"Persephone!" I snorted. "Pretty long in tooth for the goddess of youth. She's thirty-something if she's a day. At least! What were you doing in that hoochy house? Lily says it's a dirty place. Caters to every possible vice. Everyone and everything. And when I say 'thing' I mean 'thing'. Animals. Contraptions. Perversions. I suppose that's supposed to make men feel manly. Big old thunder gods with their own private Ganymede's or nymphs, whichever they like better. I don't get it. It's confusing there. And dangerous. You could get sick in a place like that. Real sick. You promised not to play. "

"I wasn't ... playing. I was following a lead. Every man ... has a weakness. The major has his," panted Monte, his knees pulling together, flexing. "The lady ... in lilac. Saw her. Sitting there with the other ... nymphs. She's odd. Something about her."

"What is it?"

"The way she ... uuhh." Moaning louder, he doubled over into a large upside down "U." "Man, oh man. Whoa, Nellie. This is it. Got my one-way ticket to heaven. I'm going."

"Don't be ridiculous. No one died of overeating. I'm surprised you didn't feel dyspeptic earlier. You always do this. Eating like a starved elephant. Regretting it afterwards. Nothing a little wintergreen won't cure."

"Jesus! Not this time ... This time's different. I don't think ..." He broke off suddenly and leaned over a hitching post. Sweat popped out on his forehead, his eyes bulging. And then he was violently ill. All over.

"Monte!" I supported him as he heaved some more. When he was done, we walked to a water trough at the end of the block. He was strangely silent as I splashed water on his face. My brother still looked diaphoretic. His pupils were so dilated that his irises were only a faint gray rim around the black center. I gently pressed the right side of his belly.

Monte slapped my hand away. "Ugh. Stop that. It's empty. Nothing left. Phew. That was a wild one. Don't mind if I never repeat that one again. Stop it. Hey, stop it, I said. Do you always mug your patients?"

"I'm not mugging you. It's called 'palpation'."

"Yeah, it's only called that when doctors do it. If it's anyone else, it's assault and battery. Criminal, that's what it is."

"Awww, poor baby. Interesting. Your liver's big."

"No one's ever accused me of that before. A big mouth, sure. A big ... well, never mind." Monte ran a shaky hand through his black curls. "What do you mean?"

"Your liver's enlarged, tender. Like Miguel's. Hmm. Pulse okay."

"What do you think, doc?"

"You'll live," I said gruffly. No matter how awful it had been, vomiting had been the best thing for him. He had to get rid of whatever was sickening him. I reached into my secret skirt pocket, and pulled out my small medical kit. I opened it. The gaslight glinted off the scalpel.

"Nuh uh. You're not doing that on me. Back off. Sister or no sister, you're not cutting on me. Forget it."

"Oh, be quiet. Just be quiet for a change." I took out a small vial, and counted out two charcoal pills. "Come on. Open up. It's an antidote. Listen, mister, you've been poisoned. Like Miguel. So you need to remember. What did you eat today?"

"Christ. I don't remember. No one remembers what they ate. That's like reciting 'the Wreck of the Hesperus'. I won't remember that. Ask me something else. How about my winning cards last night? Black Jacks in the high corner. Spade and clubs. As always. No one got it. So the whole Monte came to me. The whole juicy pot. Now that was sweet. Real sweet." He downed the pills with a handful of water. Grimaced. "That, on the other hand, wasn't so sweet. Tastes just like your cooking. What did you learn in Paris, anyway? Medicine or torture?"

It was easy to pretend I hadn't heard him. I had lots of practice. Wordlessly, I gave him two more pills. Gestured for him to take those too. Afterwards, I made him open his mouth again and raise his tongue to make sure that he had really swallowed the medicine. He had. Good. Obedient for a change. I nodded. "Okay. Now think hard. Did you eat anything new? Anything different at all?"

"Besides this, you mean? I don't usually swallow briquettes. I'm not a coal-burning stove, you know. But seriously, let's see. I had huevos, chicken, bread. Those little tortas. Those were good. I ate everything you did. Everything except ..."

