Red Dog Conspiracy, Act 1

The Jacq of Spades-2

Tenni curtsied. “Thank you, mum.”

“Ask Madame to return.”

Madame Marie Biltcliffe entered: a tall, handsome, middle-aged woman with perfect black hair.

“Have either of you spoken to anyone about my business? Someone who decided not to contact me?”

They both shook their heads.

“I have never had anyone refuse your help who I referred,” Madame said. “And I never speak your name before the meeting.”

“Mrs. Bryce said a young woman with red hair told her to contact you.”

Madame Biltcliffe frowned. “I know of no such woman.”

“I feel confused, Madame. When Mrs. Bryce wrote you, why did you not contact me?”

She seemed surprised. “I never contact you until I speak with the woman myself. I didn’t know her, and she merely sent a note. If she would have waited —”

I shook my head. “She says she didn’t write to me.”

“How strange.” Madame Biltcliffe appeared as perplexed as I felt. “I suppose I am glad she is no forger.”

I laughed at that thought. “No, that she is not.”

I remembered my sore midsection. “Would you make a maid’s corset for me to keep here for future use?”

“I would be happy to.” Madame Biltcliffe smiled and went to the curtain, holding it open for me. I emerged from the dressing room, and she curtsied as I passed by.

I breezed out of the shop and onto the street. My black and silver carriage stood ready, drawn by black horses with silver tackle. As I took my day footman Skip Honor’s hand to enter the coach, I glanced to my left.

A man wearing brown stood several doors down, turning away at my glance. I didn’t see his face, but he seemed familiar. I felt certain he had been watching me.

I turned to Honor. “That man. How long has he stood there?”

But when Honor and I looked again, the man was gone.

While in the coach on the way home, I pulled the letter from my pocket.

Dear Mrs. Spadros —

I hate to impose upon you during the holiday, but it would be of much help if you could find time to call on me today. My maid Tenni will, of course, be ready to assist you. It is a matter of some urgency.

Your servant, Marie Biltcliffe

The letter, on Madame’s stationery, scented with her perfume, and in her handwriting. Madame claimed she never sent it. Mrs. Bryce claimed she never sent it either. Then who did? And why?

A puzzle. I moved the pieces around in my mind and could make nothing of it.

The Ball

The Grand Ball. The one night this town of thieves and liars pretended they weren’t ready to stab each other at the slightest provocation. I anticipated an interesting time.

Stars studded the night sky as we alighted from the coach. My husband Tony took my hand, and we moved through the crowds lining the wide marble stairs to the Grand Ball House.

Tony’s men scanned the people and rooftops for danger, and the crowd parted before them. We stopped on occasion to allow the newsmen to take our photos with a flash and a puff of smoke.

Fireworks boomed above us. In the distance, cheers went up after each fiery blossom.

Boom. Cheer.

Boom. Cheer.

Fireworks reminded me of him. Every New Year’s Eve, we played with his wind-up automatons, made from bits of junk he found. When we were eleven, he set them all walking around his flat roof while we watched the show and laughed. He never saw fireworks again.

I felt Tony’s solemn blue eyes upon me; I had stopped on the stair. I took a deep breath to clear my head, to smooth my face for the cameras, and continued on. The lamps threw strange shadows behind and between our paid admirers.

I imagined the other Families climbing their own staircases. Why have our own photographers, our own toadies throwing hothouse flowers? Why this fragile ceasefire, which required separate entry to the building to ensure peace?

A magnificent building once, the years had not been kind to the old Ball House. The occasional coat of whitewash did little to hide the cracks in the foundation as the island the Ball House sat upon sank under the weight of so much falsehood.

We reached the top of the stairs without incident. Armed men in black and silver Spadros livery opened the brown paneled doors for us.

Inside lay a rosewood-paneled antechamber, smelling of lemon polish. To our left, brown leather attached with brass tacks covered the top of the coat-counter.

“Take your coats and hat?”

Tony handed over his top hat and overcoat, then brushed a strand of black hair back into place.

“And your weapon, sir.”

Tony hesitated, then retrieved his holstered revolver from his left pocket.

Tony helped me out of my floor-length forest green over-coat. It was my favorite: trimmed, beaded, and embroidered in black. I took Tony’s arm as he led me to the Ladies’ Room.

A woman dressed in black and silver opened the door, and the scent of cut flowers billowed towards me. The Ladies’ Room glowed yellow in the lamplight. Mirrored in front of me and to my left, the room overflowed with flowers and glittering ladies. These ladies were the most trusted wives and sisters of Tony’s main men.

The women beckoned me to the center of the room past a small table and ottoman. They took my new green velvet hat, fussing over my hair. Then they brushed off mud and blotted out wet spots on my gown. I sat on the ottoman, where they exchanged my muddy boots for soft green dinner shoes. When I presented myself to the Ballroom, I must appear flawless, or they would face questions as to why.

Every so often, a loudspeaker blared to my right announcing each group. The words were incoherent, muffled by distance and closed doors.

