Blossom (The Blossom Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  “So is he an upstanding Chinese man? Did your father pick him out for you?”

  Blossom began to squirm. Clearly this isn’t going to be an easy conversation.

  “Au contraire. See I can speak French too!” She dropped her eyes modestly and confessed, “He’s white, lives on Nob Hill and is engaged to be married. Could I have made it any more difficult?”

  “Yes, he could already be married or have some nasty disease!”

  “You’re not making what I have to say any easier. We met in our bakery. He’s the one I flirted with because of the dare. Something sparked. I would have flirted with him anyway, whether or not we’d made that pinky swear. So then we met again in our restaurant. Last night, when you saw Anna Mae and me running down the street, it was to spy on him and his brother. And I told him I’d meet him today at noon.”

  Monique nodded. “I’m not sure you really want to know what I’ve learned about men, but if it’ll help, I’m happy to talk. Besides, it’ll give me a break. Business has been good, but I’m exhausted, and the morning is usually the only time to relax! Let’s go up to my room. We’ll have more PRIVACY there,” she raised her voice as she spoke the word privacy, suspecting that someone might be listening to their conversation.

  ***

  When they got to the final landing, Blossom said “Eight!” They’d climbed eight short sets of stairs that brought them to the fourth floor.

  “I know, I know, it’s the fourth floor. Most people around here are afraid of the number four. But for me it’s the penthouse and most of my clientele is not Chinese. So, I’m choosing to believe that four is not bad luck in this case, even if it sounds like the word for death in Cantonese. But just to be on the safe side, don’t say that word out loud.”

  She opened the door and they were greeted by high-pitched barking. Monique revealed not only her stunning golden-colored room, but her miniature poodle. She greeted the toy-like dog with sweet baby talk.

  “I just got her. She’s an apricot poodle. See her coloring? I just love my little Peaches to pieces,” said Monique as she picked up the obviously pampered dog.

  “Pull up a cushion and sit by us, mon cheri,” instructed Monique from the luxurious settee she now rested upon.

  Blossom patted Peaches on the soft tuft of fur on her head.

  “Before I start, you have to understand that a bordello is a woman’s world. Most people think it’s a man’s world, but they’re wrong. The men come and go, but we hold the power.”

  She stopped, thought for a moment and dramatically added, “You might think what we do is wicked and depraved. But this is where young men discover the deliciousness of women and where old men relive past conquests. That makes it sound magical, and I suppose it is for the men.” She stopped again to adjust the pillow that was behind her lower back.

  “Kind of like a good shot of whiskey in a barroom, we girls are horizontal refreshment in a bedroom!” She laughed at the humor she thought she’d created. Blossom didn’t laugh.

  “Anyway, my time with men is all about fantasy. It’s not real. There’s nothing emotional about what I do, and I’m not entirely proud of some of the things I’ve done. It’s usually kind of mechanical, you know, like an instruction manual—put Tab A into Slot B. Then there’s the role playing.”

  “Role playing?”

  “Sometimes I’m a saloon girl or a dairy maid from the French countryside or a princess in distress. I could be a pretty good actress when I think about the roles I’ve played. But I have a line that I don’t cross.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes ma’am. Like most women in my line of work, I don’t kiss. It’s too personal.”

  Blossom looked at her with pinched lips and a wrinkled forehead. She doesn’t kiss?

  “But I’ve learned a thing or two about men along the way. They’re easily blinded by lust. Money doesn’t buy class. Some of the classiest men I’ve been with had very little money. The bottom line is this: Men are pretty simple creatures, and they’re predictable,” she reflected.

  “I’m known as a soiled dove. I’m a treat, a tart, and hopefully if I’m doing it right, a thrilling encounter. They come in all sizes, and I’m not just talking about their height and weight. Their manhoods range in size from firecracker to fire hydrant. The fire hydrants are rare, but when you’re with one, brace yourself!

  Blossom looked at Monique with widened eyes. A fire hydrant?

