by Vicki Delany
“Can’t wait ta see what she makes outa that yellow cloth.”
The men smiled at the thought.
Sterling changed his mind and headed west on Fourth Avenue. He encountered Constable McAllen coming in the opposite direction.
“What’s this I hear about a horse and Mrs. MacGillivray?”
McAllen told him the story. It didn’t take long. “She’s shook up, but not hurt.”
“And the horse?”
“FitzHenry went after it.”
“I’m going back to the office. When you see FitzHenry tell him to report in.”
Sterling had taken only a few steps when McAllen shouted. He turned back to see FitzHenry heading their way, leading a severely emaciated brown horse by its bridle. The animal’s flanks, so thin Sterling could count every rib, heaved. Its neck was soaked with sweat and white foam bubbled around its mouth.
“Crying shame,” McAllen said, shaking his head. “See an animal looking like that.”
FitzHenry was grinning wildly. “Got it,” he said, unnecessarily. “It ran out of steam up the street a bit and stopped to try to get its head through the fence around a plot of vegetables.”
“Do you know who this animal belongs to?”
They turned at a shout.
“Probably that fellow there,” McAllen said.
A red-faced, round-bellied man was walking quickly toward them. “Miserable wretch,” he snarled. “Aughta sell it for dog meat.”
“You own this creature?” Sterling asked.
“For all that’s worth.”
“You need to keep it tied up better. Someone could have been hurt.”
“I know how to look after horses, friend. None better. That horse was tied up just fine. I’d unhitched the wagon earlier and left the horse tied to a rail outside the cigar store. Weren’t gone more than a couple minutes and I came out to find the horse gone.”
More than a couple of minutes had obviously passed. Sterling let it go. Most cigar stores were owned by independent businesswomen and provided services that had nothing to do with sales of tobacco products.
McAllen had taken hold of the bridle, and he was stroking the long powerful neck, making soothing sounds. “If you fed him now and again, he wouldn’t have to run off looking for something to eat.”
The horse owner bristled. “You find me hay, son, and I’ll be happy to give it to him.” He reached for the rope attached to the bridle. Sterling put out a hand and stopped him.
“What?”
Sterling took the rope, and held it up. The rope was in no better condition than the horse. Stiff with dried mud and years of horse sweat, frayed all along its length. It was bound to snap soon.
But it hadn’t snapped today.
It had been cut.
A clean fresh cut made by a sharp knife.
Sterling showed the end of the rope to the owner. “Can you account for this?”
The man blinked at first, not understanding. Then his eyes widened. “Son of a bitch. Someone stole my damned horse.”
“Watch your language,” McAllen snapped.
“Freed it from the rail, at any rate,” Sterling said. “Although theft might not have been the intention.”
“Someone looking to make trouble,” FitzHenry offered. “A spot of mischief to liven up the day.”
“Perhaps.” Sterling handed the rope to McAllen and walked around the horse. He ran his hands over the sides and belly, feeling every rib. It hadn’t felt the touch of a brush in a long time, if ever. The animal shied away from the probing hands. McAllen stoked the nose, soft as velvet, stared into the liquid brown eyes, and spoke softly. The horse began to settle. Sterling reached the hindquarters and let out a long breath. “McAllen, come here.”
The constable handed the rope to the owner with a scowl and joined Sterling.
“What do you see there?”
McAllen reached out a finger and lightly touched the spot at the left rear leg Sterling indicated. The animal shuddered. McAllen lifted his finger. A drop of red liquid shone in the sunlight.
The two men exchanged glances. The horse stamped his feet and tried to move away. The owner swore at it and jerked on the rope. McAllen laid his hands on the animal’s quivering skin and leaned closer. “There,” he said.
A cut, a long one, so fresh it was still bleeding. About an inch from the root of the animal’s long ragged tail.
“Mighta run into a fence post,” McAllen said.
“In the rear?”
“Backed up and panicked. Horses panic easy.”
