by Vicki Delany
“Gentlemen, we will be opening the floor for the dancing early. I am sure you all understand that some of the ladies are so distressed by tonight’s events they won’t be able to perform to their best.”
“I wanna see the cancan,” a man called.
I glared at him. “Then you may return tomorrow.”
The men grumbled, but they didn’t seem too upset. Most of them didn’t much care what we did. Stage show or the dancing, it was all the same to them. They came here to spend some time with women, to drink, to brag about their exploits out on the Creeks.
I lifted my skirts and descended the stage. The waiters began moving the benches, shoving them to the sides of the room to clear the floor. The orchestra started up; the percentage girls sashayed into the crowd.
“Colleen.” I spotted the cause of all our troubles trying to blend in.
She glanced around, looking as though she were hoping a knight in shining armour would swoop down and cart her away. When none did so, she approached me. Somewhat as a mouse might approach a waiting cat.
“Ma’am?”
“You’re fired.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Please, ma’am, no. I need this job.”
“Do you expect me to do anything else? If your plan had been permitted to succeed we would have been shut down. Perhaps permanently. Then we’d all be out of a job. As it was, your father almost caused a riot. Just as well the police were here in force, or who knows what might have happened. I notice your father has conveniently disappeared.”
“I’ll tell him to stay away from now on.”
“Too late, Colleen. I don’t need trouble and your father seems intent upon causing it. One way or another.”
Fat tears rolled down her pink cheeks. “My father’s a good man, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
That I doubted. But it was neither here nor there. Men were pressing closer to us. “Dance, miss?” one scruffy fellow asked Colleen. Heavens, if we continued with this conversation in public I might well have another riot on my hands.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said to the would-be dancer partner. “The Mounties have some questions for Miss Sullivan regarding her father. Later perhaps.”
He nodded politely but made no move to leave us, simply stood smiling stupidly at Colleen.
Inspector McKnight came over. “Is this the lady?” he asked me.
“Miss Sullivan,” I replied.
“Do you have someplace we can speak privately?” he said with a glance at the listening men.
“My office. You know the way.”
McKnight stood aside, gesturing for Colleen to precede him. She hesitated. I felt a shiver of tension spread through the watching men. Oh, dear. If it looked as though she were being arrested, they might try to do something to stop it.
Betsy passed by, looking for a mark … I mean a dance partner. I called her name and waved her over. “This gentleman would like a dance.”
Betsy simpered. The man didn’t look too terribly impressed.
“On the house,” I said.
“Wow. Thanks, ma’am.” He grabbed Betsy around the waist and hauled her away much in the fashion that he might once have collared cattle for branding. The remaining men grinned and the small crowd broke up.
McKnight seemed to have something wrong with his eye: he was looking at me with something approaching approval. He said, “After you, Miss Sullivan.”
I debated going upstairs with them. It was hardly proper to allow the girl to be interrogated without a female companion. But I didn’t dare leave the floor. Tension was as thick in the air as tinder ready to burn and wouldn’t take much of a spark to ignite it.
“Mrs. MacGillivray!”
Irene descended upon me. Her black eyes blazed like burning coal, her jaw was clenched tight, and a vein pulsed in her neck. “You,” she declared. “You did that on purpose.”
“You didn’t honestly expect we could continue with the show, did you? In any event it wasn’t my doing. Inspector McKnight ordered it.”
She spoke over my protestations of innocence. “You closed the show early to keep me from making my announcement.”
“Oh. That.” I’d honestly forgotten all about her theatrical pronouncement. More important matters had been occupying my mind. “It’ll have to wait for another time. I don’t suppose you want to tell me what your grand proclamation is?”
She sniffed. “You’ll find out in due time.”
“I’m satisfied to wait.” I turned and walked away, leaving her fuming.
I went through the gambling hall. Turner, Roland, and the count were back at the poker table, concentrating on the cards in their hands. The roulette wheel spun to a halt, the croupier said, “Twelve,” and someone cheered.