  “But, there are two things they all have in common: They want you to listen when they talk because they think they’re always right, and they need to be told they are incredible lovers. Believe me, it’s not hard to make them believe both of those things, even if it’s not remotely true. If more wives and single women figured that out, I’d be out of work.”

  She continued, “Someday, though, I hope to find a real man and kiss him…and kiss him…and kiss him. I’ve got to escape this trap before my charms and body give out. Actually, I’m more afraid of the younger girls who’re always trying to stake their claims on my clientele. I was one of those younger girls once, so I know their game. It’s one that I can’t win with some men. C’est la vie.”

  She looked at Blossom. “Is this what you want to hear?”

  “Yes, please go on.”

  “This is not a business built on happiness. It’s all about pleasure…for men, that is. There’s nothing happy for me in this other than the money. Lovemaking without love is actually pretty sad when you think about it. To be with so many men and wake up alone, that’s sad.”

  Monique paused. “This man that you’re talking about, I hope he’s worth it for your sake. You’re putting a lot at risk to have a relationship with him. I don’t want you to be disowned by your family and find you working here! I know what it’s like to go out on your own, and I don’t need any more competition. The way you look could set you apart and above me and most of the other girls here, especially those lavender eyes of yours. They’re one of a kind, well, two of a kind. You have two eyes that match, right?”

  The blood in Blossom’s cheeks fired up. It’s always the eyes!

  Monique settled back in her settee and stroked the tiny dog resting on her lap. Her eyes gazed up to the ceiling as if she were going to pull her words out of the air. “You can tell a good man by his eyes. I know that because I don’t see it often.”

  “Oh, my Mr. St. Clair’s eyes are deep,” said Blossom. “Even if I didn’t want to look, they’re like magnets that draw me in with a force so—”

  “Did you say Mr. St. Clair?” interrupted Monique. “Not that shit Austin? Damn him! He walked right past me twice last night and didn’t even wink at me. Hey, you and Anna Mae were with him, weren’t you? And after everything I’ve—”

  Blossom took a turn to interrupt by asking, “You know Austin? That’s Brock’s brother.”

  “I guess I’m, shall we say, well-acquainted with only one of the Mr. St. Clairs!” exclaimed Monique. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met Austin’s brother.”

  “And let’s just keep it that way.”

  “So, let’s get back to our little talk about the men. Most of my gentlemen callers don’t talk much or offer their real names. Usually, they look like men and smell like men. They definitely sweat like men. But they screw like selfish, impatient boys. Austin, now he’s different. I’m mighty glad to see him visit. He’s a true bon vivant. He enjoys the good life. I do like a man who knows how to live!”

  Blossom quickly added, “Face it, you like a man—period!”

  “I guess there’s some truth to that, but Austin’s a man who knows his way around a woman’s body. Plus, he’s a big tipper. When you have a legion of men climbing on your body and having their way with you night after night, a guy like Austin stands out.”

  She began to laugh. “He calls it his dragon, and sometimes the Eiffel Tower. But it’s really more like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. It’s slightly crooked I mean.”

  “Monique, that’s not very kind.”


  “It’s true though. And if his brother knows how to use what he’s got, you’re in for a treat! Every time, la petite morte…an orgasm…the little death.”

  “Monique, stop. Tout suite! See, I’ve done it again. I’ve learned a few words in French from you over the years. Remember, it’s me, innocent little Blossom. You’re embarrassing me, sort of!”

  “Excusez-moi! You aren’t so innocent! You just walked in the front door of one of the city’s finest bordellos in plain daylight! You brazen hussy.” The two laughed loudly at the situation they were in.

  “I really don’t know what I’m doing. This is so risky,” said Blossom. “All I do know is that I couldn’t stop looking at him and I can’t wait to see him again.”

  Monique clasped her hands together in her lap. “Well, you could do much worse than spending some time with a St. Clair man. It’s no secret that Butch comes to your restaurant every night in hopes of marrying you. He’s the first-born son in his family, and that means he’s used to having first choice and getting his way. He tells plenty of people that you’re the one for him and he’s going to make it happen. Not that he’s got the guts to speak up and tell you. Has he? Or has he resorted to paying a matchmaker to work out the details for him?”