“FitzHenry said he was trying to get at some vegetables. Can’t do that with his rear end.”
“No.”
“This cut was made by a knife.” Sterling kept his voice low. McAllen nodded.
“Okay,” Sterling said, louder. “You can go. Look after this horse, will you. Though I don’t think you were neglectful in tying it up.”
The man spat one more time, grabbed the bridle, and yanked. With a last, long sad look at Constable McAllen, the horse let himself be led away.
20
I stood at the back of the hall, watching the show. My entire body ached, particularly the nether regions. I’d landed hard on my rear end. By the time I’d arrived home it had been aching something dreadful. I’d peeked at myself in the mirror to see a massive bruise forming.
Not only had I not gone to the dressmaker, I’d crawled into bed and slept through the afternoon. I rose on wobbly legs and as I arranged my hair my hands began to shake. Until then I hadn’t really comprehended what had happened. What had almost happened.
I could have been killed. Trampled to death by a horse run amok, all in the pursuit of a new gown.
I have a knife cut running from the base of my throat to the swell of my breasts. The scar is healing well, but will probably always be with me. The men find it quite enticing. I ran my index finger down its length. How ironic it would be, after all I’ve endured, to meet my doom in a street accident.
I’d dressed and gone to work, trying hard to keep my quivering limbs under control.
It was approaching midnight and the climax was building. Every one of the dancers, except Irene, was on stage, dancing the hugely popular cancan. The girls high-stepped across the stage, lifting their skirts, kicking up their legs, giant smiles on their faces, while the orchestra struggled to play the accompanying music from Orpheus in the Underworld. The audience roared their approval; the higher the skirts were held the better. The line retreated to the rear of the stage while Maxie took her moment in the limelight. She lifted one leg as high as her head, gripped the ankle in her hand, and danced in a circle. That was Maxie’s only trick, and it alone was worth keeping her on. The men bellowed so loudly the ceiling shook.
Colleen was keeping herself to the back and sides. The girls provided their own costumes, and hers wasn’t particularly good. I’d seen kitchen maids more exotically dressed. But her petticoats were fluffy and her stockings clean, which is more than I can say for some of them. Her neckline was higher than the norm and her skirts a bit longer. She wore a single black feather in her hair and a length of black ribbon around her neck. Her kicks were high although her smile was a mite too tight.
Roland the Magnificent came to stand beside me. He’d staggered into the Savoy moments before eight. He was as white as the dusting of snow on the distant mountains, but he managed to give me a wan smile. A black sling cradled his right arm. He told me, with a shudder, that the doctor had unceremoniously wrenched his shoulder into place. A few days rest and it would be back to normal.
I told him he’d be paid for the days off.
It was hardly my practice to pay sick time, but what else could I do? The man had been injured in the act of saving my life.
The story of his heroism spread through town like wildfire (miners loved gossip even more than dowager duchesses). Men pressed forward, anxious to buy the hero of the day a drink. He humbly accepted, and I’d gone to the dressing room to check on the gi
rls.
“Having a break?” I asked now, keeping my eyes on the stage. He’d spent the previous hours at the poker table.
“I’m out. Lost last night’s winnings.”
“What do you think of the dark-haired girl in the back?” I asked. “The tall one in the pink dress.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just wanting a male opinion.”
“She’s good. Doesn’t look like she’s enjoying it much though.”
“She’s somewhat shy.” I tried to remember what Colleen had told me when she’d come looking for a job. It didn’t matter to me if she’d danced professionally before. All I really needed on the stage were female bodies. She was young and healthy and not ugly, so I hired her.
“The men like her,” Roland said.
“You think so?”
“I know so. I heard a couple talking earlier at the bar. They asked Ray when the new girl in the picture was going to be on.”
“What did he say?”
“He said she’d be here all night.”
Good for Ray. He didn’t know, nor care, what went on in the back room. He simply told the customers what he figured they wanted to hear.