"The tapenado." I snapped my fingers, realization zinging through me. "It was loaded with mushrooms, remember? I can't eat them. My allergies. That's it. That has to be it, because I didn't eat the truffles or those other dishes. I don't do fungi, and that's Miguel's favorite food. Judas! Everyone knows that's his special weakness. What could be better than those mushrooms? Good old Amanita. Doesn't Death Cap grow around here? And it's easily confused with its cousins. One's a food, the other poison. Maybe it's just an accident after all. Both times."

"Both? I don't think so, darlin'. Maybe one time. But not two different times, two different foods. Once is an accident. Twice is deliberate. Deliberate murder. Oh, man. Papa's tapenado. I'm never eating that again. Not in a million years. No matter how fond I was of Helena. Nostalgia only goes so far, you know. Whew." He pressed his hand against his forehead. Blew out a breath. "You know, I feel kinda funny. A little dopey. No." He pointed a finger at me. "Don't say it. Don't even say it. That would be a cheap shot. Real cheap."

I rapped my knuckles on his head. "No worries. You're impaired. I'll get you when you're back on your feet and have a sporting chance to shoot back. Listen, Monte, you better go home and sleep it off."

"Can't." My brother stretched his arms. Yawned. "What about the case of the vanishing Don Miguel? We lost him."

"Not really. I know where he's headed. Cassam Shipping. I'll go there."

Monte rubbed his eyes. "But you need ... help."

"What I need is not to worry about you. You won't be very much help if you collapse on me. A big galoot like you. That's the last thing I need. Go home and get some rest. Take care of the major when you're feeling better. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine. Just fine." I peered into the darkness, and crossed my fingers for good luck. I hoped to God that it was true.

###

The breeze off the bay was salty and stiff. Stiff enough to rent the fog into a ragged veil that the moon slipped in and out of. It was dark. Dark and frigid. That was San Francisco for you. She was like a fickle lady: could blow hot, then cold in a matter of hours, depending on whether the fog rolled off the ocean. There was just no telling which. And now, it was ice pick cold again, the kind that stabbed through my thick black sweater and woolen necessaries. I stood shivering behind Cassam Shipping. My face was pressed against the old wood wall as I peered through the open window. Miguel was waiting inside his office. One long tall figure in black. And I was waiting for him. Outside. Alone. Clandestine as usual. If only he'd think about telling me for a change, I could be saved the inconvenience. A lot of inconvenience. This sneaking-around business was a lot more work. Cripes. It was already enough work just taking care of Miguel. When he let me, that is.

We argued over everything - if you could call it an argument when only one person talks and the other person just stares. And stares like some marble statue in a garden somewhere. I wanted him to take more milk thistle, but he refused. I didn't want him to go through with this meeting, and he agreed. Or so I assumed from his stony silence. But the next thing I knew, he'd disappeared again from the house, and I'd caught his trail barely in time. I'd followed him here to the harbor.

Worrying, I watched him. He seemed better. His color had improved. No puking for the last twenty-four hours. No more untoward effects from the poison. Or from the boiled eggs and burnt toast he'd dutifully eaten all day without any complaints. He stood quietly, not pacing or fidgeting like most people do to occupy their time. He was so still that I was frankly getting a little bored watching him. Shifting, I looked across the dock. His ship the Marlin was a beauty: three masts, a new smokestack, cannons - broadside, fore and aft. Only two sailors were guarding deck. The rest of the crew must be below or enjoying their shore leave. No one had loaded the ship yet. There was no sign of the stolen gold. I didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

Rubbing my arms briskly, I settled back against the outside wall again. Tried to get a little more comfortable when suddenly a gloved hand covered my mouth, stifling my gasp, almost suffocating me. An iron arm wrapped around me, yanked me backwards through the window. I tumbled butt-first into the room. My boots scraped the sills, then thwacked against the floor as I fell sideways. Then I collided against a chest. The chest. One solid expanse of masculine muscle I'd know in the darkness anywhere anytime.

