The Overlords & the Wild Ones

by Matt Braun

  Fontaine cut short their tour of Holladay Street. He realized within a block that they had strayed from the more respectable section of the sporting district. Lillian kept her gaze averted, though she felt shamelessly intrigued by the sight of so much sin for sale. Chester, on the other hand, oogled the girls and mentally marked a few bordellos that looked worthy of a visit. They quickly found themselves back on Blake Street.

  The Alcazar Variety Theater was the liveliest spot in town. A two-story structure with leaded-glass windows, if offered diverse forms of entertainment for the sporting crowd. On the first floor was the bar and, through an arched doorway at the rear, the theater. The stage was centered on the room, with seating for 400, and a gallery of private booths circled the mezzanine. The upper floor of the club was devoted exclusively to gambling.

  Their entrance was not altogether unnoticed. Lillian, though she was dressed in a simple gown, drew admiring stares from men at the bar. Fontaine purchased tickets to the theater and slipped the doorman a gold eagle, which resulted in a table near the orchestra. The audience was composed primarily of men, and waiters scurried back and forth serving drinks. As they were seated, Fontaine saw a man emerge from a door leading backstage. He nodded at Lillian.

  “Unless I’m mistaken,” he said, “there goes our employer, Mr. Tully.”

  Lillian followed his look. The man was stoutly built, with salt-and-pepper hair and a handlebar mustache, attired in a dark suit and a colorful brocade vest. He stopped here and there, greeting customers seated at tables, and slowly made his way to the rear of the theater. She glanced back at her father.

  “Shouldn’t we introduce ourselves, Papa?”

  “No need, my dear,” Fontaine said idly. “We aren’t expected until tomorrow. Time enough, then.”

  “Yes, I suppose,” Lillian said. “He certainly has a nice theater.”

  “Let us hope he’s a good showman as well.”

  The orchestra thumped into a spirited dance number. As the curtain opened, a line of chorus girls went high-stepping across the stage. The lead dancer raised her skirts, revealing a shapely leg, and joined them in a prancing cakewalk. The dance routine was followed by a comic, a sword swallower and his pretty assistant, a contortionist who tied himself in knots, and a team of nimble acrobats dressed in tights. The audience applauded appreciatively after every act.

  The headliner was billed as The Flying Nymph. A trapeze bar flew out of the stage loft with a woman hanging by her knees. She was identified on the program as Darlene LaRue, and she wore abbreviated tights covered by flowing veils. She performed daring flips and at one point hung by her heels, all the while divesting herself of a veil at a time. The orchestra built to a cresendo as she swung by one hand, tossing the last veil into the audience, her buxom figure revealed in the footlights. The curtain swished closed to applause and cheers.

  “Good Lord!” Fontaine muttered. “I thought I’d seen everything. That is positively bizarre.”

  Chester laughed. “Dad, it’s the show business. You have to admit she’s different.”

  “So are dancing elephants,” Fontaine said. “That doesn’t mean it is art.” He turned to Lillian. “Don’t you agree, my dear?”

  Lillian thought Denver was no different than Pueblo. Or for that matter, Abilene and Dodge City. Men were men, and they wanted to be entertained rather than enlightened. Opera would never play on a variety stage.

  “Yes, Papa, I agree,” she said. “No dancing elephants.”

  Fontaine gave her a strange look. “Pardon me?”

  “I won’t sing from a trapeze, either.”

  “I should think not!”

  She decided to humor him. His art was his life and not a subject for jest. Alistair Fontaine was who he was.

  She hoped Shakespeare would play in Denver.

  Springtime was the best of times in the Rockies. The air was invigorating, and on the mountains green-leafed aspens fluttered on gentle breezes. The slopes sparkled below the timberline with a kaleidoscope of wildflowers.

  A horse-drawn streetcar trundled past as the Fontaines emerged from the hotel. The sun was directly overhead, fixed like a copper ball in a cloudless sky. Fontaine, who was in a chipper mood, filled his lungs with air. He exhaled with gusto.

  “I do believe I’m going to like it here. There’s something bracing about the mountain air.”

