by Pamela Morsi
They all laughed. The sound of Cedarleg's humor was familiar. Calhoun's was a deep bass chuckle. And the woman's was a throaty little giggle that was somehow lush and feminine at the same time.
"You boys just go ahead and talk about business," she said to the men. "I know you're just dying to get your heads together about drill bits or limestone formations and I'll leave you to it. Besides I've got some introductions to make."
There was a light slapping sound that Tom interpreted as Calhoun patting the woman on the backside. He kept his eyes on his beer, all his concentration centered on listening to the conversation at the next table.
For that reason, he was startled when a female arm came around his shoulder and the woman he knew to be King Calhoun's Queenie leaned down beside him.
Up close, she was a bit older than he'd thought. She was probably in her mid-thirties. Her heavy face makeup was garish, but there was something about the genuineness of her person that was welcoming. In that second, Tom felt that in some way he'd known her all his life. That was undoubtedly how other people responded to her, also. It was a very fortunate trait for a woman in her business, or any business for that matter.
"Are you Cedarleg's tool dresser?" she asked.
He stared at her mutely, praying that Calhoun was not looking in their direction. He nodded slightly.
"Do you have a name?"
Tom hesitated. His face was still turned away from Calhoun, but he didn't want his future father-in-law to even hear of Tom Walker in passing.
"I'll just call you Tool Dresser," Queenie said with a warm smile, as if she was quite used to fellows who didn't wish to identify themselves.
She reached over and took Tom's hand.
"Let's go to the back," she said. "There's somebody I'd like you to meet."
He looked at her in disbelief.
"Come on, Tool Dresser," she said. "I don't bite. And even if I did, I wouldn't bite a good-looking young fellow like you."
She laughed that little throaty giggle at her own joke and continued to tug on his arm. Tom felt he had no option but to follow her.
He rose to his feet, deliberately keeping his back to the other table, and stepped sideways to avoid even giving a hint of his profile to the man behind him.
Queenie seemed to accept his strange behavior as reticence. As they made their way to the back, she took his arm and patted his hand as if offering comfort.
"Cedarleg tells me you've been on edge the last few days," she said.
Tom felt they'd covered a far enough distance that he could give a surreptitious glance back toward Calhoun's table. Neither he nor Cedarleg were paying any attention to him. That was good. But the two were going to discuss business, and he was not going to be there to hear it. He needed to get loose from the woman beside him and get back out there somehow.
She led him into the hallway next to the stairs.
"Ma'am, I really appreciate this but I don't think . . ."
"You got the dog, Tool Dresser?" she asked him casually.
"What?"
"You got the dog? It makes no difference. We got gals that got it and gals that don't. I just try to match people up."
"I ... I don't have a venereal disease," Tom answered.
"Don't now, or didn't never?" Queenie asked.
"Never," he answered.
"Good, that's real good," she said. "Some of the young men straight from the farm, they think it makes them more manly to have it. But it ain't no bargain to my mind. I don't care how much spirit of niter or arsenicals you take, once you got it you pretty much always got it. And you only got to hear those poor fellows screaming while they piss to appreciate that it ain't something a man can much enjoy."
"Miss Queenie, I—"
"You just call me Queenie, everybody does," she interrupted. "I'm going to set you up with Frenchie. She's my best and I know she'll take a real shine to you."
"Queenie, I don't . . ."
"Don't worry about the money," she said. "I owe Cedarleg a couple of favors, and Ma would skin me alive if I was to try to fix him up with some of my gals."
"No, it's not the money, it's just that ..."
Queenie paid no attention to him.
"Frenchie! Frenchie, come meet Tool Dresser."
Tom turned toward the woman who was hurrying down the stairs. She was too heavily made up for him to determine her age. She was short, a little stubby, and rather dark complexioned. Her very long and thick hair hung loose down her back and was the strangest color of red that Tom had ever seen. It obviously had its origins in a dye bottle.
When she reached the second stair on the landing, she leaned forward to grab Tom by the shoulders and gave him an exuberant kiss.
"Oh, precious!" she exclaimed. "You're so good-looking, I'd do you for free."
"Don't let that go to your head, Tool Dresser," Queenie said beside him. "Frenchie'd just about do everybody for free."
The young woman gave her boss an unhappy glare and wrinkled her nose mischievously.
"That's what she was up to when I found her," Queenie said.
"Oh, pooh, don't listen to her," Frenchie told him. "Come on up to my room and I'll make you feel like you're the only man for me in the whole wide world."
"Uh, Frenchie I . . ."
Tom turned back to Queenie to explain. She just grinned at him and patted him encouragingly upon the back. "Go ahead, you two. Have a big time. Cedarleg wants you to get a good night's rest, Tool Dresser. And Frenchie can sure make that possible. Just don't fall asleep in her bed. She's got a living to make."
Grabbing the fly button on his overalls, Frenchie led Tom, muttering and mostly mute, up the stairs and into the first doorway at the top. Safely inside, she shut the sounds of the barroom out and wrapped herself tightly against him.
"What was you hoping for, precious?" she asked. "You want a basic easyover, or maybe something a little more snappy?"