“It seems I’ve missed all the excitement,” Graham Donohue said.
“Have you just arrived?”
“I was researching an article I’m writing when I heard word a riot had broken out in the Savoy. By the time I made my way here, it was to find a troop of Mounties carting a pack of sad-sacks off to the fort. What happened?”
“I scarcely know. I stopped one of my dancers from doing something indecent and her father took offence to that.”
“Her father? Her father wanted her to do an indecent performance?”
“Seems strange, doesn’t it? Particularly as I got the impression she’s a somewhat shy and reserved girl.”
“Takes all kinds, I guess.”
“That it does.” I drifted away, thinking. It wasn’t unheard of for a father to get a perverse sort of titillating pleasure out of his daughter. But perhaps Mr. Sullivan wasn’t Colleen’s father? Rather her much older husband? No reason for subterfuge. A good number of the percentage girls were married, as were some of the headliners and chorus performers at the other dance halls. Maybe he liked watching her perform for other men. I glanced up, toward the ceiling. When the police were finished questioning her, I’d send her packing.
Not my problem any longer.
26
To Angus’s disappointment Mr. and Mrs. Mann had gone to bed before he got home. He had to wait until morning to tell them about the previous night’s excitement. He acted out the highlights of the fight in great detail, dancing around the kitchen while Mrs. Mann attempted to start breakfast, blocking and parrying and jabbing at the air in front of his face.
Mr. Mann wanted to hear every detail. Mrs. Mann wanted to cook bacon.
Angus didn’t mention that he, himself, hadn’t actually taken or laid any blows. Finally, he dropped into his chair, exhilarated.
Mr. Mann punched the air, happily reliving fights of his youth.
“Men,” Mrs. Mann huffed, flipping bacon.
All morning, working at the shop, Angus played the brawl in his mind. His own part began to grow. That man had been following his mother, intent on who-knows-what mischief. Clearly he’d been frightened off by Angus’s steely-eyed stare. He ducked an incoming blow and responded with a fast right hook. A lady shopping for a laundry bucket eyed him suspiciously. “Are you having a fit, young man? Should I fetch a doctor?”
He blushed. “Sorry, ma’am. That’ll be ten cents.”
She handed over the money and walked off with the bucket under her arm, head shaking.
Too bad he’d arranged to help Miss Jennings as soon as he finished at the store. He’d like to find Dave, tell him about the fight.
Miss Jennings would be interested in hearing the story. After all, she was always asking him questions about life and people in Dawson.
She’d left the front door unlocked in expectation of his arrival and was in the developing room when Angus arrived. He called, and she shouted that she’d be finished in a few minutes. When he first started working for her, Miss Jennings had explained that he absolutely mustn’t open the door. Even a sliver of light would ruin the undeveloped plates. He flipped through the photographs on the table. Some good ones of the police going about their business, boats on the busy waterfront, Front Street f
estooned with banners. Dancers peeked from behind fans or ostrich feathers, and men posed stiffly with pick axes and shovels. Count Nicky, with one foot up on a wooden crate, his neck stretched, chin thrust forward, face as firmly set as that of Napoleon in David’s portrait.
The developing room door opened.
“You’ve been busy,” Angus said.
Miss Jennings smiled. “Business is good.” She took off her apron. “Today I’ve a mind to finally go to Paradise Alley.”
“Why?”
“Because the women who work there aren’t coming to me. Therefore I must go to them.”
Angus hesitated. “I don’t know, Miss Jennings. My ma won’t be pleased she hears I took you there.”
“I won’t tell her if you don’t.” She put her hands on her hips and studied him. “We won’t be going inside anyone’s room, Angus. I’d like to see the street, that’s all. You can come, or not, as you like. I’ll be photographing outside and it’s a sunny day, so I won’t need the flash powder.” She found her bonnet amongst her stack of papers and plopped it onto her head, tying the ribbon under her chin.