  “Not to mention the streetcars,” Chester said. “Give me a city anytime, all the time.”

  “I endorse the sentiment, my boy.”

  Lillian shared their spirited manner. The sidewalks were crowded with smartly dressed men and women attired in the latest fashions. Everywhere she looked there were shops and stores, and the city seemed to pulse with an energy that was all but palpable. She thought she’d already fallen in love with Denver.

  Fontaine set off briskly down the street. They were on their way to meet with Burt Tully, the owner of the Alcazar. Fontaine and Chester looked dapper in their three-piece suits, freshly pressed for the occasion. Lillian wore her dove gray taffeta gown, her hair upswept, a parasol over her shoulder. She had never felt so alive, or more eager to get on with anything. She was excited by their prospects.

  “I’m looking forward to this,” Fontaine said, waiting for a streetcar to pass. “From what we saw last night, Tully’s establishment needs a touch of class. That is to say, The Fontaines.”

  Lillian took his arm. “Papa, will you do something for me?”

  “Why, of course, my dear. What is it?”

  “Try not to lecture Mr. Tully.”

  “Lecture?” Fontaine said in a bemused tone. “Why on earth would I lecture him?”

  “You know,” Lillian gently reminded. “What we were talking about last night? Dancing elephants and trapeze ladies.”

  “I see no reason to raise topics of an unpleasant nature. After all, we have Mr. Tully exactly where we want him.”

  “We do?”

  “Yes indeed,” Fontaine said confidently. “Three hundred a week speaks to the fact that we have the upper hand. His first offer, as you will recall, was rather niggardly.”

  “Papa, we mustn’t let him think we’re overbearing. Won’t you be tactful … for me?”

  “I shall be the very soul of discretion. You may depend on it.”

  Lillian exchanged a look with Chester. He tipped his head in an imperceptible nod. “Listen to her, Dad,” he urged. “Denver’s our big break and we don’t want to spoil it. We might end up in Pueblo again.”

  Fontaine laughed it off. “Never fear, my boy, we have seen the last of Pueblo. Leave everything to me.”

  Some ten minutes later they entered the Alcazar. A bartender told them that Tully’s office was on the second floor, at the rear of the gaming room. Upstairs, they found a plushly appointed room with faro layouts, twenty-one, chuck-a-luck, roulette, and several poker tables. Though it was scarcely past the noon hour, there were men gathered around the various gaming devices. The girls serving drinks wore peekaboo gowns that displayed their cleavage to maximum effect.

  The office looked more suited to a railroad mogul. A lush carpet covered the floor, the furniture was oxblood leather, and the walls were paneled in dark hardwood. Burt Tully was seated at a massive walnut desk; a large painting of sunset over the Rockies hung behind his chair. He rose after they knocked and came through the door. His mouth lifted in a pleasant smile.

  “Let me guess,” he said, extending his hand. “You’re the Fontaines.”

  Fontaine accepted his handshake. “A distinct pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Tully. May I introduce my daughter, Lillian, and my son, Chester.”

  “An honor, Miss Fontaine,” Tully said, gently taking her hand. “I’ve heard a good deal about the Colorado Nightingale. Welcome to the Alcazar.”

  Lillian smiled winningly. “Thank you so much, Mr. Tully. We’re delighted to be here.”

  “Please, won’t you folks have a seat?”

  There were two wingback chairs before the des
k. Fontaine took one and Chester stepped back, motioning Lillian to the other. He seated himself on a leather sofa against the wall, casually crossing his legs. Tully dropped into his chair behind the desk.

  “Allow me to congratulate you,” Fontaine said. “You have a very impressive operation here.”

  “I don’t mean to brag—” Tully spread his hands with a modest grin. “The Alcazar is the top spot in the Tenderloin. We pack them in seven nights a week.”

  “And well you should, my dear fellow. You offer the finest in entertainment.”

  “All the more reason you’re here. Darlene LaRue closes tonight and you open tomorrow night.”

  “Indeed!” Fontaine said jovially. “I’m sure we will fill the house.”

  “No doubt you will.” Tully paused, his gaze shifting to Lillian. “I have ads starting in all the papers tomorrow. Everyone in town will want to see the Colorado Nightingale.”

