Blowing Off Steam Read online

  No, viewing the two riverboat captains slurping on each other’s mouths had set in motion this current adventure. The sight had roused her such as she hadn’t been roused since…Well, since Levi in Utah Territory, before coming to California. Calliope had taken refuge from the horror of her emigrant party in what she’d thought was the emotional calm of the Mormons, only to find that her new husband riled her to heights she’d never imagined. Levi was brash, loud, domineering, intelligent, a leader. And what she’d expected and hoped to be a tedious and soothing marriage bed turned out to be a circus of carnal pleasure. Levi was a master of female anatomy, seeking the most ecstatic and thrilling spots and committing unheard-of raptures upon her body.

  The other seven wives made life difficult for Catalina when Levi sought her out more frequently than them. Their forgiveness was a pack of lies as far as she was concerned. Eventually, Catalina was disfellowshipped and had come over the Sierra with other disgraced members. She longed for and craved Levi and the intimacy they’d shared, which rendered her new employment as a prostitute even more heinous. In her mind she built an even bigger wall between the glories of Levi’s body and the disgust she felt at the idea of every single other man.

  So nothing prepared her for what she’d seen when peeking into the pilothouse window where men were gathered, massaging their crotches. Catalina—Calliope, she must learn to say!—expected that some other hooker had preceded her and was pleasing that rangy wheat-haired pilot who spoke as though from Alabama. But she wouldn’t soon forget what she’d seen instead and feared she might have to act on it. Calliope knew she was impulsive and lusty. She bored easily and sought excitement. So to find instead that luscious, ingenious engineer strung up by the wrists, his proud and reddened cock jutting forth eagerly into the slick fist of the hungry pilot, well. They kissed like two starving feral dogs and didn’t seem to mind—or know—that the men watching were discharging inside their own trousers.

  She had watched until she’d been jabbed aside by the hammy elbow of a salivating brute and was so slippery between her legs that when she sat down at the calliope, she feared she’d left a wet spot on her skirt. Were those delicious stallions sodomites, “poofs” as the lime-juicers called them? Would they not be impressed by her buoyant tits, her well-formed ass? She knew she wanted to at least give it a try, to entice men who might be immune to it. To lie next to either one of those able-bodied river men might begin to make up for what she’d lost when she’d lost Levi. Calliope imagined just laying her head on the engineer’s chest and licking a slimy trail between those shapely pectorals to the tip of one salty nipple, and she nearly dropped her cigarro into the bay.

  The steamer was empty of passengers and crew when she served the two men and Headmaster Smith in the wood-paneled dining room. They had apparently bathed and changed into Sunday go-to-meeting clothes, which Calliope took as a sign of honor, although they barely spoke to her. The engineer Field was reading over a letter he’d apparently received that evening, and Calliope strove to overhear what they were saying. She took her time placing the mutton in the china bowls and ensuring all the silverware was arranged correctly.

  “I dealt with a case such as that once,” the headmaster was saying. “The consumptive child had to be placed into a sanitarium, and his upkeep drained every last shekel from my client’s estate before dying.”

  “Tobias!” Rushy scolded the pervert. “Field needs all the happy facts in this connection, not the deathly ones.”

  “It’s all right, Rushy,” Field said, still staring at the letter. “I need to keep my eyes open and not live in some nirvana.”

  “Let me ask you this,” said the headmaster, whose name really seemed to be Tobias. “Would you be willing to entertain doing some business with an element of society that might be, shall we say, a bit frowned upon? Perhaps not the top rail of society? I can guarantee you the returns on such an investment would be commensurate with what you need to send your sister in New York.”

  The two river men fell silent then, perhaps pondering this issue, but when Calliope looked up from the table, all three were staring at her. She had quite finished with her duties and was merely fiddling with the soup ladle, so she smiled briskly, cleared her throat, and left the dining room.

  “A better return than gold mining?” she last heard Field enquire.

  “Oh, much better!” Tobias assured them gaily. “Considerable! Gold mining is dinky small potatoes compared to what you can make in this venture. I guarantee you every prospector would give his right thingamajig for a chance at this venture. Fortunately, you’re one of the few in California who owns their own riverboat.”