  “He’s not a talker, that’s for sure,” Blossom said.

  “He may be part of the strongest of Chinatown’s tongs and his family watches his back, but he’s not much of a gang member. It’s like he doesn’t belong or want to fit in. And then there are his hands. He’s missing a few fingertips. I guess that’s what you get—or lose—when you’re a butcher.” Monique held up her hands with several fingertips bent back to appear as if they’d been amputated.

  “You can ask any of the girls along the alley and they’ll tell you there’s nothing much below his belt. When he’s not around, they all laugh and call him Mr. Chopstick Dick. He’s not for you, my dear Blossom,” said Monique as she waved her flattened hand back and forth as if shooing away a pesky gnat.

  “You might as well know more about my line of work. That will help you understand what they like and how they go about getting it.”

  Monique explained that prostitutes generally land in one of three types of establishments: parlor houses, dance halls or cribs. There was also a fourth type, which was undoubtedly the worst form of prostitution: streetwalking. Though Chinatown’s brothels featured mostly Chinese girls, there were also white, Latino, Filipino and black prostitutes. Being different or exotic could work to a girl’s advantage. Many girls started at age seventeen and were either washed up or dead by twenty-three.

  At the high end of the spectrum, gentlemen frequented multi-story parlor houses that once had been private homes. This was Monique’s place in the hierarchy.

  “We may be shady ladies who live on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams, but we’re classy!” Monique stated with pride. “You won’t find any tattoos here.”

  She was among the femme fatales at the top of their profession, charging ten dollars or more for an encounter, especially because she was a girl with a convincing French accent. At those prices, even the bed sheets were changed after each visit—a nicety not even considered in the city’s other brothels.

  “Unlike the girls who work in the dance halls or cribs, we put on rice powder and lip rouge sparingly and tastefully,” said Monique as she pretended to apply cosmetics.

  One rung down on the ladder of whoring, dance halls offered entertainment while featuring dancers and waitresses who discreetly and not-so-discreetly offered sexual services on the side. “You’ve heard of ‘hurdy-gurdy houses,’ right?”

  Blossom’s head bobbed as she said, “Sure have.”

  Monique described how they spend time with men listening to tunes churned out by a hurdy-gurdy music machine, the full-size and much more complicated version of Ting Ting’s hand-held hurdy-gurdy.

  “Now let’s talk about the girls who are getting close to hitting rock bottom. It’s more of an endurance test than a job. Most girls endure an awful lot. And the lot they get is really awful in the cribs,” said Monique in an exhausted tone.

  “A girl named Suzette worked here when I started. She really must have been something when she was younger. You could see it behind her aging face and the way she carried herself. She got sick. I heard she ended up in the cribs and became known as Chop Suzie until she died not too long ago.”

  “Want me to keep going?” Monique questioned.

  “Absolutely,” Blossom replied as she scooted closer on the settee, like it was story time in some sort of sex kindergarten. Seems like she’s telling me more about prostitution than men, but I’m learning.

  The most unsavory kind of prostitution was available in Chinatown’s darker corners. Known as “cribs,” rows of stalls held little more than small cots that were divided by haphazardly built partitions. A crib was often no bigger than an outhouse. A group of cribs gathered under one roof was called a cow yard.

  “Those girls have faces like ghost towns. What’s for sale there is time with a woman’s body, not with a woman. It’s not for romance. The men are looking for a convenient wet hole. That’s it.”

  Blossom looked directly at her friend. “Monique, you speak dirty”

  “Yes, I’m fluent!” Monique laughed at her own comment. “Streetwalkers have it even worse. All they do is throw down a rug or an animal hide on the ground outside and they’re in business. I’ll have to find a new career before I ever come close to becoming a crib girl and definitely before I hit streetwalker status,” said Monique. “Either you have it or you’ve had it! And I have it, for now anyway. Say, when I’m ready, will your grandmother need another girl for the bakery or restaurant?”

