Anything Goes

by Richard S. Wheeler

  “So it is fine for me to saw a woman in two, in a box, but not to put myself under a guillotine blade, eh?”

  “The one’s an illusion, Harry. Every person watching the magic act knows the young lady will be just fine, and what interests them is how it’s done, the illusion. But you’re talking about something else, the possible horror if something happens.”

  “So? What does Houdini do, eh?”

  Harry won that one. But August was damned if he’d put a potential bloodbath before people, and ruin his company and maybe vaudeville in the process.

  “That’s my decision, Harry.”

  “Magic, that’s not the real thing, eh? I do the real thing.”

  “I’m in the entertainment business, Harry. I want people to go home happy and come again the next night.”

  “Well, I’m thinking about another act. The Firing Squad. Latin America, sombreros, bandannas. The soldiers drag a prisoner in, white shirt, tie him to a post, lift their rifles, all aimed at his heart. The capitán, he lifts his hand holding his sword…”

  “Then what?”

  “A beautiful girl rushes in, waving paper, a pardon.”

  “Then what?”

  “El capitán, he lowers his hand, the sword drops, the line of soldiers fires.”

  “And?”

  “The victim, he smiles, takes the big sheet from the girl and holds it up. It says, Intermission, and he kisses the girl.”

  August laughed. And in the wash, his melancholia vanished. He loved the business. It owned him.

  34

  J. J. SHARPEY, manager of the Pocatello Grand Opera House, proved to be a fountain of useful information. Charles Pomerantz had contacted him immediately upon arriving in the southern Idaho town, and was welcomed at once.

  It had been an exhausting trip, clear back to Butte, and then down to Pocatello on the Utah and Northern, and he was ready to call it a day. But on the road, anything can be urgent. He needed to know whether the bill-poster, J. W. Kelly, was putting up the posters, and pasting the new billing in. With his wife, Ginger, getting top billing.

  “You have a concert grand piano here. Is it available?” Charles asked.

  “Unusual, right? A gift, sir, of the Joneses. He’s the superintendent of the Idaho division of the Union Pacific, and a prominent man here. They have a daughter, Penelope, you see, and employ the house for regular recitals. But of course they had to give that up. She was a prodigy, you know, trained by masters, but no master can make a hand grow large enough. Hers didn’t span an octave, the minimum for concert pianists, which disappointed the family. I once heard the mother, Mazeppa, inform the young lady that she had to grow her hands, fingers half an inch longer, an inch for the thumb, and no ifs, ands, or buts. But the dear young lady, Penelope, wasn’t able to accommodate her mother, though no doubt she tried. Growing one’s hands is a tricky business. So the piano goes unused. A Steinway, too. We charge two dollars a night, simply to pay for the piano tuner. He comes clear from Salt Lake to keep it right. We can also put on an orchestra if you need one. Six people.”

  “So the young lady gave up her career?”

  “Oh, no, not at all. Thwarted by small hands, the mother, lovely but firm lady named Mazeppa, put the girl into voice. A sweet voice, that girl. A parade of voice teachers reached town, one after another, and before long the young lady could not only play the piano, but could sing. A nightingale, they call her. Two great skills in a girl not yet an adult. Oh, she slaved, she sang, she comes here for recitals, with her proud parents front center, sir, front center, best seats in the house for the man who more or less runs Pocatello. Front center, to see their precocious daughter sing.”

  “Her parents sound a bit ambitious for her, sir.”

  “Oh, they are capital people. I would never say a word otherwise. But they do have a program for that girl, an only child, the vessel of their dreams, it seems.”

  “What does she think of it, Mr. Sharpey?”

  The manager sighed. “She is a dutiful girl, but sometimes I see something, almost haunted, yes, haunted. That’s the mark of genius, you know.”

  “How old, sir?”

  “Late teens, out of school now. A whole life on the concert stage ahead. I’m sure the parents are arranging it, but I haven’t heard recently.”

