Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

  They began to walk in the direction of the hotel. The sun shone brilliantly, reflecting off the plate glass windows they passed, but even its warm shower of rays couldn’t wash away the gloom of Laurel’s present circumstances. “If I don’t get hired by the opera company, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  Crystal’s expression held a great deal of empathy, and Laurel guessed that the young woman had faced similar circumstances herself. She didn’t doubt for a moment that Crystal’s solution had led her into her present occupation. It was a road many destitute women traveled—a road Laurel vowed never to take. Besides, she was immensely unsuited for prostitution.

  She hadn’t been exaggerating when she told Chance Rafferty that she didn’t know the first thing about being a prostitute. Virgins didn’t have much chance to hone their skills in matters of the flesh. And all the Martin sisters of Salina, Kansas, were virgins, to the best of her knowledge.

  If there was one thing her mama used to counsel, it was that men didn’t buy the cow when they got the milk for free. Laurel wasn’t sure what that meant when she was ten, but she sure knew what it meant now. Her papa and Heather had made sure of it.

  It was necessary for the women to step around two drunken men who lay sprawled on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, and Laurel clucked her tongue in disapproval. “There’re far too many saloons in this town. Mama used to say that too much alcohol made men crazy as June bugs in January.”

  “Your mama was right. My pa was like that. You’d think he was a different person after he’d drunk a whole bottle of corn whiskey.” Crystal’s eyes filled with sadness. “I suppose he’s as dead as Ma by now. I never stuck around to find out.” She didn’t elaborate, and Laurel thought it best not to press for details.

  A loud cry of outrage made the women stop and look back over their shoulders. Laurel spied two dowdily dressed matrons taking the inebriated men to task.

  “Those ladies are giving those men what-for,” Laurel said to her companion. “Do you think it’s their wives?”

  Crystal shook her head. “They’re from the temperance league. They’re trying to put all the saloons out of business. Al’s furious. They’ve marched in front of the Silver Slipper a few times.”

  “They must be awfully brave to stand up for what they believe.” Though Laurel doubted that men like Chance Rafferty would think so. No doubt the ladies were a thorn in his side.

  “Bravery and good intentions don’t put money in my pocket or food in my stomach,” was Crystal’s reply, and the women resumed their walk in silence.

  Pausing before the sagging brick structure that was Graber’s Hotel, Laurel said, “Well, this is where I’m staying. I appreciate your walking me home.” Home. That was a joke. She glanced at the sad-looking building, then reconsidered. After all, her previous home had been nothing more than a sod hut, so she couldn’t be too critical of Mr. Graber’s establishment, deplorable though it was.

  “I know we probably won’t be seeing each other again, Miss Martin,” Crystal said, her voice tinged with sadness. “But I’m working over at the Silver Slipper on Holladay Street, if you need me for anything.”

  Laurel’s eyes widened at the mention of the infamous street. Holladay Street was known as the Street of a Thousand Sinners. Supposedly within its four blocks were more prostitutes, wickedness, and sin than in the whole city of San Francisco. But Laurel reminded herself that it wasn’t her place to judge Crystal. As the Bible said, “Judge not, that ye not be judged.” Her mama had often quoted that bit of wisdom.

  “Since you’re the only woman here whose acquaintance I’ve made, Miss Crystal Cummings, I think we’re going to be seeing each other again. That is, if you want to.” Crystal’s childlike, enthusiastic smile touched Laurel’s heart, making her glad she’d made the offer. “Why don’t we plan to meet at the Busy Bee Café? That’s where I’ve been taking my meals. The food’s pretty decent.”

  “I work most nights.” Crystal’s face turned almost the same shade as her hair. “But I could meet you sometime for lunch. I’m usually up by noon.”

  Laurel tried to keep her face impassive, as if conversing with a prostitute and discussing her schedule were common occurrences for her. “That’d be fine. Perhaps I’ll see you there tomorrow.”

  Crystal frowned and shook her head. “Not tomorrow. Al’s got a special client for me to see tomorrow, and he’d get angry if I wasn’t available. But I could meet you the next day.”