  So. Field’s sister in New York had a consumptive child, and Field needed money—lots of it—to send to her straightaway.

  In the galley, Calliope spread jam over the sheet of cake. Maurice peered at her and seemed to know her intent, for he popped up holding a can of something that turned out to be powdered castor sugar, perfect for her roly-poly jam pudding.

  “Why, thank you, Maurice.”

  Maurice said something that approximated, “You’re welcome, ma’am.”

  As she rolled up the cake, Calliope babbled. “You don’t need to call me ‘ma’am.’ I’ve never been a ma’am. That means ‘lady,’ right? Well, you can forget that right now! I’ve never even been madam of a house of bad repute.” She sighed. “No, the highest I can ever aspire to is chef of a floating palace and perhaps a very bad calliope player.” Sprinkling the sugar over the pudding, Calliope stood back to assess her work. “Well. Let us go see what they think of this, shall we?”

  She nodded at Maurice, who always looked so studious in his high-collared jacket with the too-long sleeves. His eyes flickered under his little embroidered cap. She didn’t even know who or where his parents were. Calliope was surprised when he said, clear as a bell, “Yes. We shall.”

  “Oh, my! You understood me, didn’t you, Maurice?”

  He nodded. “I understand. I just…cannot speak well.”

  Calliope laughed. “OK, then! Let’s put this in the dumbwaiter. You scurry on upstairs—oh, sorry, ‘above deck’—and take it out at the other end.”

  Tobias was gone when Calliope entered the dining room to serve the pudding. The letter from Field’s sister had been placed back in the envelope, and the two river men were laughing over some high jinks or other.

  Rushy was wheezing, “Blown clean out of his bunk and into the water! When the smoke cleared away, all of the red plush seats were on fire and sixteen guards were injured.”

  As she set the dessert plates before them, Calliope dared to inquire, “Is this another riverboat explosion?”

  The two hilarious men looked at her as though she’d appeared out of nowhere, as though their dessert plates had materialized by unseen hands.

  Field recovered enough to respond. “Oh! Not really. Rushy here was just telling me about some Irish group on Saint Patrick’s Day. The wallpapered dumbheads decided to bring a cannon and powder keg aboard the Sophie to celebrate, but for their grand finale wound up blowing up the boat instead.”

  “Yes,” agreed Rushy, teary-eyed with laughter. “The mate was blown out of his bunk and through a hole in the deck.”

  Calliope frowned. “Riverboat accidents are not humorous, captains! Why, twenty-four perished aboard the Washoe just last year.”

  The men looked at each other, sputtering as though trying to contain their mirth. It was Rushy who finally caved, leaning back in his chair, his abdomen shaking with merriment. “Well. Sometimes the accidents are pretty darned humorous.”

  Calliope could not believe that the more reasonable Field was sharing this sentiment! He was saying, “Yes, yes! What about that time in Rio Vista when the Marysville’s boiler went skyrocketing—”

  With hand on hip, Calliope protested, “Men! Mayhap life on the river has made you callous to the sufferings of others. But I do believe the safety of passengers should be foremost on your mind. I’d think you
two possums would have more horse sense than that.”

  Field settled down first, and his eyes showed contrition. “You’re right, Calliope. And as a member of the crew, we should have more regard for your safety.” He gestured at another chair. “Please sit. Join us for dessert. You’ve been working so hard all day.”

  “As have you,” she said, but didn’t hesitate to take a chair, helping herself to a piece of the pudding as well. “Now I’d like to know. What did you think of my cuisine?”

  It was evident by the men’s raised eyebrows and the way they patted their stomachs that the answer was affirmative, and Calliope exhaled with relief.

  Field even poured her a glass of champagne and said, “That mutton was first-rate. And I happen to know it’s been sitting in the icebox for over a week.”

  Calliope giggled. “I could tell. Luckily my galley mate Maurice had some curry powder that helped to mask the age of it.” She sipped her champagne and ventured, “Mayhap I could be allowed to go into San Francisco tomorrow with Maurice? I’m sure he could steer me toward many interesting shops where I can pick up more spices.”

  Rushy said, “Who’s this Maurice character?”

  “That young Celestial nipper who helps in the galley.”

