Chapter Three
Erik.
When I established the permanent base for the Imaginarium on Coney Island, I thought that I had considered every eventuality. I was wrong, perhaps as a result of my own inexperience. I should have remembered how men at the Paris Opera House drooled like dogs over the chorus girls, ballerinas and even the prima donnas. I had paid little attention until it had been Christine Daaé in their sights, and jealousy had motivated my interest.
I promised my employees a life better than any they could expect with other fair managers. I held myself to that promise, even after my dream was solidified into a permanent structure on Coney Island.
The late nights can be treacherous for the women who must walk home from work after the last performance at the Imaginarium has concluded. Most travel in groups, packs, to protect themselves against the dangers of Brooklyn. But the first peril, it turned out, was leaving the Imaginarium itself.
It a thick, heavy night in late May, midsummer pressing into the time I still called spring. The Imaginarium's rides, restaurants and sideshows had closed ninety minutes before, the final performance in the concert hall was over, and Meg, Antoinette and I had finished having a nightcap with Thomas Seymour, one of our investors. Seymour and the Girys exited through the main entrance, while I went through the stage door, lingering a few minutes to make sure that all the evening's tasks had been performed. I could not see the Girys when I left, but there were still plenty of people milling around, apparently in no rush to go home. Sleep would not be easy or comfortable on a night such as this.
"Come on, baby," the drunken male slurring reached my ears. "Don't be a prude."
"Let go of me, please!"
I might have ignored the drunkard if the second voice had not been female, and in distress. I looked over the heads of the crowd for the source of the disturbance. A little distance from the concert hall's main entrance, Lucy Phelps, one of my dancers, was struggling against the grip of a middle-class man. Judging by his dress, he had been an attendee of the evening's performance, although he had discarded his suit jacket and his bowtie was hanging loose around his neck.
"Come on now, I watched you dancing. My friends and I want a little private dance, don't we boys?"
The men around him jeered and one of them seized Lucy around the waist as she tried to push her way free of the group. She gave another cry of distress, although I did not see the cause, and I started towards her.
"Alright, gentlemen, that's enough!" The voice of Thomas Seymour sounded out, and as I reached the group I saw him put an arm around Lucy's shoulders. "This woman is a lady. If you want a whore, then head to the West side of the island and find one. Leave these girls alone."
"Slut," the man snarled at Lucy. "Frigid whore."
"That is an oxymoron," I said as I joined them. "You heard him. Be gone with you before we are forced to take this matter further. Go!"
At times, being six-foot-four can be an advantage.
"Are you alright, Miss… Phillips, is it?" Seymour was asking the girl.
"Phelps. Lucy Phelps."
Lucy was a slim girl, taller than her fellow dancers, a few years older than Meg, who had joined my employment in April. Her red hair was tied back in a braid, her fringe sticking to her forehead with sweat. She was wearing a long skirt and a short-sleeved light blue blouse due to the weather, but she was shaking as if she was standing in a snowstorm. Someone had tugged at her blouse and two of the buttons were missing, revealing a glimpse of cream undergarments beneath. I took off my jacket and draped it around the girl's shoulders.
"Are you hurt?"
"No, Mr Danton, they didn't hurt me. I was just frightened." She pulled the jacket close around her, as if for protection.
"Naturally. Thank you for your intervention, Mr Seymour. I will walk you home, Miss Phelps."
"Goodnight, Mr Danton. Miss Phelps."
Seymour bowed and I placed a hand on the dancer's back, turning her towards the Imaginarium's main gates. She was still trembling despite the sticky heat of the evening.
"I don't want to take you out of your way," Lucy looked uncertain. "I'm only in Mrs Warren's boarding house on Canary Street, just around the corner."
"It is no trouble at all, and you have had a shock. I am going to see you to your door and make sure no more ruffians accost you. I cannot tolerate men who are vile towards women."
