That evening, with Cookie Wildroot nursing the sick monkeys, Mrs. McGivers got her act costumed, absurd hats and gaudy pants, and then they were on.
“Gents and ladies, the one, the only, the sensational Mrs. McGivers and her Monkey Band,” August intoned to a good crowd that had braved the dark cold evening.
It was a funny thing; she had a way of seeing success or failure in advance, and now the eve was bright with promise. The costumes were outlandish enough so the audience chuckled at the very sight of them. Joseph wheezed away on the accordion. Mrs. McGivers plunged into exotic calypso, strange rhythms from distant places. Ethel Wildroot whanged a cymbal at just the right moments, an odd sound against the tropical beat. And the insidious Cromwell was poking along on the bass drum, perfectly attuned to the music, until they had finished the first stanza. Then everything began to fall apart. Ethel whacked the cymbals. Joseph wheezed the accordion. Cromwell loosed a thunderous volley that rumbled out upon the crowd.
The crowd was discomfited. Something was wrong. And then Ethel loosed a clatter of cymbals that shook the rafters, and that monkey Cromwell battered the bass drums mercilessly, and now the crowd was chuckling, then laughing, then howling. The whole act tumbled into chaos, with Mrs. McGivers screeching, in turns, at Joseph, at Ethel, and at Cromwell. She grabbed a drumstick and beat Cromwell on the noggin with it.
The crowd howled. Mrs. McGivers’ band had deserted her, poor old dear.
And August Beausoleil stood in the wing, delighted.
“How was that, ladies and gents?” he asked, when the crowd had quieted a bit. “Mrs. McGivers and her Monkey Band. Come out and take another bow, Mrs. McGivers! And the rest of you, come out and face the music! You’re all fired!”
They did. People laughed and clapped. It was a different act, not a monkey act, but it worked. And August was smiling.
19
WAYNE WINDSOR hated to get out of bed before ten, but there were tasks to perform. Butte had ignored him. In fact, the papers had been silent, the coverage abysmal. He made a point of getting into every paper in every town the company played. On this cold morning he pulled the blankets away, fled their comforting warmth, and prepared himself for an excursion.
He scraped away the day’s whiskers with his well-stropped straightedge. He took special care not to nick his cheeks, because the profile would be under close observation within the hour. He was an immaculate man, taught the virtue of cleanliness and grooming by his immaculate family. Unlike most people in vaudeville, who rose from the depths, or arrived on an immigrant boat, Windsor had grown up in privilege. He had achieved a bachelor degree, and he ascribed his success as a monologuist to the fund of wisdom and knowledge that he had acquired in New Haven. And, of course, his career had started in those hallowed precincts, the debating society.
After tea and a poached egg and muffins dripping with jam, he ventured out upon Butte’s cruel slopes, after ascertaining the locations of several newspapers. He found The Inter-Mountain first, which was fine. By all accounts, a good, sober paper, not given to conniption fits.
He discovered a squinty gent in a sleeve garter at an oaken desk; behind him was the inky plant, where skinny compositors toiled at their typesticks, and half-formed pages were spread on iron tables known as stones. He had been in many a plant, and knew the language.
Sleeve-garter took notice, and approached the counter.
“Yes, I have a story for you, sir,” Wayne said. “I’m Wayne Windsor, top-billed at the Beausoleil Brothers Follies, at the opera house. I’ve stopped by to give you an interview.”
“An interview, ah, yes, some publicity.”
“Well, look what I have here, sir. Here’s an attractive portrait of me, from the side of course, which is the most flattering vantage point when it comes to depicting any vaudeville performer. Precast, ready to drop into your forms. And here, sir, is a complete interview, precast in type metal, so all you need do is drop it in your forms, and you’ve a story without further labor. Very handy when you’re rushed. We’ll be playing two more days, extended engagement because of the fine reception we’ve received, and I thought you’d like to run it in the afternoon edition. A good way to sell copies.”
Sleeve-garter eyed Windsor, eyed the portrait etched in metal, and the two-column interview.
“Sir, if you want to run an ad, you have to pay for the space,” he said.