  Rushy remained quizzical, so Field filled in for him. “I know that kid. His parents were killed in that Captain Sutter explosion.”

  Rushy backhanded his partner. “Will you knock off those steamer explosions? You’re going to scare the lady well-nigh into fits.”

  Lady! The pilot had called her a lady. To prove she was on their side, she added, “Well. Nobody much cares when a bunch of ricemen are killed, now, do they?”

  Rushy nodded tersely. “That’s sure as shooting. Once, a whole china hold of ricemen went to the bottom of the river and the paper only mentioned the one white man who died—a Spaniard, at that! Sure, you can take that nipper into town tomorrow. We’re not heading back to Sacramento till Wednesday. I’ll give you some gold to buy provisions.”

  The bubbles went directly to her brain, for Calliope now said, “Minus the gold that I pilfered from Headmaster Tobias.”

  Field slapped the table with glee. “‘Headmaster Tobias’! Miss, I don’t think I want to ask what that was all about.”

  Calliope shrugged. “Spanking, mostly.”

  There was an element of embarrassment in their laughter now, and Calliope was glad they were not so jaded and blasé that the thought of her being spanked did not shame or even excite them a little. So she wiggled her shoulders a bit, knowing it jiggled her breasts in the deeply cut bodice, and was rewarded when Field couldn’t resist darting his eyes downward. Several times.

  Yes, Field. He would be the least resistant to her charms, she had already guessed. Rushy seemed a bit more devil-may-care, accustomed to the rowdy river life. Rushy would probably not hesitate to inhale another man’s cock into his lusty mouth, but from what Calliope had witnessed, it seemed like a new game for Field.

  Field said, “That old mountebank, Tobias. He’ll be getting a whaling big enough fee from us soon enough.”

  Was Field referring to their dinner conversation with Tobias? Tobias had hinted at some whopping big payday if the river men would…well, do something that involved their riverboat. But now Rushy appeared to be hushing Field, so Calliope prodded, “Oh, yes, I heard some vague discussion while you were eating. Tobias is setting you up in some business venture?”

  Field said, “You could say that. We’re to strike into town tomorrow and pick up some container or other.”

  “Oh, could I come with you? I don’t know my way around town, although I’m sure Maurice does.”

  The men shared dark glances. They played with their dessert forks, Rushy even sounding a tinkle on the edge of his champagne glass with his.

  At length Rushy cleared his throat. “Mayhap Maurice would be helpful. We’ll be going into Chinatown first thing in the morning.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Here she is, folks! The El Dorado! Fastest steamer on the river!” The youth bawled at the crowd of miners and adventurers that milled about the wharf. “The floating palace famous for her cuisine! Totally overhauled and absolutely safe!”

  Field shouldered his way through the press of people. The El Dorado runners were the most aggressive of all, wrenching the arms of potential passengers to guide them aboard, and now the youth shrieked, “Don’t go anywhere near the American Eagle! She’s got bedbugs, lice in her beef, and the decks are so rotten last week a gent fell clear through to the engine’s firebox and burned to death! Horrifying, melty, and smelly!”

  Field knew it was impossible for anyone to fall into the firebox from above, but his runner was now engaging in fisticuffs with the American Eagle runner, who had screamed that the El Dorado charged thirty dollars per passenger to Sacramento, while his boat only charged twenty-eight. Field struck down the wharf, where Rushy was receiving a shipment of wine from Boston. They continued walking abreast up Montgomery, striking for Clay Street, where they had an appointment with the unknown.

  Of course, it was Rushy’s duty to bring up the subject of Calliope. He seemed more skeptical of the former hooker than Field was. “Is this the wisest decision?” he asked for the hundredth time. “Letting Calliope know what we’re transporting, I mean.”

  And for the hundred and first time, Field responded, “She won’t have to know what it is. It’s just a crate of dead chickens, right? And we need that Maurice child to translate for us.”

  “Yes, but won’t she get more than she bargained for when she figures out that two steamer captains aren’t going all the way to Chinatown just for a crate of dead chickens?”

  Field reasoned with his partner. “Hey. We’ve got something on her. We know she wasn’t a fancy chef schooled in New Orleans. We know she robbed poor old Headmaster—Tobias Fosburgh. So what if she deduces it’s not just a crate of chickens? She’ll keep it a secret.”

