Free Leaden Skies by Ann Parker Page B

businesswomen. Am I wrong?”
    She was not.
    As for the moral implications of being part-owner of a brothel, Inez pushed them aside to ponder at a more convenient time.
    “One for you and one for me.” Flo slid a copy of the agreement toward Inez. Inez noted that Flo had a hand that would do a schoolmarm proud: the ink showed a careful, controlled pressure on the pen, all the letters even and well-shaped. Even the flourishes looked as if they’d been practiced until perfect.
    Flo took her copy and vanished into the back room. When she reappeared, she sat across the table from Inez, brushing her hands together as if to say, “And that is that.”
    “Are you ready for that drink now?” Flo asked.
    Inez picked up the tumbler. Flo raised hers. The glasses clinked sweetly in crystal harmony. A single sip, blooming in sweetness and vanilla, assured Inez that Flo had chosen to honor their partnership with a good bourbon.
    “Thank you for coming here,” Flo added. “I don’t usually conduct business in my own home, but last night’s circumstances made it necessary.”
    With the bourbon’s aftertaste lingering in her mouth and the alcohol spreading its heat down her throat, Inez glanced around the small parlor, absentmindedly smoothing her glove in her lap. A glance was all that was needed to take in the sparse furnishings. The ubiquitous warming stove, the table, two straight-backed chairs, a rocking chair by the window. No pictures, no extra furniture, no rugs, only the most basic of curtains to block out light and a lamp to increase it. The room was bare of anything that might make a house a home. Flo’s home—little more than a two-room cottage, a block away from her bordello—put Inez in the mind of a hotel room. Easily vacated, with no hint of personality left behind, once the occupant had left.
    Flo, wearing a simple maroon gown, fanned herself with a loose sheet of paper. The air stirred her slightly frizzy hair, damp from a recent rinsing and still streaked from the soot of the fire.
    “The parlor house reeks of smoke,” Flo said conversationally. “But it could be worse. The door to the kitchen was closed at the time, so the damage is concentrated in the back. Still, I didn’t think you’d want to meet there. And Lynch’s would not have afforded us the privacy we need for this matter. As for coming to your saloon, the last time I paid a business call I was afraid your cook, Mrs. O’Malley, would chase me down Tiger Alley with her broom.”
    Inez shifted in the chair, thinking of Bridgette O’Malley’s propensity for gossip. “Just as well. I prefer that we keep this transaction between us. A private matter.”
    Flo fluffed her hair absently. “I’m so glad you were amenable to this partnership. I know you’ve had an eye on my building for a long time, as have many others. I’ve been approached—oh, I don’t know how many times—about selling it. So, you see, we both get what we want here. Once I’ve moved to Fifth, you can take over the State Street building. We remain partners in both endeavors until you buy me out.” She sighed. “I wish we were at the new house now, what with all the visitors in town. Oh well. We’ll air the old place out, apply a little perfume, and be ready to open for business tonight.” She twiddled her fingers in the air, as if waving good-bye to wishful thinking. “Time’s a-wasting, and time is money. Especially in the whoring business. The girls and me are anxious to put last night’s dreadful event behind us. We must make hay while the sun shines. Or,” she glanced out the window at the drizzle falling from a gray sky, “while it doesn’t. So, when can you have the money to me?”
    “Just how soon do you plan to move?” Inez countered.
    Flo scrunched her nose, calculating. “Today’s Friday. We could clear out next Thursday, after Grant leaves, and be ready for business the Friday after.”
    Inez’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s very quick