  Lillian detected an unspoken message. There was no mention of The Fontaines but instead a rather subtle reference to the Colorado Nightingale. She returned his look.

  “Are you familiar with the way we present our act?”

  “Yes, of course he is,” Fontaine interrupted. “I covered all that in our telegrams. Didn’t I, dear fellow?”

  “Let’s talk about that,” Tully said seriously. “You realize your daughter is the attraction? The real headliner?”

  “I—” Fontaine seemed taken aback. “I would be the first to admit that Lillian draws the crowds. Was there some other point?”

  Tully steepled his hands. “I have no objection to the melodrama. We haven’t held one in a while and it ought to play pretty well.” He hesitated, his features solemn. “I’d like you to consider dropping the Shakespeare.”

  “Nate Varnum said the same thing in Pueblo. Shakespeare played well enough there.”

  “No, Mr. Fontaine, it didn’t. I exchanged telegrams with Nate, and he told me—you’ll pardon my saying so—the crowd sat on their hands. The same thing will happen here.”

  Fontaine reddened. “You signed The Fontaines to an engagement, and The Fontaines are here. I expect you to honor the terms of our agreement.”

  “Think about it,” Tully suggested. “Your daughter has a great career ahead of her. She’s doing two songs a show, and she should be doing three or four. Without the Shakespeare, she could.”

  “Mr. Tully.”

  Their heads snapped around at the tone in Lillian’s voice. She shifted forward in her chair. “Father speaks for The Fontaines. You have to accept us as we are … or not at all.”

  There was a moment of intense silence. Tully finally shook his head. “You’re doing yourself a disservice, Miss Fontaine. Your father knows it and I know it. And you know it, too, don’t you?”

  “As I said, we are The Fontaines. Shakespeare is part of our act.”

  “Just as you wish,” Tully said in a resigned voice. “I’ll go along only because I want the Colorado Nightingale at the Alcazar. For you, personally, I think it’s a big mistake.”

  Lillian smiled. “You won’t think so tomorrow night. We’ll fill the house.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you will, Miss Fontaine.”

  Tully arranged a rehersal schedule for her the next morning. After a perfunctory round of handshakes, they left his office. Outside, walking along Blake Street, it was apparent that Fontaine’s chipper mood had vanished. He appeared somehow diminished, head bowed and shoulders hunched. Lillian knew he was crushed.

  “Papa—”

  “Later, my dear.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I think I need a drink.”

  CHAPTER 22

  LILLIAN STROLLED along Larimer Street. The central thoroughfare of Denver, it was lined with shops and stores, banks and newspaper offices, and all manner of business establishments. She turned into Mlle. Tourneau’s Dress Shop.

  The shop was airy and pleasantly appointed, with a large plate glass window fronting Larimer Street. Dresses were displayed on mannequins, and from the rear, behind a partition, she heard the whir of sewing machines. A small woman with pince-nez glasses walked forward as the bell over the door jingled. She nodded amiably.

  “Good afternoon,” she said with a trace of an accent. “May I help you?”

  “Are you Mademoiselle Tourneau?” Lillian asked.

  “Oui.”

  Lillian thought the accent was slightly off and wondered if the woman was really French. She smiled politely. “The manager at the Brown Palace told me you are the finest dressmaker in Denver.”

  “M’sieur Clark is very kind,” Mlle. Tourneau said. “And whom do I have the privilege of addressing?”

  “My name is Lillian Fontaine.”

  “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Fontaine. How may I serve you?”

  “I’m in desperate need of some gowns. I hoped you might design them for me.”

  “But of course, with pleasure. What type of gowns do you require?”

  “Stage gowns,” Lillian replied. “I’m an actress and a singer. I open tomorrow night at the Alcazar Variety Theater.”

  Mlle. Tourneau laughed coyly. “There is much talk about you, I believe. You are the one called the Colorado Nightingale. Non?”

  “Well, yes, that is how they have me billed.”

  “How very exciting! I will be honored to design your gowns.”