  Masking the sadness she felt for Crystal Cummings and her unfortunate set of circumstances, Laurel set a date and time with her new friend. As she waved goodbye, she couldn’t help thinking that prostitution wasn’t all that different from slavery. The only appreciable difference, as far as she could see, was that you got paid for your labors.

  * * *

  Midafternoons at the Aurora Borealis were generally quiet, and today was no exception. In the evening the roulette wheel would whir and click, and the rattle of dice against the green felt tables would fill the gaming parlor with familiar noise. But for now it was blessedly quiet.

  Jupiter Tubbs, the piano player, tinkered with the electric lighting fixture above his upright piano. It had been flickering on and off for days and was driving him to distraction. His wife, Bertha, took the opportunity to satisfy her penchant for neatness by sweeping up the many cigar butts and deck wrappers left carelessly beneath the gaming tables last night.

  There were no customers, save for Henry Dusseldorff, who was sleeping it off on a cot in the back storage room. Bertha would be checking on that rascal directly to make sure he wasn’t drinking all of Mr. Chance’s profits.

  In Bertha’s opinion, Mr. Chance was too kind and too trusting and was liable to be sorry for it one day. There were only two people in this world Bertha trusted besides herself—Jupiter, her man of twenty years, and Mr. Chance, who’d hired her and Jup all those years ago when hiring niggers wasn’t a fashionable or very wise thing to do.

  “Where Mr. Chance be, Bertha?” Jupiter called out from his position atop the ladder. “I don’t recall him sayin’ he had no appointments today.”

  “And why should he be tellin’ you his business, you old fool? Mr. Chance be all growed, case you hadn’t noticed. And I doubt he need another daddy.”

  Jupiter smiled to reveal a set of ivories every bit as impressive as the ones on his piano. “You surely is one sassy-mouthed woman, but I loves ya anyway.” His brown eyes twinkling, he winked at her. “How’s about we go up them stairs and make us some fine music together? You knows how talented I is with my fingers, woman.”

  Bertha’s chuckle spread all the way down her massive body, quivering like mounds of gelatin, and though she shook her head at her husband’s outrageous comment, secretly she was pleased that after all these years and all her additional pounds, Jup still desired her. “I’s bein’ paid to clean and cook, not to make the hootchy-cootchy with you, you black devil. Now leave me be. I gots to go drag Mr. D. out of the back room before that wife of his comes looking for him with the rollin’ pin.”

  “That wife is one ugly woman.”

  Bertha nodded. “And she’s uglier on the inside than out.”

  “She’s ugly.” Squawk. “She’s ugly.” Squawk. “Black devil. Black devil.”

  Jupiter shot a forbidding look at the parrot perched in the wooden cage in the corner. “Shut your mouth, you stupid bird, or I pull all them feathers outta your hide.”

  Jupiter took a menacing step toward the bird, and Bertha, fearing the worst, rushed forward to throw a dusting rag over the cage. “Now hush up, bird,” Bertha said, “or we’ll be havin’ parrot stew for supper tonight.”

  “I hates that bird,” Jup said, scowling. “I wish Mr. Chance would up and get rid of it. He’s too . . .” Before he could finish, the etched glass front door swung open and Chance walked in, shadowed by his cousin.

  “Howdy-do, Mr. Chance,” Jupiter said, his warm smile melting suddenly at Chance’s fierce expression. “You sur
ely gots the look of the devil on your face today.” The man looked ready to spit nails.

  “That ain’t none of your business, you old fool,” Bertha scolded, shaking a pudgy finger at her husband. “Leave Mr. Chance be. Can’t you see he’s plum wore out?”

  “Chance is mad, mad, mad,” Whitey informed them. He liked to repeat things three times to make sure he was understood. It was thought that he’d picked up the annoying habit from the parrot, but no one knew for certain.

  “But not at me, so it’s okay. Ain’t that right, Chance?” he continued. The big man dropped heavily onto a nearby chair and busied himself with a stack of poker chips, waiting for the reassurance he constantly needed.

  “Right, Whitey,” Chance said, trying to keep his temper in check. Which wasn’t always easy when it came to answering Whitey’s multitude of questions. For someone who was considered simpleminded, Whitey could gather more information than the Encyclopedia Britannica.