Miguel. He felt hard, unyielding, not comforting this time. No tenderness or intimacy now. He seemed removed. Ruthless. A dangerous stranger. Abruptly he let me go, then shut the window. Firmly. Almost quietly. Only the soft thud at the end betrayed his irritation. He swiftly crossed the room, locked the door, and then wheeled around, turning back to me. His mouth was pressed into a thin line. Oh. Not just irritated. Angry. Definitely angry. I was in for it now. I stepped backwards. Bumped into his big oak desk.

"Doctora Spencer," was all he said. My formal name. Bad sign. No teasing "niņa" or tender "querida." I was in Dutch now. Double Dutch. He folded his arms. "Well?"

"Well, what?" I tore the black knit cap off my head. All my hastily stuffed hair was falling out anyway. The rest tumbled down my back into a nasty fishy-smelling lump, stuck here and there with a few remaining pins. His eyes followed my hair's descent, then lingered over my split skirt, my ankles showing underneath. One corner of his lips turned downward.

His silent disapproval made me bristle. "What? Are you going to criticize my clothes? It's the latest thing from 'Harper's Bazaar'. Just the fashion for finding your missing lover in the dead of the night." I casually swung the sailor's cap from one finger. "Every lady should have one of these. Lucky for me I already do. I seem to be chasing someone a lot lately. Especially when someone - that sick someone - is supposed to be in bed. Asleep. Not sneaking out of the house like a some midnight bandito." Good. I sounded a lot braver than I felt. Inside, I was quaking. I'd never seen him look so furious before. And his particular brand of cold fury made it that much worse.

He barely shook his head. "Why ... are you here?"

"Well, obviously ..."

"What ... are you doing here?" He flung out an arm towards the window. Pointed. "It is midnight. The docks."

"I might ask the same of you."

"A woman. Alone. Dangerous. You should not be here. Anything could happen."

"Nothing did. Nothing. And danger? What are you talking about? What danger? Give me a break. This is my neighborhood. I grew up here, remember? I know this wharf like I know all the parts of the brain. Cerebrum, cerebellum, pons ..."

"Enough. This is no joke."

"I'm not joking, Miguel. Really. I was quite safe."

"Safe? Are you? Think again." Two quick steps and he was standing right in front of me. His hands gripped my arms. Hard. Almost cruel. He shook me once so that the last of my hairpins fell to the floor. Then he lifted me on to the desk, stepped forward until his knee pressed between my legs. His breath came in short sharp pants as if he was barely containing some pain or great emotion. "I could be anyone. Grabbing you. Taking you." One hand ran along my hip, molding my thigh until my fear turned into strange excitement. "Anyone could be doing this. And this." My lips turned dry as he demonstrated. And this time, when I gasped, it wasn't from shock. It was sheer shameful joy. "Anyone, niņa."

"No! No one. No one but you," I said, curving into his touch; my body learning, meeting his rhythm with my own. His hands journeyed over me with those warm deft motions: revisiting old places, exploring farther, discovering new points of pleasure. There. Oh, and there too.

I was dissolving. The room dissolved around us, falling away so that nothing existed except for him, me, and this terrible need anchoring us together. What was this compulsion? Until this moment, I'd never understood that driving force which shattered any sensibility - mine or his. Nothing else mattered any more because by then, I had surrendered to a burning red haze; become part of it, part of him. My hands - by themselves - grabbed his hair, bringing his mouth towards me. Seeking, demanding, I plundered him from above; as his fingers, then his heat plundered me from below. One stroke: my body clenched like his taut face. Tightening, squeezing; I watched his beautiful eyes clear, brighten, widen with disbelief ... Two, three, another stroke and those eyes clouded over as his entire self convulsed into me, and I around him.

Then we fell against each other, wrapped together, gasping for air. It was fast, greedy, uncontrolled. It was wonderful. Different every time. A miracle I didn't understand. A miracle I gloried in.