My tone must have sounded darker than I meant it to, as I thought of Joseph Buquet, the drunken stagehand back at the Paris Opera House. He had behaved atrociously to the woman around him, from the youngest ballerinas to the matriarch Madame Giry. His comments towards Christine had overstepped the mark, and he was fondling Meg's breasts only moments before I got my hands on him. He had been a pleasure to kill.
"It's something that we get used to, it happens often enough."
I looked down at Lucy, surprised.
"How often do experience that sort of behaviour?"
She shrugged. "Once or twice times a week, I suppose. Never quite as… extreme as that, I suppose, but men often harass women in the street."
"Around the Imaginarium? I've never noticed."
"I suppose the crowds are thinner when you usually leave, sir. And it's not usually as blatant as that. But there's plenty of 'flattering' comments thrown around outside the Imaginarium towards the dancers. Well, any woman who leaves the building."
"That is disturbing. I would have expected better from the men who attend the Imaginarium."
She laughed, a tremulous sound with no humour in it. "It's human nature, isn't it?"
"Mmm. Perhaps."
We only walked for a few minutes before turning into Canary Street, and Lucy reached into her skirt pocket for her key.
"I'm just here. Thank you for walking me home, Mr Danton."
She took off my jacket and passed it back to me.
"You're welcome. And I will see what can be done about the abuse you have suffered tonight."
She gave a small shake of the head. "I don't see how. Women have been receiving unwanted attention from men for centuries, and probably will for centuries more. Goodnight, Mr Danton."
"Goodnight, Miss Phelps."
As my steps took me through the Brooklyn streets towards my own home, I pondered on whether anything could really be done to prevent the women in my employ being subjected to harassment by the patrons. Maybe Lucy was right; human nature cannot be changed. Could the attention be diverted, though? Thomas Seymour's words ran through my mind:
"If you want a whore then head to the West side of the island and find one."
The next morning, I did exactly that.
I had never been to the West side of Coney Island before. I had been warned that the criminals of Coney congregated there, as if criminals did not walk the streets of every town, city and country in the world. It was here that I found the slums of the Island, the ill-maintained buildings and muck-strewn streets, with a population who had been raised on a diet of poverty and petty theft and had no aims to rise higher.
The boy who had been trailing my steps for the last five minutes can't have been older than fourteen, and I wondered if I had ever been so clumsy as I relieved a stranger of his belongings. No; I had never been caught, whereas this boy had his filthy paw seized within my grip before it had even left my pocket.
"Hey! Let go of me!"
I pulled him around in front of me.
"What do you expect, boy? I had more skill than that when I was half your age. Perhaps a couple of broken fingers will teach you the consequences of your clumsiness."
"You get off me!" He squawked. "I'll have the law on you!"
"Unlikely." I removed his hand from my coat pocket and shifted my hold to his wrist so that the little varmint could not run away. "If you want to keep all of your bones in working order, then you will tell me where I can find a—a house of ill repute."
The boy was still trying to wriggle free, but shot me a bewildered look in between his snarls and scowls. "A what?"
"A whorehouse, boy! A knocking shop, a brothel."
"Oh. I guess you'll want Mrs Reid, looking at your threads. She caters to politicians and that sort."
"Lead the way, then. And consider your lack of injury payment for doing so."
It was an empty threat; he was still a child, and I have learned not to take my temper out on children. The boy must have enough hardship in his life if he was forced to make his way by pickpocketing. He led me through streets marinated in neglect until we reached a building that looked like a decrepit hotel. There were black iron railings on either side of the door, and a bright red rose tied to them with twine. Into the black paint of the doorframe, someone had carved a rudimentary phallus. It could have been more of the graffiti that littered the brickwork all around me, but was more likely to be a sign for those looking for such an establishment. I reached into my coat pocket and thrust a banknote into my guide's unresisting hand.
"Get yourself a decent meal," I advised. "Be off with you."