The lively song ended and the girls pranced off. Ellie, the oldest and most experienced, brought up the rear. She paused at the edge of the stage, looked over her shoulder, winked, and kicked back one leg. She disappeared to a round of applause. Ellie knew how to play to the crowd.
Time for the big climax. Irene and her dance of the seven veils. The piano player ran his fingers across the keys; the men whispered to each other in excitement.
I left Ronald and went through the saloon into the kitchen cum storage closet at the back. When I slipped into Helen’s domain, she was washing glasses in a bucket of dirty water. Jake sat on a stool, puffing on his pipe, enjoying a break. The room was crowded with the three of us in it.
“How’s it going?” I asked the head croupier.
“Good.”
“I’ve been wanting to ask you about Roland, the magician. He’s at the poker table every night. Losing much?”
“He’s losing more than you’re paying him, I’d say, Mrs. Mac, but no more than most.”
“Working here is amounting to a net loss then?”
Jake dusted cigar ash off the front of his shirt. He dressed the part — starched white shirt, stiff wing collar, crisp cuffs, buttoned vest, gold watch chain, imitation-diamond stick pin, black jacket, black hat, striped pants. “Maybe he works here to be close to the table. I’d say if he wasn’t working, he’d still be playing. He’s a good player, Mrs. Mac, but luck doesn’t run his way most of the time. He likes the social part of it too. Can’t be a big winner if you’re chatting and being friendly. We’ve got a regular table going now. That Russian guy — now he knows how to lose money. Can’t play worth a hill of beans, has a face as expressive as my four-year-old nephew. Keeps upping the stakes though.”
“What about Mr. Turner, who almost threw a punch at Constable Sterling the other night?” When I walked through I’d noticed Count Nicky and Turner still at it. A couple of other men had joined their game.
“He plays with them most hands.”
“Keep an eye on him. He’s trouble.”
“Thanks for the tip, Mrs. Mac. Never would of thought of that by myself.” He dropped the end of his cigar to the floor and ground it out under his foot.
I laughed. “Helen, I came in to talk to you. I’m going up to my office. Will you please go to the ladies’ dressing room once the show’s finished and ask Colleen to come and speak with me.”
“Which one’s Colleen?”
“Ask one of the girls. Oh, and get the violin player too.” I waved my hand in the air. “Tom something or other. Tell him to bring his violin.”
I was standing behind my desk looking out the window when I heard footsteps on the stairs. I’d assumed a properly authoritative pose to face my employees. I was not sitting because when I had attempted to do so, I had been most unpleasantly reminded of the recent trauma to my bottom.
I rarely drink liquor — I’ve seen too much of where that road can lead — but I’d asked Murray to pour me a glass of whisky. I sipped at it. My legs were still weak and my wrist was aching where I’d fallen on it.
Six more hours to go.
Midnight, but full daylight outside. Below the crowd surged back and forth, from one dance hall to another.
“You wanted to see us, Mrs. MacGillivray?” Colleen asked.
I let a couple of heartbeats pass and then turned. She didn’t look particularly worried, as she should, at having been singled out to come to the boss’s office. The violin player, now he quaked in his boots.
“Do you like working here, Colleen?”
Her shoulders shifted. “It’s fine.”
I would have appreciated a bit more enthusiasm.
“I’ve been thinking of making a few changes to the show. Rearrange the lineup. Can you sing, Colleen?”
The violin player stopped quaking.
“Yes,” Colleen said.
“Sing something for me.”
“What?”
“I don’t know what. Anything. Tom will give you accompaniment if you need it.” He placed the instrument under his chin and held his bow at the ready.
Colleen thought for a few seconds. “Do you know ‘Break the News to Mother’?” she asked him.
He did. Ellie sang it every night.
He plucked the opening notes, and Colleen began to sing. Her voice was good, young and clear. The tune filled the room. I myself am totally tone deaf. It is, I hasten to point out, my only flaw.
