~ A Well-Kept Family Secret ~

by

Marja McGraw

1898

It was a moonless night. The old man strolled out of a doorway and turned into The Alley, stopping to sigh over the tiresome fog. Lights filtering through the windows were faint, and when he passed those windows he heard the sounds of a man’s low rolling chuckle and a woman’s responsive soft, seductive coo.

Frowning, he pulled his collar up and tugged his hat lower on his brow. The old man was slightly stooped and walked with a marked stiffness. The moist fog chilled his aging bones.

The census records listed him as a rancher. Insurance maps showed the buildings as Ladies Boarding Houses, located on a street named Negro Alley in Chinatown. But he wasn’t a rancher, and the cribs and brothels he passed weren’t boarding houses. They belonged to him and they’d made him rich. He didn’t give a thought to the fallen women, the soiled doves--only to the money they made for him.

The newspaper had referred to him as a “wizened little old man,” but that hadn’t always been the case. Some of the politicians were still in his hip pocket, even after all the accusations that had been leveled against him. There was no proof, and people could think what they wanted. Maybe the sins of the past, and the present, were coming back to haunt him. Even so, this was his territory--his place. He belonged here.

Could people really believe that he, Vincente Chavez, had committed such a heinous crime? Yes, and it was his own fault because of his chosen profession. A faint smile touched the corners of his wrinkled lips.

A young prostitute, sitting on the sill of an open window, saw the man and his self-satisfied smile and froze. As he passed, she glanced at the ground and tried to pretend she hadn’t seen him.

~ * ~

2003

I signed my name to the check and turned to Pete.

“We’re in trouble, Pete.”

“What do you mean? What kind of trouble?”

“When I send off this check for the office rent, we’ll be just about broke.”

“What are you talking about, Sandi? We’ve had three new cases come in just in the last week.”

“I know, but the insurance companies are taking their own sweet time about paying us.”

Pete’s brown eyes clouded over. “Why didn’t you say something before now?”

“I thought the checks would start filtering in. They didn’t.” Had I made a mistake when I opened my private investigating firm?

“You’ve billed them, right?”

“Of course. They’re just not on the same schedule that we are.”

“We’re on a schedule?”

“Yeah. My schedule included going grocery shopping tonight. Theirs didn’t.”

Pete was quiet for a minute. “I’ve got some savings that I could--”

“No. Don’t worry yet. I have a new client coming in from Chicago. A paying client.”

“Who?” Pete stood up and walked over to my desk.

“My mother,” I mumbled.

“Didn’t hear you. Who?” He leaned closer.

“My mother.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“No.”

“What does she want us to do?” Pete ran his hands through his dark brown hair, looking like he was ready to laugh.

“Don’t know.” I tried to concentrate on the silver streaks beginning to pepper his temples.

“She wants to pay us for a job, but you don’t know what or why?”

“Yeah.” I turned my head and avoided his gaze.

“Sandi, look me in the eyes with those big blues of yours and tell me what’s going on. And speak in complete sentences.”

I stood up so I could look him in the eyes. It didn’t work. He’s almost six feet tall and I’m only five foot three.

“I don’t know what my mother wants.” I pointed to some library books having to do with Los Angeles history that were sitting on my desk.

“Sandi, what did she say?” Pete asked.

I tried to make him understand. “All she said was that she wants me to read up on the Red Light District in Old Los Angeles, and that she wants me to take care of some business for her. The only connection I can think of is that my great-great-great-grandfather was very active in that, shall we say, profession.”

Pete raised one eyebrow before speaking, and the tiny scar at the corner of his mouth jiggled. “You mean prostitution. The business was, and is, called prostitution.”

“Yeah, okay. I was trying to be discreet. Anyway, I can’t find very much information on prostitution for that era. I’ll have to continue researching and see if I can come up with more on the subject.”

Granted, it wasn't the kind of thing I normally researched, but one never knows what a case will involve. The sign in front of my small office reads “Webster & Goldberg--Private Investigations.” I’m the Webster part of the sign, and Pete is the Goldberg. He’s my partner and friend. Well, he’s more than a friend, and even though his name is Goldberg, he’s one hundred percent Italian, but that’s another story.

“So what have you learned about Old L.A.?” Pete asked.

“Not a whole lot. In those days Chinatown was located in the area where Union Station and its parking lot now sits, and the old Chinatown was the Red Light District.”

I stood up and began to pace while I talked.

“I found a reference to Negro Alley, which is where my three-greats-grandfather ran his business. It was actually a street, not an alley. Since there were so many Hispanics in Los Angeles, I wonder if the street started out as Negra Alley, since that’s Spanish for black, and maybe it got changed in the translation. Anyway, eventually it was abandoned and renamed Los Angeles Street.

“Yesterday afternoon I located some old street maps, and one of them shows Easy Jeanette Street. Fitting name for the Red Light District, wouldn’t you say?”

Pete nodded and watched me pace. His eyes weren’t glazing over yet, a good sign.

“I also found some insurance maps which refer to Ladies Boarding Houses, but those were actually the cribs, or brothels. I’ve found the area referred to not only as Chinatown, but also the Alameda District, Little Paree, and Hell’s Half Acre.”

Pete leaned forward. “It sounds to me like you’ve found quite a bit of information. Knowing you though, it’s funny to imagine you had a relative in the business.”

“Go figure,” I said, my attention returning to my notes. “Okay, here’s where history meets the present. In 1996, during construction of the Metropolitan Water District’s new headquarters, a site was discovered in what would have been part of the old Red Light District and archaeologists began working a four-acre area. I’d like to see if I can find more information about what they found.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“By the way, what do you mean by ‘knowing me’?” I asked.

“You’re so naïve. Obviously nothing like this grandfather of yours.”

“I’m not all that naïve.” I stopped pacing and sat down at my desk. Why did everyone think I was so innocent? I’d been around the block a few times. I knew about life. Yeah, right.

I frowned. “Well, anyway, he’s several generations back in the gene pool, and there’s no accounting for relatives.”

“Right. When is your mother arriving from Chicago?”

“She’s supposed to be here tomorrow morning. She’s flying into Ontario after a two-day stop in San Francisco.”

“Why is she coming into Ontario? Why didn’t she just fly into L.A.?”

“I think maybe she likes Ontario because it’s a smaller airport. She doesn’t like flying, along with a lot of other things. She’s an, uh, unusual woman.”

“Am I going to like her? You’re making her sound like a nut.”

“I’m giving you the wrong impression. She’s really a wonderful woman, but she has a way of intimidating me. I turn into a different person when I’m around her.”

My mother is a wonderful woman--who happens to strike terror in my heart. She’s a tiny little thing, about five feet even, but she still manages to make me feel like a little kid.

She and her sister, my aunt Martha, can be very intimidating when they want to be. These are no-nonsense women who seldom take prisoners. Too bad I didn’t learn more of their tricks. It would help in my line of work, and at the moment I needed all the help I could get.