  But Rushy kept arguing. “We could just take the young one and tell Calliope to go back to the boat. Chinatown is no place for a woman, with all that rice, gambling, and incense—Ho! There’s Miss Calliope! Good morning.”

  As promised, Calliope stood before a couple of wooden posts with Celestial characters carved into them, a sort of gateway to the more sordid, and real, Chinatown. From here they would plunge down Fay Chie Hong, “Fat Boy Alley.” Kwangtungmen were thick here, barbers, laundry men, laborers, pigtailed men padding by in slippers. Cobblers, tailors, and tea-sellers packed this block, and Field wasn’t sure whether to be enticed or nauseated by the odors emanating from the shop fronts. They ducked under a low-hanging laundry line to greet Calliope, today resplendent in a shimmering, tiered sapphire gown with mother-of-pearl buttons. Field had the odd urge to purchase her a new gown, something he could easily do once they brought these chickens to Sacramento.

  What was wrong with him? Field had been asking himself that since first viewing Calliope boarding the El Dorado. Field’s wife had died eight years earlier, and he hadn’t had fond romantic emotions toward a woman since, preferring only hookers to satisfy him physically and temporarily. He had no wish to feel that strongly about a woman again. The pain of losing a beloved woman had crushed him almost beyond recognition, and it was only his son’s financial need that had driven him to California.

  Now he found himself amused and pleasantly elated to be around Calliope. That she was standing next to a ten-year-old boy probably hearkened him back to happier times, too, even though this boy was wearing a long straight robe and a little cap. He liked this Calliope woman, with her cheerful determination and perky disposition. Not to mention, he was sure he would strive harder than Rushy would to win her over. Rushy seemed satisfied with a fistful of Field’s cock, a situation that was also to Field’s liking. There was nothing shameful in male congress, Field was discovering, when the other man was a hale, athletic fellow with gusto, who smelled of wood smoke.

  “Did you get your groceries?” Field asked h
er now, as Rushy already tugged the boy Maurice up the street. Field took Calliope’s arm to guide her.

  “Oh, yes! This place is absolutely fascinating. I’ve been spreading myself to find everything I require, but I sent a bunch of baskets back to the boat with some other Kwangtung boys.”

  At Calliope’s mention of “spreading herself,” Field’s prick expanded in his trousers. That her wide skirts brushed his thigh didn’t help matters, and they clutched each other’s arms to wend their way through the Celestial throng of conical hats, none of whom were even as tall as the steamer chef herself. Aromas of turnips, rice, and bamboo shoots wafted by. “All right, we just have to get these chickens. Then we can be back to the boat. I don’t like you wandering about this part of San Francisco alone.”

  “Oh. Well.” Calliope waved off his concern. “I’ve always got my Arkansas toothpick, and I appear to be capable of taking on these shrimps. They seem very docile and serious. What could go wrong?”

  “Is this the place?” Field asked Rushy.

  Rushy stood before a large oak door studded with brass so it could not be broken down, the entry to a two-story building. Rushy shrugged and pointed. “Well. Tobias said it’s right next door to the herbalist with the dried dead monkeys hanging from the rafters. That’s where he gets his Spanish fly.”

  Calliope recoiled in horror but not at the dried monkeys with their human hands stretched out in their death throes. “Spanish fly?” Field felt her shudder under his hands.

  “And here’s the little window,” Field pointed out, releasing Calliope’s arm. “Maurice? Tell the fellow we’re here to do business with Kwok Lee.”

  Maurice frowned. “Kwok Lee?”

  “Yes!” Why was the nipper hesitant? “Tell him!”

  So Maurice did as he was told, and the fellow in the window apparently pulled a string that opened the door. Once inside the nearly black hallway, they felt their way along the wall that led them through at least two other doors until they reached what was apparently a gambling den. Lit by a myriad of tiny lamps, ten-foot-long tables upon which Chinese characters were drawn were scattered with many black and white buttons. A dealer would scoop these buttons out of a bag on the side of the table, dump them, and the betting would start. The three Americans towered head and shoulders above the hunched gamblers, who ignored and pressed them back against the wall, thick with opium smoke.