  Whitey was his only family—the only one he claimed, anyway—and he loved him like a brother. And sometimes like a father would a son.

  He’d been the only buffer between Whitey and the cruelty of the world—his guardian and protector. And he took his duties seriously. At times it was difficult having such a large responsibility. Chance himself had been only a child when the two had fled their home in St. Louis. But over the years he’d come to rely on Whitey’s companionship and love as much as Whitey relied on his.

  “Why don’t you go with Bertha and she’ll fix you something to eat,” Chance suggested to his cousin. “I need to talk with Jup a minute.” He looked pleadingly at his housekeeper, who understood immediately and grasped the gentle giant’s hand.

  “Come with Bertha, Mr. Whitey. I got cookies in the kitchen fresh out of the oven.” Because Whitey absolutely adored sweets, he offered no argument, trailing behind Bertha eagerly.

  Behind the bar, Chance filled a mug with beer and took a swallow before speaking. “I had another run-in with Hazen. That bastard should be run out of town on a rail.”

  “ ’Bout that woman you done told me about?”

  “No. It didn’t have anything to do with the little opera singer this time.” Chance sipped thoughtfully at his brew, wondering how Laurel Martin fared. She’d been on his mind since he’d met her, and he wondered if she’d had any luck persuading Rooster Higgins to hire her. He made a mental note to ask the man about her audition the next time he saw him.

  “Mr. Hazen be a bad sort. He don’t treat his people nice a’tall.” And Jupiter knew what that was like all too well. His memories of bondage, and the cruel treatment he’d received at the hands of Jubilation’s overseer, were still fresh in his mind even after all these years, and that pain was reflected on his face.

  The beer went down smooth and cold, and Chance sat down next to his friend. “There’re always going to be bullies, Jup. That’s just the nature of things in this world.” He squeezed the older man’s shoulder, wishing he could take his pain away, but he doubted that pain would disappear until Jupiter Tubbs was laid out in his coffin. The former slave had suffered unspeakable horrors at the hands of his owners, and it had taken years of kindness and patience on Chance’s part to earn the man’s trust and respect.

  “Hazen’s up to his usual tricks,” Chance explained. “It’s not bad enough that he runs the crookedest games in town and has more water in his drinks than whiskey. Now he’s trying to get Mayor Fuller to give him another business license—despite the moratorium that’s in effect on saloons and brothels—so he can open another bordello; one with twice as many whores.”

  Jupiter whistled and shook his head. “The mayor most often thinks with what’s between his legs, not what’s in his head.”

  “Hazen’s not above using his girls as an incentive to make Fuller see things his way. I’d be hard-pressed to say who’s the sleaziest of the two.”

  “If that fancy man get his way, that could hurt business. We gots us enough competition.”

  That sure as hell was the truth, Chance thought. Denver was as steeped in sin and corruption as any painted harlot. Holladay, Larimer, and Blake Streets were the gayest and gaudiest and certainly the most brazen tenderloin districts west of the Mississippi.

  The Aurora Borealis, which didn’t employ any whores to entice its customers, had to compete with brothels owned by Mattie Silks, Lizzie Preston, and, of course, Al Hazen’s Silver Slipper.

  Making money off women wasn’t Chance’s style. He preferred to earn his riches employing the skills he’d learned from the gamblers in the mining camps where he and Whitey had worked in their youth.

  “It’s just bad luck, that’s what it is,” Chance said, removing a deck of cards from his pocket. He fingered the cards with one hand until he extracted the queen of hearts to lay before Jupiter.

  The black man’s eyes filled with wonder, as they always did when Chance performed one of his card tricks. “You surely is good with a deck of cards, Mr. Chance. You surely is. And you done pulled out the queen of hearts. That be about the luckiest one of all.”

  Chance stared down at the card and another queenly vision came to mind. A vision with hair as blond as corn silk and eyes as blue as a summer day. He smiled, patting the card thoughtfully with his finger. “I got a feeling, Jup, that my luck’s about to change.”

  “Queen of hearts is the lucky one, that’s for sure,” Jup said, and Chance nodded, his eyes intent with purpose.