"Cristo. Are you all right? Did I ...?" Swallowing hard, he brushed my hair off my cheek. He lingered where his whiskers had rasped my skin. Tender, I flinched. Couldn't help myself.

He looked surprised and dismayed. "Did I hurt you? I'm ..." Shock seemed to cut off his last few words. He couldn't finish. Shakily Miguel stepped away, handing me a square of linen, then readjusting himself. Regret marked his face. He looked almost ashamed. "I'm ... sorry."

"Sorry? For what? Don't you dare apologize. I'm not sorry. Not for a single second. That was ... mmmm." Lazily I leaned back on my hands. Something was digging into my butt. I shifted on to one side and reached around. Picked up the offending object. An ink blotter. I giggled.

His expression cleared while he looked me over carefully. He considered. "You're not upset."

"Of course ... not. Should I be?"

"I was angry. Rough. Careless."

My eyes popped open as realization struck me like a fist. "Judas! We forgot again. We know better than that."

Miguel looked grim and a little resigned. He admitted, "I know better. You sweep me away, querida."

"I do? I like the sound of that." The news cheered me. Maybe I - even with all my inexperience - had something new to offer him, something that broke through the wall he erected between the real Miguel and the world. I smiled at him but he didn't smile back. No matter. I had enough optimism for two. I ignored how his eyes turned guarded again. "Hey, I've got an idea. Maybe next time we could ..."

The door knob rattled.

He scooped up the pins from the floor, and handed them to me. Then he motioned for me to hide behind the back of the sofa. His hands checked his clothing one last time before he said, "Si."

"Don Miguel. Please. I must talk with you. It's imperative," someone said urgently through the thick wood door. Desperation punctuated the end of each sentence. We exchanged a look. It was the voice of the last person we expected - the voice of a wanted man. It was George.

Continued in Sailor's Delight

All non-LFN characters copyright (c) Bonnie Bo 2000. The right of Bonnie Bo to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her. All rights reserved.

Author's Note

Coca-Cola: a "tonic and nerve stimulant" made from the Coca plant and Cola nut was advertised as not only a temperance beverage but also a "brain tonic" for "sick headache, nerualgia, hysteria, melancholy, et cetera." Invented by J.L. Pemberton, an Atlanta pharmacist during 1887.

Condoms (J. Knowles, Planned Parenthood): "The oldest illustration of a condom was found in Egypt and dates back more than 3,000 years. It is difficult to judge from the drawing what the ancient Egyptian wearing the condom had in mind. He may have worn it for sexual or ritual reasons - or both. The oldest condoms were discovered in the of Dudley Castle near Birmingham, England. They were made of fish and animal intestine and dated back to 1640. They were probably used to prevent transmission of sexually transmitted infections during the war between the forces of Oliver Cromwell and soldiers loyal to King Charles I.

Historians disagree about how condoms got their name. Some say a "Dr. Condom" supplied King Charles II of England with animal-tissue sheaths to keep him from fathering illegitimate children and getting diseases from prostitutes. Others claim the word comes from a "Dr. Condon" or a "Colonel Cundum." It may be more likely that the word derives from the Latin condon, meaning "receptacle." In the 18th century, the famous womanizer, Casanova, wore condoms made of linen. Rubber condoms were mass-produced after 1844, when Charles Goodyear patented the vulcanization of rubber, which he invented five years earlier."

Pisco punch: a type of Peruvian brandy, possibly laced with cocaine. Thomas W. Knox extolled its praises thusly: "It is perfectly colourless, quite fragrant, very seductive, terribly strong, and has a flavor somewhat resembling that of Scotch whiskey, but much more delicate, with a marked ... taste ... The first glass satisfied me that San Francisco was, and is, a nice place to visit ... The second glass was sufficient, and I felt that I could face small-pox, all the fevers known to the faculty, and the Asiatic cholera, combined, if need be."

Sherman, William Tecumseh: was a young banker in San Francisco before he returned to serve as a general in the Union Army.

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