  Mlle. Tourneau began spreading bolts of cloth on a large table. As she prattled on about the quality of the fabrics, Lillian ran her fingers over the material, pausing to study various colors and textures. Finally, hardly able to choose from the delicate fabrics, she made three selections. The bolts were set aside.

  Scarcely drawing a breath, Mlle. Tourneau pulled out a large pad of paper and a stick of charcoal shaved to a point. She began sketching gowns, rapidly filling in details as the charcoal flew across the paper. One was to be done in embroidered yellow tulle, another in Lyon silk with white lace trim, and the third in pleated ivory satin with guipure lace. She completed the last sketch with a flourish.

  “Voilà!” she announced dramatically. “C’est magnifique!”

  Lillian studied the sketches. She had given considerable thought to remarks made by both theater owners and stage performers over the last several months. The more discreet had alluded to the aura of innocence she projected onstage and how irresistible that was to men. The more plainspoken advised naughty but nice, a peek here and a peek there to heighten the sense of mystery. She decided now that some of both would enhance the overall effect.

  “Here,” she said, a fingernail on the sketch. “Perhaps we could lower it slightly … to here.”

  “Ahhh!” Mlle. Tourneau peered over her pince-nez. “You wish to accentuate the décolletage. Tres bien!”

  “And here.” Lillian pointed to the bottom of the gown. “Perhaps we could raise this just a … touch.”

  “Mais oui! You wish a tiny display of the ankle. How very daring.”

  “Nothing vulgar, you understand.”

  “Non, non! Never!”

  Mlle. Tourneau led her to the fitting room. Lillian disrobed to her chemise and the dressmaker began taking measurements. She ran the tape around hips, waist, and bust, and her eyes went round. She clucked appreciatively.

  “Extraordinaire!” she said merrily. “You will look absolutely lovely in these gowns. I predict you will break hearts. Many hearts.”

  “Well …” Lillian studied herself in the full-length mirror and giggled. “I’ll certainly try.”

  “Fait accompli, mon cher. Men will fall at your feet.”

  “I have to ask you a favor, mademoiselle.”

  “Anything in my power.”

  “The ivory gown …” Lillian waited until she nodded. “I’ll need it by tomorrow evening. I just have to have it for my opening show.”

  “Sacre bleu!” Mlle. Tourneau exclaimed. “Tomorrow?”

  “Won’t you please?”

  Lillian looked at her with a beseeching gaze. Mlle. Tournea
u’s stern expression slowly gave way to a resigned smile. Her eyes blinked behind her pince-nez.

  “How could I refuse you? I will work my girls throughout the night. You must be here first thing in the morning for a fitting. But you will have your gown. Certainment!”

  “Oh, thank you! Thank you!”

  The measurements completed, Mlle. Tourneau suggested an accessory to complement the outfit. She carried a line of low-cut slippers with a medium heel, which she could cover in the same fabric as the gown. She laughed a wicked little laugh.

  “Show the shoe, show the ankle. Eh?”

  “I think it’s perfect!”

  A short while later Lillian left the shop. She returned to the hotel, tingling with excitement at the thought of her new gown. When she entered the suite, her father was slumped in an easy chair, a bottle of whiskey at hand on a side table. His jaw was slack and his eyes appeared glazed. He lifted his glass in a mock toast.

  “Welcome back to our cheery abode, my dear. How went the shopping?”

  Chester was seated on the divan. As she crossed the room, he looked at her with an expression of rueful concern, wagging his head from side to side. She stopped by the fireplace. “I ordered a lovely gown,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “I’ll have it for the opening tomorrow night.”

  “Marvelous!” Fontaine pronounced in a slurred voice. “Never disappoint your public.”

  Lillian saw that he was already drunk. He laughed as though amused by some private joke and poured himself another drink. The bottle wobbled when he set it back on the table, and he watched it with an indifferent stare. He took a slug of whiskey.

  “Papa,” Lillian said tentatively. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink?”

  Fontaine waved her off with an idle gesture. “Have no fear,” he said. “John Barleycorn and I are old friends. He treats me gently.”

  “I worry anyway. Too much liquor isn’t good for you.”

  “I am indestructible, my dear. A rock upon which a sea of troubles doth scatter to the winds.”