“Oh, He forgives it—the pastor says so—but only to those worthy of His forgiveness.”
“And how on earth does one gauge worthiness?”
Suddenly, he looked lost. “I don’t know.”
But his words had me thinking, not his words of forgiveness from sin, but his implications. “So you mean you frequent the speakeasies, Mr. Erwin? The rot-gut some of those places pass off as illicit liquor can make one blind’s what I’ve heard. Only days ago I read of one such den that served up devilish bad rum, and several died. There’s that risk, compounded by the simple risk of being caught by violating the laws of the Eighteenth Amendment. Federal men are all over the city, I hear.”
“Oh, I don’t mean speakeasies, Mr. Phillips,” and then he gulped. “Spirits are a vile polluter of the God-given human body. What I’m talking about… are the Red Houses…”
I nodded while keeping reins on my personal disapproval of such iniquitous havens. Though I recognised immorality when I saw it I was also thoughtful enough to refrain from judgments, and I could even compel myself to overlook Erwin’s obvious hypocrisy: the stalwart Christian but one tainted by a weakness for ladies of the night. Of my own case, I’ll say that so- called sexual congress caused me to harken back to the wise quip of Lord Halifax: “The price is damnable, the pleasure is momentary, and the position is ridiculous,” which bespoke my views as well. I myself had thankfully never suffered from a high state of libidiny but I could hardly condemn others affected by more heightened—and notably normal—states. How was a good man such as Erwin expected to satisfy his natural primordial drives with a wife long dead? At last, I commented, “I must say, I can hardly picture a moral man as yourself frequenting such places.”
“I can’t say I frequent them, Mr. Phillips.” He shifted his stance within the feeble shelter. “In fact, I’ve only been to one particular house ever, and only three times total.”
It was not even a conscious thing that so grotesquely piqued my interest; it was the inundating pragmatism stoked instead by unconscious considerations. I was prepared to accept any circumstance that might lend credence to my hope that Selina was still alive. The unkindly booking sergeant’s words creaked back like old ship timbers in my memory: Lots’a women have took to sellin’ thereselfs, ya know… Had such a demeaning fate been my sister’s lot? Certainly she was well-figured enough to be viable for such a trade, her figure, yes, and most notably her bosom. I only hoped that this might actually be, for if it were, it meant that she’d still be among the living and, hence, retrievable.
A sudden surge in the coal-gas intensified the streetlamp’s brightness, just as the idea had surged in my mind: I could go to this brothel… and investigate… Indeed, and not that I suspected Selina might work in this particular bordello but surely there stood a more-than-minute chance that some of the women therein had seen or even knew of her. I could show my picture around whilst maintaining the appearance of a “john,” as I believed the suitors of prostitution were called.
For the first time in months, I had hope!
But, lo, even as the trove of my hope may have just trebled, simple realities proved another matter. Came my whisper, “I’d be interested in attending this ‘Red House’ with you, Mr. Erwin, but I’m afraid I’ve precious little money for such indulgences.” My fingers fished through stray coins in my pocket. “How, uh, how much would be requisite on my part for, say, minimal services?”
Erwin’s face loosened in a manner of relief. “Thank you for not disowning our friendship, Mr. Phillips. I thought sure you’d think me a cad for admitting this—”
“Not at all. We all have our occasions for urges oft beyond our force of will. But, hear me. How much will I need?”
He paused at the distant bay of a foghorn from the harbour, a seemingly unearthly dirge of murky, falling notes; but when it passed, he answered, “Well, the place I’ve been to, it’s called the 1852 Club, and it’s a strange place, I’ve got to say. You see—and you’ll find this hard to believe—it’s free.”
I eyed him in the wavering pallor of gas-light. “Did I hear you right? Free?”
“It’s free, all right, Mr. Phillips,” he assured in a whisper. “I been there three times, like I said, and haven’t spent a penny.”
How could I not scoff now? I argued, “That makes no sense whatever. Any commercial enterprise, licit or illicit, exists through the conduction of services or merchandise rendered in the exchange of some monetary source! A bordello that doesn’t charge for the services of its women would be the uttermost negation of logic.”
“You’ll get no argument from me, Mr. Phillips,” he maintained his whisper as if in fear of being overheard on the vacant street. “I’m just tellin’ ya how it is. I know it sounds like a tall tale but… ,” and then all he did was shrug.
A tall tale, yes, but I trusted in my judgment of men to be convinced that Erwin was no such teller. “Well,” I said next. “Where exactly is this 1852 Club located?”
Erwin spread out his hands. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. Sometimes I think it must be near Old Greenwich and other times it seems it must be Lower East. It’s the trolley that takes us, see—maybe a ten, fifteen-minute trip, but the route…”
“What about the route?” I insisted.
“It’s all this way and that, and up and down, and through alleys I never seen before. It moves through these courtyards that look so old, and, and… Even a tunnel, where there’s no light at all. Gettin’ on by mistake one night’s how I even found out about the place.”
“That’s very… strange,” I uttered.
“Well like I first mentioned, it’s a strange place.” Suddenly he looked dreamy even in the smudged darkness. “The women, Mr. Phillips, it’s just one looker after the next, and they don’t wear nothin’ about the house, I ain’t kiddin’ ya.” His whisper grew heated. “And they do anything, and’ll have ya as many times as you can go.”
“All, as you ensure, for nothing,” I reiterated.
“For nary a red cent.”
By now the proposition seemed farcical, but I simply refused to believe Erwin would lie so cockamamily. “In that case, I’d like very much to join you tonight.”
He seemed to shudder. “I just feel so… guilty, Mr. Phillips—”
“Oh, for goodness sake!” I complained. “Guilty?”
“It’s hard enough staying on a Godly course, and I do try, but sometimes… sometimes—” He shook his head in remorse. “It’s been more than six months since I’ve… well, you know…”
Six MONTHS? I thought all too stridently, It’s been more than six YEARS for me!
Erwin composed himself out of his conflicting sentiments. “I only do it when I have to, but I see I’ve brought you right along into it. Not only are my sins on my hands but your sins, too.”
I was losing patience now with the fulcrum on which Erwin’s self-perceived “sin” teetered. But I needed him now. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Erwin. Nature, just the same as your god, is what made us men, with the natural proclivities of men, so don’t get yourself in a swiver. Now, when does the trolley come? Surely it’s not the B-Line—”