.
Porter?” Alma asked.
“No, no. It’s Alexander. By all means.” He smiled and patted the cushions of
the sofa, and they sat down close to him, one on either side.
“We were wondering what your plans are,” Kate said. “We sure hope you’ll be
staying a while.”
“I’m not certain what my plans are. I’ve got obligations back East, but I may be
able to put them off for a while.”
“It sure would be nice if you could,” said Alma, taking one of his hands in both of
hers.
Kate rested her hand on his shoulder, lightly playing with the hair on the back of
his head. “All us girls will make you feel real comfortable here. I can promise you that.”
The instant Alexander finished his drink, Thomas was right there with another.
Alexander thanked him and said, “Has anybody seen Maricruz?”
“I think she’s in her room,” said Kate.
He stood up to excuse himself and said, “If you’ll tell me which room is hers, I’d
like to say hello to her.”
“Uh, I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Alexander. She’s kind of busy right
now,” said Alma.
“Will she be out soon?” He was feeling a rush of disappointment—and jealousy.
Kate looked at him sympathetically. “I don’t think so. She went back there
before you and Alfred got here. She’s with Whiskey Dick Cantrell, and he took a full
bottle with them. Which generally means he plans on being back there all night.”
Alexander sat back down and finished his drink in a couple of gulps. Again,
Thomas immediately handed him a fresh one.
After a minute, he said, “I think I’ll go back there anyway. Just knock on the
door, let her know I’m here.” He started to rise again and each girl took an arm and
gently forced him back down.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Alma warned. “I reckon you must not have
ever heard of Whiskey Dick Cantrell, because if you had, you wouldn’t even think about
interrupting him when he’s in the middle of a poke.”
“No, I haven’t heard the name. You’ve got to remember this is my first trip to
Texas.”
“Well, he’s getting up in years now, and he’s slowed down a bunch,” said Alma.
“But folks say he was one of the best men with a gun South Texas ever knew. They say
he put somewhere between eight and twelve white men in the ground, depending on
who’s doing the calculating.”
“You stay on his good side,” Kate said, “and he’ll be the best friend you ever had.
But I wouldn’t go back there knocking on Maricruz’s door. Not if you value your
health.”
Alexander sank back into the plush upholstery, feeling miserable. He had really
been counting on being with Maricruz.
“But you know what, Alexander?” Kate said. “I got a feeling Alma and me
might be able to make you forget all about her, at least for tonight.”
They both snuggled in close.
“I bet you could use a nice massage after all the travelling you been doing,” said
Alma.
“I bet you could use some other things, too,” said Kate, grinning mischievously.
Finally he broke into a smile as the two girls helped him to his feet and led him
up the stairs to Miss Clara’s big brass bed.
Thomas Washington was right behind them with a full bottle and three glasses.
****
At mid-morning the next day, Alma and Kate escorted a very hung-over Alexander into
the kitchen, where Mattie was busy making breakfast. Wrung-out from the night before,
he flopped into one of the chairs that surrounded the big table, and the girls introduced
him to Etta, the only one of the women he hadn’t already met. She had curly blond hair
and big blue eyes and was new to Miss Clara’s, recently having come from a small town
in East Texas.
Then to an older man, the only other male at the table, Kate said, “Dick, meet
Miss’s Clara’s nephew from Boston, our new boss, Alexander Porter. Alexander, this
gentleman is the legendary Whiskey Dick Cantrell.”
Alexander merely nodded. He didn’t offer a handshake or even a good-to-meetyou.
“Have I already done something to offend you, young man?” Whiskey Dick
asked, surprised by Alexander’s unfriendliness. “Or are you just not a morning person?”
Alma quickly spoke up. “Night before last he was with Maricruz, and it seems
she made a real big impression on him.”
“She’ll do that to a fellow,” Whiskey Dick said.
“I reckon he’s just feeling a little jealous,” Kate added. “Last night he had his
heart set on getting with her again, and he knows you’re the one who beat him to it.”
Alma winked at Alexander and said, “But Kate and I helped you forget all about
her, didn’t we, darling? For a while, anyway.”
A big grin spread across Whiskey Dick’s craggy face. “Did I hear right,
Alexander? That you’re jealous? In a whorehouse? Son, you’ve got a lot to learn about
the business you’ve just inherited. There ain’t no call for jealousy in here. Why, these
young ladies are community property. That’s the point of a place like this. Inside these
walls nobody owns or answers to anybody. And when a man walks out of here he’s paidup and free as a bird. No divorce papers to sign. No children to raise. All he takes with
him are fond memories—and a powerful urge to come back as soon as he can.”
Alexander had been brought up to be mindful of his manners, and he quickly
realized he’d been rude. He half-stood and held out a hand across the table for Whiskey
Dick to shake. “Please accept my apologies, Mr. Cantrell. I’m afraid I’ve been
discourteous. And I see your point. About the jealousy, I mean.”
“Apologies accepted.” He gripped Alexander’s hand firmly and said, “And call
me Whiskey Dick. That’s with the accent on Dick. You say it the other way, and it
sounds like you’re talking about the affliction that diminishes the potency of a man who’s
had too much to drink. Which is definitely not me. No, sir, my old pecker always stands
up hard as polished oak.” He rapped the table with his knuckles. “Don’t matter how
much liquor I’ve put away.” Looking around, he said, “Ain’t that right, ladies?”
The girls and Alexander laughed, and Mattie began to set plates of eggs
scrambled with spicy chile and chorizo and frijoles on the table. Then she brought out a
fresh pot of coffee and two platters of steaming hot tortillas.
Everybody dug in and after a few bites, Alexander was feeling much better.
“Mattie, this food is absolutely delicious!”
Her face lit up with a smile that showed a mouthful of silver teeth, and she patted
him on the shoulder. “That’s the way you’re going to be eating from here on out, Mr.
Alexander. I’ll see to that, long as I’m able.”
“And I’ll be your very best customer from here on out,” Whiskey Dick said.
“Long as I’m able.”
It didn’t escape Alexander that folks were already taking it for granted he would
be staying. Maybe they were right.
Just then he saw her standing in the doorway in a white cotton robe, no makeup,
her hair a mess, and looking even more beautiful than he had remembered.
“Alejandro?” she said. “¿Qué haces aquí?”
He couldn’t help but smile as Kate said, “Maricruz, I believe you’ve already met
Miss Clara’s nephew, our nuevo jefe.”
“¡Qué!”