Angus picked up the camera case. They left, Miss Jennings locking the door behind her as she always did.
Some of the women who lived and worked in the muddy stretch of street known as Paradise Alley shied away as the photographer and her assistant approached. But a good number came out for a peek. Business was slow early in the afternoon. More than a few men slunk into the shadows at the sight of the determined Miss Jennings followed by Angus carrying the bulky camera box.
“Good afternoon,” Miss Jennings said, projecting her voice to be heard. “I’m going to take a picture of the street. Anyone who wants to be in the photograph is welcome.”
She instructed Angus to set up the camera. He found a place on a moderately stable section of the boardwalk. The street was narrow. A row of tiny, hastily constructed buildings ran down each side of the road. Only a few feet wide, each had a single window and a door that opened directly onto the boardwalk. In some cases, the resident’s name was painted above the door.
A few of the ladies wandered over. They watched Angus unfolding and adjusting the tripod and fastening the camera into place. Their dresses were plain, undecorated, and well-worn. They smelled of unwashed clothes, cheap perfume, and a sharp bitter scent Angus couldn’t identify.
Miss Jennings studied the street, head cocked to one side.
Two men rounded the corner. Their faces were hard under rough beards, their clothes dirty. The women shied back as they approached. “Are you lost, lady?” one of them asked.
“No.”
“What you got there, sonny?”
“It’s a camera.”
“I can see that.” The larger of the two men stepped in front of Miss Jennings. The other put his back to the camera. He waved at the women as if shooing flies away. They retreated. Some went inside, the bolder of them stood on the opposite boardwalk.
“Excuse me,” Miss Jennings said, “you’re blocking my view.”
“There’s nothing for you to take pictures of here.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“You’re chasing away the customers. Men who come here looking for a bit of entertainment don’t like to think a nice lady such as yourself is watching them. Interfering where she shouldn’t.”
“It’s a public street.” Her voice was calm and smooth. She made a square of her hands and held them up to her face, peering around the man. He moved to block her.
“Angus,” she said, “you might need to run and fetch the police.”
He was hardly going to leave her here alone, but he didn’t say so. He knew who these men were. Employees of Joey LeBlanc, the madam who owned, in a literal sense, many of the prostitutes on this street. Joey and Fiona were bitter enemies. He wouldn’t tell his mother he’d been involved in a confrontation with Joey’s men.
“We don’t need no yellow stripes.”
“Glad to hear it. If you’ll step aside and allow me to take my pictures, we’ll be on our way as soon as I’ve finished.”
The men glanced at each other. Their boss was nowhere around and they didn’t quite know what to do now. Miss Jennings stepped behind the camera. Angus held the black cloth. “I’ve got a splendid idea,” she said cheerfully. “You, sir, remain where you are. It will make a lovely photograph. A souvenir for you to send home to your mother, with the street in the background.”
He leapt aside. Miss Jennings bent over and Angus tossed the cloth over her head. She made a few adjustments, then removed the cap from the lens and quickly replaced it. “Another, I think. Sure you don’t want to be in the photograph, sir?”
The men grumbled to each other. One woman, older than the rest, lifted her skirts high and crossed the street. She grinned. She didn’t have a tooth in her mouth and her scarred scalp, pitted with scabs, showed through thinning hair. “I’ll be in your picture,” she said.
The man growled at her and lifted a hand.
“Don’t you threaten me, Mr. Black. Ain’t gonna do no harm. Give the lady what she wants and she’ll be on her way. Stand here arguing all day, ain’t none of us gonna get no business.” She put a hand on a scrawny hip, tilted her head to one side, and smiled.
Miss Jennings took the picture and tossed the black cloth to Angus. He packed up the equipment. The men stood in the street watching until they’d turned the corner.