  CHAPTER 3

  Laurel never failed to be awed when she entered Tabor’s Grand Opera House—and she’d entered quite a few times, this being her fourth audition in the past two weeks.

  Cherrywood from Japan and mahogany from Honduras gave the interior walls a rich, elegant look. A huge crystal chandelier shimmering like a thousand diamonds was suspended from the ceiling, and elegant private boxes—one reserved for the theater’s builder and benefactor, mining millionaire Horace Tabor—sat to the left and right of the stage, affording an excellent view of the evening’s entertainment.

  How Laurel wished she could be part of it all. But Mr. Higgins had continued to decline her requests for employment, citing a multitude of reasons, none of which Laurel had fully understood since that first time when lack of experience had felled her chances.

  She’d practiced diligently since then and felt confident that her voice and presentation were much more polished, but Mr. Higgins kept on presenting her with excuses ranging from her having the wrong color hair to the size of her shoes—the latter having something to do with costuming.

  Nervously pleating and repleating the folds of her best yellow dimity gown, Laurel waited at the back of the theater, hoping Mr. Higgins hadn’t forgotten their appointment. When the gilt-embossed clock on the wall chimed ten and the door opened, Laurel turned and breathed a sigh of relief, only to have her breath catch in her throat at the sight of Chance Rafferty framed in the doorway.

  There was no sign of Mr. Higgins or any other theater employee. He was alone, and he looked every bit as handsome as she remembered. A tiny fluttering began in the lower regions of her midsection as he approached.

  “Well, if it isn’t Miss Martin,” Chance said, tipping his black bowler hat. “I was hoping to find Rooster, but finding you is even better. I’ve been curious as to whether you’d been hired here yet.”

  She took a deep breath to quiet her nerves. “Good morning, Mr. Rafferty. I didn’t think a man of your occupation would be up and about so early in the day.”

  He grinned to display even white teeth. “The early bird catches the worm, Miss Martin. Isn’t that how the saying goes?”

  “It is. It was one of my mama’s favorites.”

  “I take it you have another audition set up with Rooster? You’re persistent, if nothing else, Miss Martin; I’ll give you that.”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, Mr. Rafferty, but yes, Mr. Higgins and I do have another appointment. And I certainly hope you will not remain behind to snicker at my performance, as yo
u did the first time.” The image of him covering his ears still made her blood boil.

  “I don’t know what you mean, angel.”

  The look of pure innocence on his face almost made her laugh. “You should be the one auditioning, Mr. Rafferty. I think your talents lie in the theater.”

  “I’m a man of many talents, angel.” He trailed his fingertip down her cheek. “You should let me show them to you sometime.”

  Laurel pulled back, shocked by the man’s familiarity, and tried her best to ignore the butterflies flapping wildly in her stomach. Stop it, you goose! she chastised herself. He’s merely toying with you. Didn’t Heather warn you about men of his kind?

  “You, Mr. Rafferty, are a man who is too full of himself. My mama used to say that a bag with too much hot air is bound to burst its seams.”

  Chance threw back his head and laughed, and the pleasing sound rippled along Laurel’s spine like a feather on bare skin. “I think I like your mama.”

  “She’s dead. As dead as your chances to seduce me,” she informed him bluntly, ignoring his raised eyebrow. It was best to set him straight from the beginning, Laurel decided.

  Heather and Rose had always accused her of being naive, but she wasn’t stupid!

  Rather than be put off by Laurel’s bluntness, Chance was amused by it. He found it refreshing to meet a woman who was immune to his charms—refreshing and challenging. “You’re not the only one who’s persistent, angel. I’m a gambler, remember? When the cards are stacked against me, it only makes the game more interesting. The harder the win, the sweeter the pot, or so the saying goes.”

  Suddenly the huge theater seemed too small with Chance Rafferty standing in it. And much too dark and intimate. There were few lights on, and those that were on, up by the stage, were a good distance from where they stood.

  “I really should be going, Mr. Rafferty. It appears Mr. Higgins has forgotten our appointment.”

  Chance stepped sideways to block her exit. “I doubt it. Rooster’s always late. He most likely overslept. He was out late last night.”