“It’s a balanced interview, finest journalistic tradition. All you need do is write a headline mentioning that I’m at the opera house these two days.”
Sleeve-garter sighed. “We could use some news today. I tell you what. I’ll run that image of you, and interview you myself. We’ll have to hurry, though.”
Windsor was delighted. He followed the reporter to his grimy desk, and settled in for a good talk.
“I’m Bruce Key,” he said, grabbing a pencil and a pad. “Now then, you’re with the Follies, and you do what?”
“I’m a monologuist. I spin stories. You might say I’m a Mark Twain drifting through Butte.”
“Who’s that?” Key said.
“Tom Sawyer? Huck Finn? Never mind. I like to tickle funny bones, and I do this by poking a little fun at people.”
“Ridicule, then?”
“Oh, nothing so blatant. There’s plenty of people who beg to be examined. You might say I like to throw some light on their foibles.”
“You amuse people on a stage. How’d you get there?”
“Debating societies, college, you know. I am among the fortunate, having a well-rounded schooling. I’m from an old Massachusetts family, textiles, shipping, slavery, rum, and various learned professions. A good name is worth a lot, of course. Here from the early seventeen-hundreds, prominent in Boston. Not quite up to the Cabots and Lowells, but certainly a peer, as families go. You know, that gives me a vantage point to view this country. I must say, sir, the tide of immigrants coming in now is very inferior. Not up to snuff. Half can’t even speak English. The other half do nothing but breed. I’d support laws restricting immigration to the English, and no one else.”
Key was busy scribbling all that, to Windsor’s great satisfaction.
“You’d exclude the Irish?” Key asked.
“They don’t really speak English, do they?”
“Dutch, Germans, Norwegians?”
“Yes, the stock would improve if they were kept out.”
“What about those in your vaudeville company? Are they all English?”
“Well, you have to understand there’s exceptions to any generalization, sir. Some people succeed, in spite of their genetic and social deficiencies. That’s show business. Home of the mentally defective.”
Windsor was enjoying it all. And Key had opened him up and was mining Windsor’s richest veins. It turned out to be a fine interview. Even brilliant. Windsor explained that the country’s strength was based on good English genetic stock, and the more it was diluted and debased by the hordes of people flooding through Ellis Island and spreading out across the continent, the weaker the republic became. These new people didn’t understand the common law and tradition that had gone into founding the republic, he said. And they were lazy by nature.
Key cheerfully recorded all that, and then explained he would have to rush to get the story into the afternoon paper, but it should be on the streets around four. Windsor debated whether to take his interview material to other papers, but decided he had done a good day’s work, and he would enjoy a leisurely tour of the town, if it wasn’t too cold, and then prepare for the evening show.
He never knew which of several monologues he would employ, and he often sounded out his audience a little before plunging in. Maybe he would talk about future janitors and farmers pouring through the golden gates, and see where that would lead him. The ethnic roots of pig farmers fascinated him.
At four, he bought the paper, hot off the press, and was delighted to see his interview prominently displayed on page one. Good. That would help to fill the oper
a house that evening. The troupe would be pleased with the publicity he’d managed to get on his own.
But in fact no one said anything. Beausoleil was more concerned about having enough acts to run a normal show. The monkeys were sick, and that was a blessing as far as Windsor was concerned, but so were half the acts. And there were some strange faces around; some dubious sorts filling in, which made Windsor irritable. Beausoleil must be desperate.
The Profile saw it all as golden opportunity. During his first stint, in Act One, he had some fun with the copper kings of Butte, getting rich off the sweat of thousands of miners toiling deep in the pits. That got him a lot of nervous laughter. In fact, he was the real star of the Follies, since none of the other acts were drawing the sort of applause and delight that he was enjoying.
Mrs. McGivers was working with two human monkeys, and they weren’t half bad, but it wasn’t as bizarre as when the capuchin monkeys were whaling away. And the Wildroot Sisters were all sniffling and sick, and their stuff wasn’t up to par. And Harry the Juggler wasn’t up to snuff, either, especially when a scimitar fell to his feet. But the tap dancers, the Marbury Trio, were in good form.
