Going Where the Wind Blows
By Jan Christensen
It wasn’t that she liked whoring. But what else could a gal do? She’d come to San Francisco with a man who promised to marry her right after they arrived. He had the temerity to be shot dead in the lobby of the Occidental Hotel where they were staying, quite properly, in separate rooms.
She’d watched it happen, and the scene ran through her mind over and over again. They’d just descended the grand staircase when a man stepped from behind a pillar in the lobby. He was crouched low, so it was hard to see how tall he was. He wore a red bandana across his nose and mouth. He’d shot Bill twice—once in the stomach, and once in the head—then ran out the front door. The only other person in the lobby was the room clerk. She’d known right away that Bill was dead, but she pretended to try to help him while she checked his pockets. All empty. The clerk stood in shock. No one chased the gunman.
Soon the sheriff arrived, bent over Bill and pronounced him dead. He’d straightened up slowly, looked her up and down, then led her over to a corner of the lobby were they sat facing each other while he questioned her.
He was one of those skinny men who grows a paunch as they get older. She thought he was perhaps forty. He wore scuffed boots, tan pants with gun holster on his worn belt, a blue shirt with no collar, a navy vest, and a cowboy hat rimmed with sweat, which he held on his knee as they talked.
“Name?”
“Rita Mae Wilson.”
“You’re new in town. Where you from?”
“Denver.”
“Name of the victim was Bill Reynolds. You came to San Francisco with him?”
“Yes. We were going to get married next week.” Rita Mae took an embroidered handkerchief from the cuff of her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. She noticed the sheriff wore a gold wedding band.
He gave her a skeptical look. “What was Mr. Reynolds planning to do in San Francisco?”
Well, she couldn’t tell the sheriff that Bill and she planned to rob a few banks. Thou shalt not steal. Her mother’s voice was counterbalanced in her head by Bill’s. But it’s so much fun, isn’t it? “We were on vacation,” she told the sheriff primly.
“What did Mr. Reynolds do while not on vacation?”
“He was in banking.”
“Uh huh.” The sheriff pulled an old, worn metal pocket watch from his vest and checked the time. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay in town until I learn more, Miss Wilson. I’ll be in touch.” He stood and went to talk to the desk clerk.
Bill had held all the money, and none of it was on him. What had happened to it? Until she found out, she was stuck here, stuck whoring, and mad as hell. Almost mad enough to try holding up a bank on her own. But something held her back. Some cautious little voice in her head told her to take it slow, to see if she could recover the money and get the hell out of San Francisco. No one else would hire her. At best, she might bring bad luck, or at worst, they thought she might be a murderess.
Her first client of the evening had not had a bath in who knew how long, his teeth were rotting, and his beard the scratchiest she’d ever felt. At least he didn’t want anything kinky. Just straight sex. She took the money he handed her when he’d finished, no tip, she noticed, and was glad to see his back as he left her pathetic little room at the top of the stairs in the whorehouse. Sure, it was the best whorehouse in town, and she had the best room, but it was still pathetic.
After getting dressed, combing her hair and putting on her red high heels, Rita Mae made her way downstairs to the bar.
Miz Halley stood in her usual place behind a tall desk. There were only three other working girls, usually not enough for the number of customers. None were in the bar, so they must be busy. Miz Halley neither smiled nor frowned at Rita Mae, just gave her a slight nod. A short, stout woman, her round face had two chins and the beginnings of a third. Rita Mae
By Jan Christensen
It wasn’t that she liked whoring. But what else could a gal do? She’d come to San Francisco with a man who promised to marry her right after they arrived. He had the temerity to be shot dead in the lobby of the Occidental Hotel where they were staying, quite properly, in separate rooms.
She’d watched it happen, and the scene ran through her mind over and over again. They’d just descended the grand staircase when a man stepped from behind a pillar in the lobby. He was crouched low, so it was hard to see how tall he was. He wore a red bandana across his nose and mouth. He’d shot Bill twice—once in the stomach, and once in the head—then ran out the front door. The only other person in the lobby was the room clerk. She’d known right away that Bill was dead, but she pretended to try to help him while she checked his pockets. All empty. The clerk stood in shock. No one chased the gunman.
Soon the sheriff arrived, bent over Bill and pronounced him dead. He’d straightened up slowly, looked her up and down, then led her over to a corner of the lobby were they sat facing each other while he questioned her.
He was one of those skinny men who grows a paunch as they get older. She thought he was perhaps forty. He wore scuffed boots, tan pants with gun holster on his worn belt, a blue shirt with no collar, a navy vest, and a cowboy hat rimmed with sweat, which he held on his knee as they talked.
“Name?”
“Rita Mae Wilson.”
“You’re new in town. Where you from?”
“Denver.”
“Name of the victim was Bill Reynolds. You came to San Francisco with him?”
“Yes. We were going to get married next week.” Rita Mae took an embroidered handkerchief from the cuff of her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. She noticed the sheriff wore a gold wedding band.
He gave her a skeptical look. “What was Mr. Reynolds planning to do in San Francisco?”
Well, she couldn’t tell the sheriff that Bill and she planned to rob a few banks. Thou shalt not steal. Her mother’s voice was counterbalanced in her head by Bill’s. But it’s so much fun, isn’t it? “We were on vacation,” she told the sheriff primly.
“What did Mr. Reynolds do while not on vacation?”
“He was in banking.”
“Uh huh.” The sheriff pulled an old, worn metal pocket watch from his vest and checked the time. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay in town until I learn more, Miss Wilson. I’ll be in touch.” He stood and went to talk to the desk clerk.
Bill had held all the money, and none of it was on him. What had happened to it? Until she found out, she was stuck here, stuck whoring, and mad as hell. Almost mad enough to try holding up a bank on her own. But something held her back. Some cautious little voice in her head told her to take it slow, to see if she could recover the money and get the hell out of San Francisco. No one else would hire her. At best, she might bring bad luck, or at worst, they thought she might be a murderess.
Her first client of the evening had not had a bath in who knew how long, his teeth were rotting, and his beard the scratchiest she’d ever felt. At least he didn’t want anything kinky. Just straight sex. She took the money he handed her when he’d finished, no tip, she noticed, and was glad to see his back as he left her pathetic little room at the top of the stairs in the whorehouse. Sure, it was the best whorehouse in town, and she had the best room, but it was still pathetic.
After getting dressed, combing her hair and putting on her red high heels, Rita Mae made her way downstairs to the bar.
Miz Halley stood in her usual place behind a tall desk. There were only three other working girls, usually not enough for the number of customers. None were in the bar, so they must be busy. Miz Halley neither smiled nor frowned at Rita Mae, just gave her a slight nod. A short, stout woman, her round face had two chins and the beginnings of a third. Rita Mae
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