The Devil's Dime

The Devil's Dime - prologue

New York City’s Tenderloin District

— 1876 —

The dark-haired young man could scarcely believe his good fortune. He tried to slow his breathing, but the plush, deep carpet felt strange beneath his feet, keeping him off balance. Between holding his breath so as not to fall over and trying not to hyperventilate, he was a trembling mess. He had to steady himself. This was the reward everyone coveted, and it had come to him.

He focused on the deep folds of the gold-fringed drapery that hung across the entrance. Intricate nets of transparent fabric laced the ceiling, muting the light and casting the place in an unearthly, beckoning dimness.

Pale-faced boys in black silk knee britches, gold chains looped across their chests, glided slowly about the room, filling opium jars, retrieving spilled whisky glasses that had slipped from comatose hands and rolled beneath lush potted ferns.

The rich fabrics of elegant women’s gowns draped haphazardly across the settees upon which their owners reclined—some still adorning their mistresses, others not. Here and there a man’s head reclined in the lap or upon the bosom of a sleeping female.

It was as they had said. The riches were right here for the taking. He stepped forward, drawn by the pocket watch that hung from the vest of a man who would not be waking for some hours yet. Cautiously he reached down and palmed the watch, looking it over as if considering the time. He looked into the face of its owner.

Nothing.

He twisted the fob loose from its button hole and felt the weight of the expensive timepiece in his hand. It was his now. His reward. His heart swelled.

He stepped toward the woman and relieved her of her rings. She would never report them missing. At least she’d never dare expose where and when she’d lost them. The woman twitched, and he jumped a bit, but she didn’t waken. Her earbobs followed her rings into his pocket.

A beautiful girl walked toward him, her dress cut in a garish fashion with glittering stones pushing up the perfect orbs of her breasts. Her hair was a tumble of black curls that swept high, then cascaded down her neck. One lock rolled across the white delicate flesh of her bosom as she stepped into the soft light. He reached out to touch it but her eyes stopped him. She looked not so much at him as through him. The rich brown pupils were hugely dilated, floating in a light opium daze. It gave her a look of contentment, of euphoria, of acceptance. It was the kind of gaze that had never been shed upon him in his entire life. Acceptance. Welcome.

Except by one person. Except by her,  the perfect Julia. The one he wouldn’t let himself think about right now.

“Are you for me?” he whispered.

A semblance of a smile moved across her lips and she turned. Beckoned. And he followed.

They were right. This was indeed Heaven.