All of which made Wayne Windsor glow. He was the top act, and the audience knew it. He did even better in the second act, with an improvised monologue about trying to converse with people who didn’t speak English. He had a knack, and soon was imitating Norwegians, Italians, French, Bohemians, and Eskimos, much to everyone’s delight. The new stuff was so good that he resolved to polish it up and make it part of his standard repertoire.
The show ended with the usual patriotic finale, and The Profile was looking forward to a drink or two, and bed. But John Maguire approached. “Windsor, you’ve got four admirers at the stage door, wanting to take you out for a beverage or two.”
“Women?”
“No, miners, unless I miss the mark. They said they wanted to treat you to a few, and hope you’d accept. They said you’re the man they’d like to visit with.”
“Tell them I’ll be there in a bit, soon as I get into street clothes.”
Sure enough, there were four gents waiting for him, two of them burly, one tall, one short, and all grinning.
“Windsor, is it? We’re looking forward to a visit, sir. We’ll take you to a miners’ pub, and buy whatever it is that wets your whistle.”
“I’d be pleased to bask in your admiration,” Windsor said, wondering if these louts heard him praise himself. But they didn’t.
“This is Martin Murphy, and that’s Will McNamara, and this is Robby Toole, and I’m Mike Hoolihan,” said one of the burly ones. “We all work the Neversweat. We’ll share a toddy with you, if you’re inclined.”
“Of course. I relish time with my admirers,” The Profile said.
They headed northeasterly, toward the great complex of mines that seemed to be the heart of the city, and in that zone where the downtown fell away and dreary streets with mining shanties and flats spread darkly into the night, they paused at an obscure saloon, ill-lit and strangely lonesome looking.
“Pile on in, Mr. Windsor,” said Hoolihan.
Windsor found himself in a long ill-lit saloon with lithographs of horses tacked to the walls and only two lamps illumining the place, front and rear. Pipe smoke hung thickly in the air; most of these cobs had a pipe stem clamped between their teeth. Twenty or thirty silent men nursed ale or a shot of something.
“What’ll it be?” Hoolihan asked.
“Some Jameson’s, if it’s to be had,” The Profile said. That was good Irish whiskey, and this saloon might not stock it. But a bottle promptly appeared, and was set before the guest, along with a tumbler. He could pour his own. That was all fine with The Profile, who awarded his hosts with a long look at each side of his visage.
“We all work for Marcus Daly, and his Anaconda,” Hoolihan said. “He brought us across the sea, by the thousands, and put us to work here. There’s more of the Irish here than anywhere else away from the old country.”
Windsor was beginning to see what this was about. He’d finish the good whiskey, and duck away.
“You know, my friend, it’s mean work, and it wears a man down, and it’s work few Yanks want to do, because it’ll kill a man quick. Now, we thought you might like to see how it’s done. You know, we’re only a little hike from the Neversweat, and we’d like to take you down and show you men knocking rock. I’m a shift foreman, and I have the right to go where I want. You’ll see men working in their underdrawers, it’s that hot. They’re all sheened up with sweat, and have to sip on the cool water they send down the shaft. But we keep on. The muckers break up rock and load it into the one-ton cars, a little noisy for your tastes, and those get pushed or pulled to the shaft and taken up. Others, they’re using pneumatic drills on the face, to pound holes and set the charges. There’s a lot of dust, and nowhere for it to go, and a lot of men get silicosis, miner’s lung, or maybe consumption, because over the years they breathe a lot of that busted-up rock into their lungs, and they die young. So maybe all these immigrants are being led to their doom, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m sure you’re very strong, sir.”
“But maybe dumb, too, wasting our only life down there, far from the sun, breathing killer dust, and getting laid away at age forty-two. All so you can have copper to make wire to light your cities. Take that opera house. It’s wired, and you get to do your show with incandescent lights, courtesy of mostly immigrant miners like these boys here.
“We were thinking, boyo, that there aren’t many as strong as us or brave as us. Mr. Daly, he couldn’t hire enough Yanks to fill his mines, and so he went and fetched us, and brought us here. What does that say about all the ones living here, boyo?”