Angus let out a long breath. Miss Jennings laughed. “That was fun. I don’t know if I can do much with the portrait of the hideous old cow, but I got most of the street in the background. What a wretched place that was.”
“Where to next?”
“That’s enough excitement for today. Good work, Angus. You kept your cool.”
“They wouldn’t have done anything,” he said, pleased with the praise but trying to be modest. “Mounties are waiting for the chance to give those two a blue ticket.”
They made their way back to the photography studio. Miss Jennings pulled the key out of her pocket as they approached. She came to a halt so suddenly, Angus bumped into her. He peered over her shoulder.
The wood around the door handle was smashed and splintered, the lock dislodged. They exchanged glances. Angus put the camera equipment on the ground, and Miss Jennings slowly reached out and pushed on the door. It swung open on unoiled hinges.
At first glance they could see nothing out of the ordinary. The darkroom door stood open, everything resting where it had been left. The photographs on the table were untouched, props and photography equipment still in place.
Miss Jennings let out a long breath. The building was quiet. Empty. “Oh, dear.” She touched his arm. “Angus, you didn’t move the flash powders did you?”
“No. You said we wouldn’t need it.”
“They’re gone.”
27
Gerry Sullivan had disappeared. Colleen, shaking and close to tears, had taken Sterling and McKnight to the tent in which they lived. Her father had not been there.
The Sullivans were living in the tent camp high above town. Sterling returned this morning. The girl, showing signs of a sleepless night and plenty of tears, said she hadn’t seen him.
He wasn’t too concerned. Hopefully the man had skipped town on the first boat out. Which was all the Mounties were going to do to him at any rate. Too bad about the girl, if her father had abandoned her.
“You will let us know if you hear from him,” Sterling said.
She nodded.
“Does your father get into trouble much?”
She shook her head. “He wanted me to sing, that’s all.”
“But you did sing. I heard you. It was nice.”
“What am I doing to do, sir? I don’t have a job any longer. I can’t support myself if my father goes to jail.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. He started to walk away. She stood watching, her hand on the tent flap. “Miss Sullivan. About that … uh … aborted dance. Did your father tell you
why he wanted you to do it?”
“He said this stuffy British town needed some livening up.”
“Why have you come here, Miss Sullivan, if your father dislikes it so much? He isn’t mining, is he?”
Her eyes filled with more tears. “For the Brotherhood. It’s always for the Brotherhood.” She ducked and shut the tent flap behind her without making a sound.
Sterling walked downhill, heading back to the detachment office, deep in thought.
When he reached Second Avenue, rather than turning left he kept on going, heading east to cross the rickety bridge over the Klondike River to Louse Town.
The Yankee Doodle was nothing but a wooden shack with a hand-painted sign in a muddy row of equally unimpressive establishments. An American flag hung prominently over the door. Feeling highly conspicuous in his uniform, thinking it might have been a better idea to come in mufti, Sterling pushed open the door and walked in.
Conversation stopped. Only one small, very dirty window graced the room and no lamps had been lit. Not many men were in the establishment in the middle of the morning. Ghostly shapes in the gloom. A red fire glowed as someone sucked on his pipe. The bartender, a long-bearded, long-haired fellow with a scar running though his upper and lower lips, stared at the Mountie.
“Lost, are you?” he said at last.
“No. This is the place.”
Sterling’s eyes began to accustom themselves to the light. Three men, aside from the bartender. A door led off the back of the main room, probably to where The Stallion plied her trade prior to her marriage.
“I’ve heard talk,” Sterling said, “of miners’ meetings. You men aren’t planning anything like that here, are you?”
Heads shook.
“Glad to hear it. I’m looking for a man by the name of Sullivan. I’ve also heard talk he drinks here sometimes.”
Heads shook again. Sterling had, in fact, heard no such thing. But it was possible, if the man was an American agitator, he’d find his way to the Yankee Doodle. It was also possible he’d gone to any one of a number of bars Sterling had never heard of.