She quivered to a halt. Tom stretched out the last note.
“Thank you,” I said to him. “That will be all.”
“Ma’am.” He left.
“Would you like to sing as part of the show?” I said. “Not that song, it’s Ellie’s. Come up with something new. I’m thinking a ballad of some sort. Something melancholy. The men like that, reminds them of home.”
I smiled at her, waiting for gratitude.
She shrugged again. “Okay.”
“What do you mean, okay? I’m taking you out of the line and giving you a solo song. Are you not pleased?” I peered at her. Was the girl stupid?
“I’m pleased, ma’am. Thank you. I’ll practise hard.”
“Good. I’m not offering an increase in pay until I hear the song performed. You’ll have to talk to the gentlemen in the orchestra and be sure they can accompany you. Today is Monday; you can practice on Tuesday and begin on Wednesday. You will sing your song at ten o’clock. If it’s satisfactory, I’ll increase your pay by ten dollars a week. If it’s more than satisfactory, I’ll consider giving you another increase and a speaking role in the play. Do you know MacDuff’s lines?”
“Yes.”
“That’s settled then.” I began to turn back to the window, indicating she was dismissed.
“I’ll have to talk to my dad.”
“You have to ask your father if you can be paid more?”
“He might not want me putting myself forward.”
“You won’t be putting yourself forward, I will be. Colleen, I think you can be an asset to the show. I’m offering you an opportunity to make more money and start moving ahead. Regardless of your father’s sentiment, the choice is up to you. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Old enough to make your own decisions, wouldn’t you agree?”
“My father’s all I have. My mother died when I was young, my brother and sister with her. Scarlet fever.” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “My father brought me to the Klondike because he couldn’t bear to be parted from me. He doesn’t want me to be on the stage, thinks it isn’t proper. But he’s had trouble finding work.” Her voice trailed off.
I figured he should have considered that “bad back” before coming all the way to a frontier mining town. “What’s your last name?”
“Sullivan.”
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“Well, Colleen Sullivan. You have a song to practise before Wednesday night. If you think it would help if I speak to your father, he may call on me tomorrow morning between the hours of ten and twelve, here in my office. I believe you’re needed downstairs. The dancing seems to have begun.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” she said. She slipped away so softly I didn’t hear the tread of her feet on the loose floorboards in the hallway.
I picked up my glass and studied the bronze liquid. The liquor was making me soft. I should have told Colleen to forget it and left her to slink back to the chorus. Plenty of girls would kill to get a shot at a solo on the stage of the Savoy. I did not need complications with controlling fathers.
I threw back the rest of the whisky. It burned its way down my throat leaving a warm tingling sensation. Now, to tell Irene I was cutting one of her songs.
I might need another drink before doing that.
* * *
Mr. Sullivan was waiting for me precisely at ten o’clock the following morning when I arrived at the Savoy. Not-Murray had unlocked the door a moment before, and aside from Mr. Sullivan we had only one customer. Colleen’s father was a large man, muscle gone to fat, balding and red faced. His eyes were the same light shade of blue as his daughter’s, attractive on her, somewhat creepy, I thought, on him, trapped as they were in weighty black bags and criss-crossed with red lines. He had a lush, full beard, mostly grey with a few strands of what must at one time have been a startling red. His clothes were cheap, practical, many times mended but reasonably clean.
He was leaning against the bar, a glass of freshly poured whisky in hand. “Mrs. MacGillivray,” he called as I entered, “a moment of your time.”
“Sir?” I said.
Helen was behind the bar, running a rag across the counter. No need to wipe off the bottles — they didn’t sit there long enough to gather dust. As soon as she saw me, she took her cloth into the back room. She’d put the kettle on and bring a cup of tea upstairs.
“Gerry Sullivan,” the man said. “Colleen’s dad.”
“Mr. Sullivan.”
“My girl tells me you want her to sing in your show.”