When he had gone, I grasped the ornamental knocker and rapped it firmly against the door. The young woman who answered smiled automatically as the door swung open, her expression faltering momentarily as she saw my mask, before she composed herself and purred:
"How can I help you, sir?"
"I want to see the master or mistress in this establishment," I told her.
"Oh," she rolled her eyes. "You're one of those. Well come in then, dog. Nancy will see to you. In!" She added when I did not move, feeling the heat bring colour to my face from the shirt collar up.
"You misunderstand me, Mademoiselle," I said, crossing the threshold. "I am a business owner. I assume there is a madam or a pimp? I want to speak to the person who runs this place."
The young woman's face flooded with comprehension as she closed the front door behind me, and I wished that she would leave it open to bring some air into this stuffy hallway, papered in a dark green that reminded me of mould on bread. There was an unusually long coatrack filled with male hats and coats. The hallway ended in a staircase and just before it there was a door in the left-hand wall.
"Mrs Reid!" The woman shrieked with all the grace of a banshee. "Gent here to see you!"
Her voice made me wince, the way an out-of-tune violin did, like the sound of fingernails on a blackboard. A minute later, a matronly woman in an extremely fashionable purple dress descended the staircase towards me.
"Thank you, Molly," she said to my companion, who went through the door to my left, revealing a brief glimpse of a parlour, where half-a-dozen women were engaged in a card game.
"My name is Mrs Reid, and I am the owner of this house." She extended her hand and I shook it. "I cater to all tastes. Voluptuous, experienced, ripe for the plucking, what's your fancy?"
"Madam," I nodded to her. "My name is Mr Danton, I own the Imaginarium on the East side of the Island. It is a new entertainment park," I added at her blank expression. "Only there since the beginning of the year. I am not here for my own pleasure, I have a business proposition to put to you. If we could talk somewhere privately?"
"Certainly."
"An office or such," I clarified, and she smiled.
"My books do not see to themselves, Mr Danton. Please, follow me."
The room she took me to hardly deserved the term 'office'. It was small, with only a chest of drawers, two chairs and a desk. Mrs Reid gestured me to the chair on the visitor's side of the desk as she took the other.
"So, Mr Danton, owner of the Imaginarium on the East side of the Island. What can I do for you?"
She was watching me intently, scrutinising my mask as though she could see the flesh beneath.
"Part of the Imaginarium is a concert hall, and when the evening's shows are over, some of my male patrons are latching onto the women I employ, looking for further entertainment."
Mrs Reid nodded. "Singers and dancers?"
I knew what she was thinking; everyone thought that singers and dancers were little better than whores in the first place.
"Not just them. Any female who works for me is viewed, by the men, as fair game. I cannot allow it to continue."
"And what do you think I can do about it?"
"I would like some of your girls to be stationed around the concert hall, say from nine o'clock in the evening until eleven. Girls who will distract these men from my employees."
"I see," Mrs Reid clasped her hands on the desk and nodded. "Yes, I think that can be arranged. You have chosen well, Mr Danton, my girls are gemstones. How many evenings a week?"
"Five. Tuesday to Saturday."
"Very well. I think we have a deal, Mr Danton."
She began to stand, then hesitated when I remained in my seat.
"Hardly. I am not going to allow you and your wolf pack to go hunting on my property without some compensation. I want twenty five percent of the takings from men fished at the Imaginarium."
Mrs Reid sat down again, looking at me shrewdly. Here we were, at the crux of the situation.
"Five," she haggled.
"Twenty."
"Seven."
"Twelve."
"Done!" She seized my right hand and pumped it before I could add more caveats to the negotiation. "I'll send some of my best girls along this evening."
"Make sure they dress well, the 'clients' consider themselves gentlemen."
"You underestimate me, Mr Danton. I have been in business for two decades."
I did not doubt it. The state of her establishment and dress told me that she thought of herself, as well as her girls, as a gemstone. I looked at her, and saw a jade.