  “I’ve met a few stage mothers in my day,” Charles said. “We even have one in our show, managing her daughters. They are, well, impressive, most of them. But sometimes I feel sorry for the child, the one who’s a vessel of someone else’s dreams.”

  “Actually, that girl, she’s fortunate. Her folks laid out a fortune, brought in the best teachers. Did it all here in a growing town, too. I’ve heard tell they’ve spent seven thousand on her. They could have sent her off to New York, some academy, but now Pocatello, Idaho, has a top-notch talent to boast about.”

  “And it is all fine with this girl, Penelope?”

  “She puts her heart into every performance.”

  “Does she have any other life? A young gentleman?”

  “Nope. None that I ever heard about. I think her parents discourage it. The music is the beginning and end of everything, that’s how I figure it. Must be a quiet life, everything depending on a B minor or a C flat.”

  “Why here in an opera house? Why not a small hall, or someone’s parlor?”

  “Fame. We seat six hundred. That’s a corker of a number for a town this size. Penelope’s fame. It rubs off on the parents, I think. And this is the best place in town for all that. She sings and it rubs off. You should see her mother, just waiting for the compliments. Like the compliments were meant for her, and not the daughter. They always have a reception afterwards. Poor girl has to shake a thousand hands.”

  “These people, they seem to own the town.”

  “Well, sir, let me put it this way. He runs the railroad. He can hire or fire most of the people here. And a suggestion to the city fathers, well, you get the idea. Their house is on a little rise, and it gives them a view of Pocatello. You’ll see it when you step out.”

  The manager suddenly reined in his comments, caution restoring his decorum. “You saw the playbill coming in?”

  “I did. It’s just what we want.”

  The playbill filled a varnished frame at the front of the opera house. The Beausoleil Brothers show was well displayed. Not like a big-city marquee, but that playbill would be noticed by anyone passing by.

  “You going to Boise after us? And what’s after that?”

  “Reconnect with our West Coast bookings. Three around Seattle, then Portland, Eugene, Corvallis, Klamath Falls, on down, Sacramento, Stockton, Oakland, Berkeley, finish this tour in San Francisco.”

  “Yeah, if it happens, sir.”

  “You know something I don’t?”

  “The new circuit. Everything’s changing. The Orpheum man out there, Leavitt’s buying every West Coast theater he can put his hands on.”

  “With what?”

  “He’s not asked me so I don’t know. But he’s offering stock in his company, all of that. He’s got a couple dozen, and he’s locking up the talent now. He’ll move the talent city to city, once a week, or hold it over, it doesn’t matter. The talent’s mostly back east, so Leavitt’s got a hold on what’s here. He can give an act a forty-two-week contract, good billing, and good pay, and mostly playing big towns. Most show people would snap that up.”

  “Is that what happened in Spokane?”

  “I heard so. And every day now, I hear something new. It’s like falling dominoes. Get a few and the rest fall. They threaten, you know. If you don’t sell out to them, they’ll build a house across the street and steal your patrons. It’s not what you’d call a genteel game.”

  “We’re booked solid,” Pomerantz said, suddenly wondering whether that was still true.

  Sharpey just grunted.

  “And there’s a hundred smaller houses. And we’re a name show.”

  “The new vaudeville, there’s no show at all
, just acts, catching trains from town to town, connected by telegraph. Even phone sometimes. Lots of trains, take you anywhere, fast service, some with sleepers.”

  Pomerantz had a bad moment, and pushed it aside. “We’re booked. We’ve got good acts. We’re paying our freight.”

  Sharpey didn’t argue. Instead, he went upbeat. “Lots of smaller towns, like this one, each with a house that’s dark too much, and the ones putting the circuits together, they don’t pay attention to us. What do they care about Pocatello or Boise, when they can have Portland?”

  “It doesn’t make sense to run circuits in places where they can fill a house just once a day,” Charles said. “That’s for us. A few matinees, but the cash comes in after dark.”

  “If you can get talent,” Sharpey said. “They’re locking that up, too.”

  “We’ve got a young sweetheart, Ginger, she’s going to the top,” Charles said. “And she’s not going to jump ship.” He smiled. “She’s my wife.”