"There's been a little misunderstanding, Frenchie," he said. "I am not looking for any female companionship this evening."
"Oh, now, precious," she coaxed, rubbing her bosom up against him enticingly. "Don't get scared on me. Is it your first time? I love first timers. I always give 'em a two-for-one."
Tom ran his hand appreciatively through the strangely colored hair that hung down her back.
"It's not my first time," he said. "Although I have not had much experience with ladies on the line."
"With your good looks and sweet ways, I bet you never had to," she answered.
Tom didn't reply to that.
"You're very pretty and quite tempting, Frenchie," he told her. "But I'm . . . well, I'm involved with a young woman right now. And I just wouldn't feel right about . . . about enjoying your time."
"She'll never know," Frenchie assured him. "At Queenie's Palace we are very discreet."
"I would know," Tom said quietly.
"Well, I can get you off with my mouth. It's what I'm best at. They don't call me Frenchie cause I'm from France," she joked. "And the good girls don't do that, so it don't count as being unfaithful."
"For me it counts," Tom told her quietly.
Frenchie stepped back then and folded her arms across her chest with a look of disgust. "Well, damn," she complained good-naturedly. "And you're so pretty, too. I'll go downstairs and the ugliest old coot in town will have his money on the table asking for a double-dip, around-the-world with a topper."
Tom grinned at her, grateful not to be obliged to argue further. He dug into his pockets. For him it was two days until payday, also. And he'd given his last nickel to have the note delivered to Cessy.
"I've only got four cents," he told her.
"You don't owe me nothing," Frenchie said. "Worse luck that. Anyway, Queenie don't let me handle the money. She says I loan out more than I take in. You settle up with her. But be sure and tell her that I didn't even get your pants off."
“Thanks.”
He opened the door and Frenchie called
out to him. "If that gal of yours don't do you right, you come back this way now."
She ran the tip of her tongue around the line of her lips seductively and Tom paused momentarily at the sight, swallowing down purely physical desire.
"Good-bye, Frenchie," he said and left before the remnants of his better judgement deserted him.
He was genuinely surprised at himself. It had been a good long while since he'd enjoyed the pleasure of a woman. And it seemed almost stupid to turn down what was so generously offered. But somehow it did seem wrong. He'd been kissing and cuddling on Cessy's front porch every night for the last week. It would be wrong, very wrong to spend his first evening away from her in the arms of another woman.
At the bottom of the stairs one of the Palace's other girls spotted him and smiled hopefully.
"Where's Queenie?" he asked her.
The woman's face registered disappointment and she pointed mutely toward the back door.
As he made his way in that direction, he passed a huge, dangerous-looking cowboy who gave him a threatening perusal. Tom was momentarily taken aback until he heard the sounds coming from the doorway beneath the stairs, the click of the wheel, the rattle of dice. Queenie was running gambling in the back room. And this formidable man watching the door was the lookout.
"I'm just trying to find Queenie, I need to settle up," he said.
The fellow gave a jerky indication with his thumb toward the Palace's back door.
Tom made his way past the cowboy outside and into the dark, deserted alley behind the building. The noise from the joint was muted here. That was probably why he heard Queenie before he saw her.
She was bent over double, retching miserably. Tom hurried to her side.
"Are you all right, Queenie?" he asked.
She straightened with guilty haste.
"I'm fine!" she declared, one moment before she fainted.
Tom caught her. Immediately, surprised and scared, he turned to call back to the Palace, but knew that no one would hear him over the boisterous noise and the twangy piano. He slipped an arm under her knees and carried her over to the pump and water trough near the corner of the building.
She was already coming around as he dampened his handkerchief. He set the cool cloth against her forehead.
"Are you better now?" he asked.
She sat up, looking around curiously. "What happened?"
"You fainted."
Queenie laughed lightly, without humor. "A gal never has her smelling salts when she needs them."
She tried to get up. Tom was instantly at her side.
"You're ill," he said.
"It's just something I ate," she assured him. "What are you doing down here. Thought I left you with Frenchie. Didn't you like her?"
"I'm sure she's wonderful," Tom said. "A couple of years ago, I wouldn't have hesitated to enjoy her completely. But for all that I'm not sleeping too well, I ... I am courting a young lady."
"Is that so? Courting ain't married, Tool Dresser. And most fellahs think that what the gal don't know won't hurt her."
"I'm not willing to risk it," Tom told her. "In some ways I think I've been given a chance to start over again. And I would feel . . . well, I wouldn't feel right about indulging myself."
"What do you mean you've been given a chance to start over?" she asked.
"I guess I just got tired of the road I've been seeing ahead of me, so I've decided to change my future."
"You make it sound like it's downright easy, Tool Dresser," she said.
He snorted and chuckled lightly. "Well, it helps a bit if you can just throw away your old past and start out with a brand-new one, cut exactly to fit."
Queenie looked at him a long moment and smiled.
"What's your name, Tool Dresser?" she asked.
"Tom, Tom Walker," he answered.
"I'm going to remember you, Tom Walker," she said. "You're going to make something of yourself in this world."
"I certainly hope so, ma'am," he replied.
"And you are a genuinely decent fellow. I like that in a man."