The Profile smiled. “Thanks for the drink, fellows. I’m worn-out from the show, and looking forward to bed. You’ve been most entertaining.”
He rose to leave, but a strong hand clasped his shoulder and pressed him into the bar again.
“Not so fast, boyo. We’ve decided to take you down the shaft. You ready to go?”
Windsor laughed. “I must say, sirs, it’s not my line of work, and it’s time for me to head for the hotel, with thanks, of course, for your hospitality.”
“You’re staying a while, boyo. We’re not done with you—unless, of course, you wish to show us that you don’t enjoy our company.”
They were itching for a fight. Well, Windsor hadn’t been on his college sculling team for nothing, or the baseball team, or the tennis team, either.
He grinned, tucked a leg behind Hoolihan, shoved and twisted at the same time, and unbalanced the miner, who toppled with a mighty thud. The Profile headed for the door, but only to run into several fists. The others closed in. One caught his left profile with a jab; the other caught his right profile with an uppercut. Hoolihan bounced up and landed a hairy fist square in Windsor’s mouth. He tasted blood. He felt his lips swell. He knew he had bitten his tongue. His mouth was a ruin. He could hardly form words. He fled into the night as they smiled.
20
AUGUST BEAUSOLEIL clutched the yellow flimsy with the bad news: GEO PARSONS BARITONE AVAIL BUTTE THREE DAYS YOU PAY FREIGHT.
That was from a Chicago booking agent, Abe Stoop. Even if August added the Parsons act, it would be too little and too late. And he didn’t have the cash to buy a two-thousand-mile ticket to Butte, Montana, from St. Louis, where Parsons was doing a club.
No, not Parsons.
That morning Wayne Windsor had shown up with a battered face, swollen lips, purple bruises, saying he couldn’t work. His speech was slurred. All he would mumble was that he had been beaten by hooligans, and Butte was a dangerous place. He’d be out of the lineup until he could speak, and that would be a few days. The Profile had gotten himself into a jam somewhere. Beausoleil had a good idea how it had come about, but he didn’t push the issue. That Butte newspaper with the interview sat on his hotel room table. It was a reckless interview in a mining town teeming with peop
le straight off the boats.
That left a major hole. Windsor was good for two monologues a show, always richly humorous, and always an audience pleaser. But that wasn’t all. Mrs. McGivers had come to August that morning with more bad news. Cain had perished from pneumonia but Abel lived on. Cain had died in the night, his prehensile tail wrapped around Mrs. McGivers’ ample arm. He’d coughed and stopped breathing. Butte’s brutal altitude and cold had overwhelmed the tropical monkey. Mrs. McGivers, in her night robes, had carried the dead monkey around and about the hotel, haunting corridors, until someone in uniform had finally steered her to her room and took the dead creature away.
Maybe that act was done, too, but for the moment, if Mrs. McGivers was up to it, the act could continue with a pair of humans playing monkeys. It didn’t look good. He worried less about the substitute monkeys than about Mrs. McGivers, who was suffering a mother’s loss of a child, and might not be able to open.
Suddenly the follies was falling apart. He could manage a short performance, with extra work by the Marbury Trio, and possibly get by. Or he could cancel, lose the box office, but still owe the theater. It was morning; he had a few hours to decide.
He would need to wire Pomerantz. If they were too crippled to play Butte that night and the following, they were likely to be too crippled to play Philipsburg. He wondered if he could even reach Pomerantz, who was off honeymooning after a reckless marriage. Dream girl. Ginger was her name, girl in white, singer of opera and ballads. Funeral singer. Did a good job at the service for Mary Mabel Markey.
He hiked to the telegraph office in the next block, and hastily fashioned a message: NEED GINGER TONIGHT TOMORROW.
Maybe if there was passenger service, he’d have a singer.
But not an act. The girl would just sing some songs. But she was good at it, and that counted.
The odds weren’t good, but he sent the wire anyway, and hoped for a quick reply. It wasn’t anything he could count on.
Catching all the acts in their rooms would be tough, but he could spread the word. He found a Marbury in the hall.
Anything Goes Page 13