  “Ah, a syndicate,” Sharpey said.

  Charles smiled. He wondered what Sharpey would be saying in a few days.

  There was business to be done. Sharpey had ordered the tickets, a set for each night, with the bulk of them on sale at Ransome’s Drugstore. The store got a nickel an orchestra ticket, two and a half cents for a gallery seat. The newspapers had been contacted. Ads purchased. Tickets sent to the reviewers. Some handout releases had been given to the papers. Sharpey was as good as his name. There was a good handout of Wayne Windsor, and a fine one on Harry the Juggler. The stuff that Ethel had printed up about LaVerne Wildroot was embarrassing, but it didn’t matter.

  Pomerantz yawned. “What hotel?”

  “Pacific Hotel. Just a hop away. Dollar seventy-five single, two dollars double.”

  “I’d better book us in,” Pomernantz said.

  He stepped into a velvet evening. The town’s commercial district was solid, permanent, and bustling. He could begin to like a place like this, if it weren’t so far from everything. Sure enough, on a rise to the north was a house that lorded over the town, a light shining from most of the mullioned windows. It was not a mansion, just a spacious house with a regal view over the town and the valley.

  His parents-in-law. He wasn’t sure he wanted to meet them. But then he decided they would soon relax, maybe take some pride in their daughter’s new career. Maybe welcome him. He could hope for the best. Ginger was a miracle he couldn’t explain. She had slipped into his every thought, and the sheer joy of her colored his days.

  He got a room, payable in advance, and then sought to book the company into twelve rooms, doubles, four nights.

  “This a theater outfit?” the clerk asked.

  “Yes, the Beausoleil Brothers Follies. We’ll be playing at the opera house, then off to Boise.”

  “Theater company, is it? That’ll be in advance, of course. Twenty-four times four, that’s ninety-six.”

  “I don’t have that much. But the company will, when it arrives, sir. How about a deposit, to be applied to the tariff?”

  The clerk, a thin fellow in wire spectacles, slowly shook his head. “My instructions are, sir, enterprises of your sort, they all pay cash on the barrelhead.”

  “Is there a reason?”

  “Certainly. Skipping town with bills unpaid. That’s one. But this town, we have certain standards. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  “No, I don’t. Tell me.”

  “I will leave it to your imagination, sir.” He pushed his spectacles upward. “Cash up front, that’s it.”

  “Is there another hotel?”

  “I’m sure you’ll find that out.”

  He kept his room for the night, but bowed out. The European was down the street, and he soon had rooms for his company, four nights, doubles at one-fifty, five percent discount. Payable on arrival. But the place smelled odd. And it had no plumbing in any room. That was all down the hall.

  The clerk there was just the opposite of the one at the Pacific: short, garrulous, and bursting with cheer. For some reason, he wore a battered bowler, even behind the check-in counter.

  “People go to the opera house much?” Pomerantz asked.

  “Depends on whether you empty a pay envelope or fill one,” the clerk said. “Them that fill the envelopes, the proper ones, they don’t much care for entertainments.”

  “Is there a reason?”

  The clerk eyed Pomerantz. “There’s an idea around here that this nice place, it should keep out a lot of people and just welcome some. And the easiest way to do that is to run a watch and ward, looking after morals and such. There’s some, want to take the town dry. There’s others, want to make tobacco costly, put a big tax on. There’s others, they want some people to live in certain wards, and other people to live in other wards, all sorted out. There’s some, they want to have the public schools, they won’t take anyone that don’t speak English. We got some railroad workers around here, they’re from all over everywhere.”

  Pomerantz was filling in the blanks fast. “Suppose we do a minstrel act. How’ll that go?”

  “Blackface?” The clerk grinned, baring a snaggle tooth. “You sure don’t know Pocatello.”

  “We’ve got some gals singing. They show a little ankle.”

  “Yeah? They’ll get hauled away, likely. Two-dollar fines.”

  “We’ve got a monologuist. You know, like Mark Twain. He pokes a little fun.”