They had reached the back door. She handed his wet handkerchief back to him.
"Are you going to be all right? Do you want me to get someone for you?" he asked.
"No," she answered. "And Tool Dresser, keep what you saw to yourself. I don't want anybody worrying about me."
He raised his eyebrows. "What I saw? Why, I didn't see anything. I just came back here to settle up with you. I didn't take what Cedarleg set up for me, but I did waste some of the young lady's time."
"I'd say we're square, Tool Dresser.
He nodded to her and headed back into the barroom alone. There were more people than before. The music was louder, the dancers drunker.
Determinedly he began to work his way back across the room to where he'd left Cedarleg and Calhoun in deep discussion. He had missed sparking with Cessy tonight for a purpose. He was here to learn about Calhoun's business. Finally he could see the table Where the two had been seated. Cedarleg sat there alone. Tom's heart sank and he sighed with momentary disappointment.
When he reached the table he dragged out a chair and sat down, offering a smile to his friend.
"That was damn quick, son," Cedarleg stated flatly. "As you get older, you might learn to make it last a while."
He chuckled at his little joke, and Tom laughed with him.
"I thank you for the offer, Cedarleg," he said. "But I just didn't feel right about it."
The old man nodded as if he understood. "You got lipstick on your mouth," he said.
Tom pulled out his damp handkerchief and wiped the evidence away.
It was Princess herself who hurried to the front door when the little boy pounded on the knocker. She was eagerly awaiting Gerald and disappointed that it wasn't him.
Her day had been busy. After her long, thought-provoking visit with Ma, she'd had Howard drive her out to the school to check on the construction of the machine shop building. It was nearly completed and looking as fine and functional as any such building she had ever seen. It was exciting to see it go up. And would be even more so when the machinery and the boiler engine arrived. Princess could hardly wait.
Of course, despite her protests, the dear old schoolmaster had risen from his sickbed to greet her himself. He simply could not allow her to get away without a couple of bushels of fresh-picked sweet corn.
She and Howard had been helping the cook shuck sweet corn on the back step ever since they got home. Princess didn't have to help, but she always did. She loved the comradery of working on a task with other people and she didn't mind the work. But she hated picking up what would appear to be a perfect ear of corn and pulling down the outside husk to find one of those fat, awful, green corn worms hiding inside.
"Well, good evening, young man," she said to the child on her doorstep.
He held his grubby hand toward her, a piece of paper tucked securely in his fist.
"A fellah at the Palace in Topknot give me this."
Princess took the note from him, but looked disapproving.
"The Palace is not a nice part of Topknot for a little boy to see," she said sternly. "What would your mother think about you being in such a place?"
The little boy shrugged. "Mama does dime-a-dance at the Redhead Driller," he answered.
Princess didn't like the answer. She opened the door more widely. "Then you probably have not yet had supper," she said. Glancing up, she saw Howard hurrying in her direction.
"Take this young man back to the kitchen," she said. "And tell Mrs. Marin that he will have something to eat."
The boy's eyes were wide, but before he allowed himself to be led away he turned to her once more.
"That'll be a nickel for the delivery," he said, indicating the note.
Howard looked angry and ready to speak, but Princess forestalled him.
"The same price as Western Union?" she asked, tutting with disapproval. But she found a nickel i
n her pocketbook and gave it to him.
He bit down on it to insure himself that it was real and then willingly followed Howard back to the kitchen.
Princess looked down at the note in her hand. She opened it, assuming it was from her father. He wired her earlier that he intended to return on the evening train. He was undoubtedly down at the saloon in Topknot visiting his . . . his female friend and was merely sending word that he would arrive home late.
When she saw Gerald's signature at the bottom, it set her heart to racing.
Deliberately she refolded it and clasped it against her chest.
Princess walked to the quiet solitude of the sun parlor. She seated herself in good light and then drew off her spectacles and methodically cleaned them of any film or dust. She had just, she decided, received her first love letter. It was the first written communication between herself and the man with whom she hoped to spend her life. At Miss Thorogate's she'd read some of the letters that John and Abigail Adams had exchanged. And the beautiful correspondence exchanged between Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Here in her hand were the words of her John Adams, her Robert Browning. And she was both elated and anxious that it would not live up to her expectations.
Finally she unfolded the note and held it open before her.
My own dear Cessy, it began. I can not visit you this evenun as an herjent matter of business has come up. As I am sirten you know, I wood be there if I could.
Her brow furrowed in curiosity.
"Yale?" she whispered aloud to herself.
I am hoping to see you on Sunday. Maybe we could go for a picknick on the river and spend the afternoon together.
The letter was poorly written and plagued with spelling errors. Surely, a graduate of Yale, even one whose main interest was athletics, would be capable of composing a grammatical note.
I herd that your father is back in town. I think that you should not say inny thing about me to him yet.
That suggestion momentarily took her aback. She had never tried to conceal anything from her father. And she was quite certain that Daddy was going to just love Gerald. How could he not?
As always you hold my heart with your own. Gerald
Princess continued to stare at the letter for a long time, her original thoughts about love letters completely forgotten. A strange, niggling feeling of discomfort remained unsettled inside her.