My lady’s maid Amelia brought my cigarettes. Short, plump, her black hair turning gray, Amelia Dewey wore a uniform like my disguise a few hours earlier. I let her light me up and took a long drag.

The golden lamplight reminded me of home. Not my gilded cage in Spadros Manor, but my real home in the Pot, Ma’s cathedral.

Ma was beautiful, the owner of the finest brothel in the Pot. Her hair was curly and dark; her skin, soft and brown. She taught me how to make deals, how to run the business, how to smile at a mark. I missed her so much it hurt.

Was she safe? Was she happy? Had she learned to live without me?

Amelia rose. “It’s time, mum.” Entering the Ballroom at the scheduled time kept us from meeting another Family in the hallway without our men to protect us.

I went across the room, through the door, and to the right, down a long red-carpeted hallway to the Ballroom entry. Jazz music played far in the distance, growing louder as I approached: a dance tune.

Tony waited at the closed doors and smiled when he saw me approach. “Into battle.”

I laughed in spite of myself as the doors opened.

A golden railing lay before us. A long sweeping stair led down along the wall to our right. Beyond and far below, at least two hundred people danced. The polished oak floor gleamed.

A great red pillar stood in the center of the room, rising to a white and gold vaulted ceiling. A large raised area surrounded it, bordered by four long steps and large enough for a whole party of its own. Rectangular tables stood on this dais. Here the four Family heads sat with their Inventors, one group to each table, on all four sides.

Bridges had a Mayor, a Chief of Police, but the Families ruled the city.

The platform rotated with clockwork precision. When a group appeared at the appointed time, their Family heads faced the stair to greet them. A jazz orchestra sat at the far left of the dais, the members sorting their sheet music.

An announcer stood by a podium to our right, a loudspeaker in hand. He glanced at us as we came through the doors, checked his pocket-watch and a list, then nodded. “MR. AND MRS. ANTHONY SPADROS.”

We descended into the Ballroom, accompanied by applause. The room smelled of cooked meats, candles, perfumes, flowers, and floor polish. It smelled of a party trying to be fine, and it looked the part.

The Ballroom walls were white paneling, edged with gold, with red velvet inlays. But our Family colors decked the room as well. Black velvet with silver embroidery covered the tables; silver candlesticks sat upon them. Tacky, but it got the point across: the Spadros Family hosted the Grand Ball this year.

Tables lined the walls, laden with trays of cubed meats, candied fruits, cheeses, and small sandwiches. Waiters wearing black and silver brought drinks and cleared tables.

Tony’s parents already sat at their table on the raised area. Crossing the hall, we went to the steps to greet them.

Glittering strands of snow now crept in among his black-ice hair, but the name Roy Spadros still turned brave men into statues of frozen terror.

I remembered the frigid night I first saw him. He stood on the cobblestones in that moonlit intersection composed, as if in complete control as people died around him.

Roy smelled of cold hard cash; his tuxedo, black as a clear winter’s night. Blue-ice eyes stared out from a pale uncaring face, yet he could pretend courtesy when he wanted.

“Hello, Anthony, Jacqui.” He spoke with no emotion as he shook Tony’s hand and kissed mine. “Good to see you.”

“And you too, sir,” Tony said.

Molly Hogan Spadros was beautiful, buxom, and raven-haired. She wore heavy makeup and a long-sleeved red gown which showed her figure to good advantage.

She hugged each of us in turn and didn’t flinch when I hugged her back. “I am so glad to see you.”

“And you.” Her nose had healed, and she no longer wore her cast. Matters in Roy’s empire must please him these days.

The orchestra began to play, dancers swirling around us. Our Inventor, Maxim Call, closed-lipped and eccentric as most on the Board were, didn’t rise. He scribbled in a notebook, glancing up to nod at us.

After our visit with Tony’s parents, we circled the dais as it rotated, visiting the heads of each Family in turn. I didn’t know them well, but we were only expected to offer brief greetings. Politeness dictated we should be off the dais before the announcement of the next guests.

Charles and Judith Hart were both red-haired, although silver battled red. It was clear Charles enjoyed his meals — and if rumors told true, his vodka — much more than he should. The couple wore forest green trimmed in silver, which suited them.

Roy Spadros despised Charles Hart; any mention of the man’s name threw him into a rage. Roy placed the orchestra in front of the Harts as an insult, so their people would have to walk around it to greet them.

I believe Roy intended me to kill Charles Hart one day. But Roy did not excel in persuasion. At the time, I saw more reason to kill Roy Spadros than Charles Hart, should the choice ever appear.

For I remembered the glint on Mr. Hart’s cheek at my wedding. It would not surprise me if Roy knew of Mr. Hart’s soft-hearted nature, and let him attend just to watch him cry. Roy’s motivation for any action was to cause pain; it seemed to be the only thing which gave him real enjoyment.

Mr. Hart held our hands in his and smiled at us as proudly as if we were his own children. “How are you?”

“Quite well, sir,” Tony said, and I nodded.

Mrs. Hart fixed her eyes on Tony. “A pleasure to see you.” In all the times we met, she never once looked me in the eye.