  “Who’s this Twain?”

  “Man with a sharp tongue, wrote some stories.”

  “He’d best keep his trap shut,” the clerk said. “Take my advice.”

  That was good to know. That’s what advance men did, and why advance men worked ahead of a show. Pomerantz felt the burden. It was his task to keep the show out of trouble, and trouble often came from the least-expected corner. But this time, he thought, Pocatello would run him through the wringer.

  35

  GINGER READ the telegram she had just received. It was printed in capital letters on porous yellow paper, the blue ink blurred.

  SING AND THE WORLD SINGS WITH YOU STOP MISS AND LOVE YOU CHARLES

  She clutched it. A boy had knocked at her door and handed it to her. It seemed a marvel, something bright and new in her life. Charles was such a worldly man, and each hour with him had brought riches to her.

  A wire, just for her! The yellow sheet diverted her, if only for the moment, from the looming menace that was threatening her life. Pocatello. Her parents. Or rather, her mother, ready to impose her will at whatever cost. She hoped that she could simply hide in her hotel room there, not appear, not let anyone in her town see her or know she was there.

  She hoped she might return to the stage in Boise, having escaped the confrontation she dreaded. She hoped she might just continue, Charles’ wife, then the cities around Seattle, then Oregon, each show, each day one step farther away from Pocatello. She had told August she would leave the show, but she hoped she wouldn’t. She hoped she could just slide through. Or maybe go with Charles on his advance tours, putting things together in Boise, far, far from her home.

  That afternoon she had ventured into the bright November sun, strolling Higgins, looking for some small token to give to Charles. And in front of a chocolate shop a well-dressed couple had waylaid her.

  “Miss Ginger, is it?” the gentleman said. “Ah, we saw you, and simply want you to know what a delight. A treat. I wish we could see more beautiful girls singing.”

  “Me?” she asked.

  “Yes, young lady. You are the beau ideal.”

  She wasn’t sure about that beau ideal business, but she nodded.

  “I teach rhetoric at the college, and if you should ever like to address my class, I’d be pleased to have you. Just six students, just getting the college under way, of course. Beaumont, my name. Sterling Beaumont, and my wife, Clarice.”

  “A lovely performance, Miss Ginger,” the lady said. “Our students will be so pleased to learn we encountered you.”


  Ginger nodded. Her first admirers! So many people had come to her recitals, and they were quick to say how well she had mastered Chopin or whatever. But she had never considered them admirers, as this couple were.

  “Well, goodness, thank you,” she said.

  Beaumont tipped his felt hat, and the couple proceeded on its way.

  She bought a small paper bag of chocolates laced with almonds for Charles, and retreated buoyantly to the hotel.

  If this was show business, she was all for it.

  She was noticed. They liked her singing. The whole world lay just ahead. All she had to do was sing, sing, sing, and everything life had to offer would be hers. She hastened back to the hotel, looking for August Beausoleil. She needed to talk. He was not about. She hastened to his room, knocked boldly, and after a moment the door swung open. He was half-dressed. He stared, no warmth at all in his face.

  “I want to talk to you, sir.”

  “I will not have my partner’s wife seen entering or leaving my room. I will be in the lobby in five minutes.”

  With that, he pressed the door shut. She found herself staring at the blank door instead of his flinty face. Well, then, the lobby.

  It wasn’t much of a lobby, and this wasn’t much of a hotel. It was an enlarged corridor, the registration desk on one side, and a bench on the other. It seemed all too public, with all the hotel’s traffic walking straight past her. But she had to explain. She had to try it again.

  He appeared in less than five minutes, nodded to her to step outside, and she followed, having to exert herself to keep up with him.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I was hasty,” she said. “I want to sing. Just not in Pocatello, that’s all. I’m sorry I was hasty.”

  “No,” he said.

  “No what, sir?”

  “You’re done. You’ll not come to me one day, wanting out, and another day, wanting in. Every such choice turns my show upside down. I don’t care who you are, or how you’re married, you’re through.”