Reid's women arrived a little earlier than we had agreed. Between the late afternoon and early evening shows, I saw Molly sitting in the bar, eager eyes running over the figures of the male patrons when I went to confirm the stock take with Bernard, the bar manager.
"We've got enough to last us through to the end of the month anyway," He told me. "Oh, thank you, Meg." He grinned at Meg as she set a tray on the bar, filled with empty glasses and plates from the lunch she and her colleagues had been eating in the green room. "No breakages?"
"Not today," she grinned back as she unloaded the crockery onto the bar.
"That is not complimentary," I nodded at Molly's beverage as I passed her. "And you would do better to keep your wits about you. Curtain down is not until half past ten."
Molly raised her glass of gin to me. "I don't tell you how to do your business, Mr Danton. You should not tell me how to do mine."
"What's going on?" Meg asked, following me into the backstage corridor, the empty tray swinging in her left hand. "Who is that lady?"
I could not help but scoff. "A lady is one thing she is not. You never told me that men were harassing you in the Imaginarium, Meg."
She looked surprised. "No-one is harassing me."
"In the streets, after the performances. Mr Seymour and I had to break up a particularly nasty incident last night. Miss Phelps was being pawed at by one of the patrons. She said that all you girls are frequently subjected to similar sorts of behaviour."
"Is she alright?" Meg's tone was alarmed. "Was she hurt?"
"She is quite well, and was merely shaken. But you, young lady, ought to have told me that this sort of thing was going on."
Meg just shrugged. "Why would I? It's not as though anything can be done about it."
"Of course something can be done about it. Molly out there will, I hope, be the solution to the problem."
"I still don't understand who she is."
"She is a prostitute."
Meg caught hold of my sleeve, bringing me to a stop. "You have hired a prostitute?"
"I believe I have hired several. Not for myself, Meg, why are you looking at me like that?" Her incredulous brown eyes were fixed on my face.
"I—why? Why have you hired prostitutes?"
I explained my reasoning, that the women would divert attention from herself and her colleagues, and her expression became tinged with disgust.
"I never thought that you would ever have a role in the peddling of flesh, Erik." She started to walk again.
"Peddling—? No, Meg, that is not what I am doing."
"Isn't it? Are you getting money from this exchange?"
"A pittance."
"Then I see no difference."
It was my turn to reach out for Meg's arm to stop her increasing momentum along the corridor.
"I have not recruited women to do this, Meg. It was their choice to become what they are. If they were not working around the Imaginarium then they would be on any other street corner of Brooklyn."
Meg's eyes were shining as though she were about to cry.
"But that's how you see things. You see a problem and come up with a solution, regardless of how that solution may be detrimental to other people."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. It doesn't matter."
She lowered her head, but I curved a finger under her chin, lifting it so that she could not look away.
"This has upset you. You would rather be subjected to verbal and possibly physical assault in the street?"
"Of course not," she answered quietly. "But it's as though you're sending those women out there like lambs to a wolf pack."
"I'm not forcing anyone, Meg. I haven't made anyone do what is not already her occupation."
"It's not an occupation women aspire to. It is one taken out of desperation, because circumstances demand it, because there is no other choice."
"How much knowledge can you have of such matters, little dancer?"
"Little dancer," she repeated. "You know the reputation dancers have. When I was a ballerina at the Paris Opera House, it would have been all too easy to fall into that underworld. Many dancers did, you know that as well as I do. When… when I was a factory worker in Brooklyn, some of the women I worked with had to sell themselves to make ends meet. How would you feel, Erik, if that woman out there was your sister? Or your daughter?"
"She is not."
"She is someone's sister. She is someone's daughter." Meg stepped backwards, out of reach. "The next show starts in an hour. I have to get back into costume."
She marched to her dressing room and entered.
"I will not allow drunken blackguards to abuse my staff, Meg." I told her.
"Then close the bar earlier," she replied, and shut the door in my face.