  “Well, there’s hardly any money in it. By the time you think your back is breaking from sitting on a stool in the bakery all day, it’s time to work in the evening until your feet are killing you. Does that sound good to you?”

  Monique smiled and in her best French said, “Oui, avec plaisir! That means ‘yes, with pleasure.’” They laughed, but Blossom stopped abruptly when the mantle clock announced that it was 11:30. “Honey, did you say you were meeting your man at noon?”

  Blossom sprang out of her chair. “I’ll never get home in time to make up another excuse—at least a convincing one—and meet Brock!”

  “Relax. Living in a world of lies and deceptions has helped me perfect my skills of getting out of compromising situations and helping others do it too,” said Monique.

  She paused and pondered a moment. “I know, I’ll loan you one of my white-girl dresses. There’s no silk and no high necklines like your outfits. Don’t fret. We’ll get you to wherever you said you’d meet. I’ll come up with something to tell your father.”

  “But I already told him I was visiting Anna Mae this morning.”

  Monique plotted. “I’ll go to Anna Mae’s and tell her what happened. Then I’ll have her telephone your father and say that you’re staying for lunch and then to help in her family’s store. Will he believe that?”

  Blossom responded, “I don’t know, but I don’t want to miss meeting Brock—and I don’t want him going to the bakery looking for me either.”

  ***

  Monique transformed Blossom’s entire appearance in less than ten minutes, but not without one misfire. The first dress was a tad too tight. Following the worried look that Blossom gave Monique, more dresses were pulled out of the small closet in the corner of the room. “Sweetie, we just can’t squeeze ten pounds of sugar into a five-pound bag. Tightening your corset will help, but let’s just try on another dress,” Monique said cautiously, not wanting Blossom to think she was insinuating that Blossom was overweight. The second outfit was perfect.

  “Are you sure Brock is going to like this?” Blossom asked as she looked at herself in the floor-length mirror.

  “Is he a man? Of course he’ll like it, even if you can’t breathe, speak or move very well,” replied Monique.

  “This dress is so tight too
, but the pale pink color is awfully nice. The heels on these buttoned-up white boots feel odd. I’ll trip or tip over for sure! And look at my hair. I’ve never swirled it up like this, especially with a hat on top!”

  Blossom reached up to adjust the petite pale-pink hat with a single pink ostrich plume. Monique playfully swatted Blossom’s rising hand.

  “Leave it alone. You look irresistible. Trust me. Besides, there’s no time to undo what I’ve done, so you’ll just have to make do.”

  Blossom kept looking in the mirror. It’s just like Yeh-Shen. I’m a Chinese Cinderella.

  “One more thing, you need a little white-girl frosting.” Monique turned to her vanity and grabbed a small ceramic jar.

  “When I’m working, bright colors do the trick. But other times, I use cosmetics to subtly enhance my beauty without overpowering it!”

  “Monique, that sounds so calculating.”

  “It is. Now watch and learn.” Monique dipped her index finger in the pink rouge and defined Blossom’s check bones with a line of it. “This will give you a feverish, flush look on the apples of your cheeks.” She dabbed it with blotting paper to soften its appearance.

  “Now, to make your eyes look like a white girl’s eyes, I’m putting a dab of pink on the outer corners of each eye. I’m dragging it under your eyes.”

  “Do I want white-girl’s eyes?”

  “You practically do already. I guess I never really studied their shape until now. And, yes, you need white-girl’s eyes…today anyway!”

  “I trust you.”

  “Here’s the real corker…it’s actually a cork!” Monique picked up a wine-bottle cork that had been whittled down to have a have a thin edge at one end. She lit a match and burned the edge of the cork. “Ready?”

  “For what?

  “Some black magic, of course.” Monique carefully applied the charcoal dust created by burning the cork around Blossom’s eye. She blurred the pink coloring and the burnt cork with her pinky finger.