by Len Levinson
They let General Lee down. Stone would rather die, if he could turn it around. General Lee lost everything, including his home in Arlington, in a war he never wanted.
Wade Hampton tried to buy the general’s good name after the war, offering the presidency of an insurance company. Nobody south of the Mason-Dixon Line would refuse Bobby Lee’s life insurance. Instead, the old soldier turned Washington College into the South’s finest school. God didn’t make many men like Bobby Lee. The former captain of cavalry wiped a tear from his eye with the back of his hand.
A woman in pink tights and black mesh stockings dropped onto his lap. She had black hair and large brown eyes with long lashes.
“I’m Annie Mae. New in town?”
It took Stone a few moments to return from Gettysburg. “Just arrived. Looking for a job. Know of anything?”
“Always need experienced bartenders here. Talk to the boss.”
“Who is he?”
“Belle McGuinness. Her office is in back. You ever been a bartender before?”
“Just pour whiskey into the glass, right?”
She became shy, a little girl wearing her mother’s cosmetics, though she was old enough to be a mother herself. She slid off his lap and dropped onto the chair beside him. “Who the hell are you?”
Stone told her his name.
“Somethin’ weird about you. You wanted for anythin’?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You remind me of a feller I knew once who been in jail. You got the mad-dog look in yer eyes.”
“What’s Belle McGuinness like?”
“Don’t ever cross her.”
He headed for the rear of the saloon, asked a bartender where Belle McGuinness was.
“Foller yer nose down the hall.”
Stone entered the corridor. The door said MAIN OFFICE. He removed his hat, wished he shaved that morning.
A scholarly looking man sat at a desk, while a gorilla in a suit read the Lodestone Gazette on a chair near the window.
“Whataya want?” asked the scholar.
“Belle McGuinness. I heard she’s looking for a bartender.”
“Where’d you work before?”
Stone pulled a saloon out of his memory. “The Last Chance in San Antone.”
The scholar walked to a door at the rear of the office. Stone looked at the gorilla. “What’s your job?”
The gorilla pointed to his mouth and made inarticulate sounds, deaf and mute. The scholar returned to the office. “Boss lady’ll see you now.”
Stone walked to the back room. A woman with blond hair piled high on her head sat behind the desk. She wore substantial cosmetics, black birthmark on her chin, pretty but hard-looking, maybe thirty-eight. “Have a seat.”
Stone dropped onto a leather upholstered chair. “Miss McGuinness, I—”
She interrupted. “What d’you know ’bout tendin’ bar?”
“Spent a lot of time in saloons. Know what makes a good bartender. Give ’em a good pour, don’t forget to collect the money.”
She was bold and brassy, all business. “Miners spend a few months in the hills, when they hit town, go loco. You got to be able to handle ’em. I pay ten dollars a week, plus yer meals. You can start tonight if you want, but understand one thing. Get caught stealin’ from me, you’re a dead man.” She paused to let it sink it.
The scholar led Stone to the main room of the saloon. A group of dancers in tights kicked their heels, Annie Mae on the end. She blew a kiss to Stone as he followed the scholar behind a bar.
“Got some help for you fellers,” the scholar said to two men working feverishly. “Move on down.”
The scholar tossed Stone an apron, showed him glasses, whiskey bottles, beer keg, and near beer keg. “Fer the sissies and pantywaists what don’t like the real stuff.” He slapped Stone on the shoulder. “It’s all yours.”
The scholar walked away from the bar. Stone hung his old Confederate cavalry hat on a peg. Time to get acquainted with his fellow bartenders, but somebody hollered: “Whiskey!”
Stone turned to two bleary eyes in a body covered with dirt. The man looked like he just crawled out of a hole in the ground. Stone dropped a glass in front of him and filled it.
“Barkeep!”
He ran to another man. Three miners asked for a bottle of whiskey. Stone took money, made change, ran back and forth behind the bar, spurs clanging.
Customers were two or three deep at the bar. A woman shrieked as somebody pinched her bottom. A man with a feather in his derby roared like a lion. The band barely could be heard above the din, Stone placed a mug of beer in front of a customer, who snarled: “I said whiskey, not beer!”
The customer smacked the mug with the back of his hand, it flew at Stone, he tried to dodge, spilled over the front of his apron. His first instinct was punch him in the mouth, but he needed the job.
“Yes, sir,” he said with a forced smile as he filled the glass.
A slender bony figure arose at the far end of the bar. Stone walked toward Slipchuck, eyes dazed, hat crooked on his head.
“Whiskey,” Slipchuck said, not recognizing his pardner.
Stone poured the glass. “Fifty cents.”
Slipchuck reached into his pocket.
“Spend it on whiskey,” Stone said, “you’ll be sleeping in an alley.”
“Can’t stand a bartender who preaches,” Slipchuck replied. “I asked you fer a glass of whiskey, that’s all I want it to be.” Slipchuck looked into Stone’s blue eyes, trying to intimidate him. “Johnny! What the hell you doin’ there!”
“Just got hired.”
“Bartender!” shouted the man who threw the beer at Stone.
Stone tried to smile. “What can I get you, sir?”
“I ain’t figgered it out yet.” He grabbed the front of Stone’s shirt in his fist. “I don’t like you.”
The miner swung at Stone’s head. Stone blocked it and ripped a solid left hook to the miner’s face. The miner staggered backward and landed on his back, eyes closed, left leg shaking uncontrollably.
“Whiskey!”
Stone ran toward the customer. Everybody was calling him. He shifted around, filled glasses, took money, poured three glasses of whiskey for three gamblers in slick suits and neatly clipped mustaches.
“How’s about one on the house?” Slipchuck asked, pushing his glass forward. Stone poured the drink.
“Bartender!”
Stone ran toward the voice of the miner he’d punched. Blood oozed from his split lip, he aimed a gun at Stone. “You son of a bitch—say yer prayers!”
Everybody in the vicinity sucked wind. A space opened on both sides of the miner. Stone stared down the barrel of a gun for the second time that day. If he could distract him ...
A truncheon came crashing onto the miner’s head. The miner’s eyes rolled white, he dropped out of sight on the other side of the bar. Standing behind him was a powerfully built man. “No gunplay in the saloon.”
Two men stepped out of the crowd, grabbed the miner by his arms and legs, carried him toward the back door. The miner’s head hung back lifelessly, blood dripped out of his nose and ears.
~*~
Gail Petigru sat with her older sister, Mrs. Patricia Madden, in the dining room of the latter’s two-story home on Hawthorne Street. Four tapered wax candles illuminated a roast turkey carved by the Maddens’ Negro maid, Ethel.
“Sorry Bart can’t join us,” said Patricia, who’d gained twenty-five pounds since her marriage. “He often has to work late. He has many responsibilities.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting him,” Gail replied.
“He can be brusque at times, so don’t be offended. As I said, he’s a busy man.”
Gail looked at a painting above the fireplace of President Grant as a three-starred general, her sister’s home furnished like the finest in Bangor, her brother-in-law obviously a wealthy man.
“Married life’s not all it’s made out to be,�
�� Patricia said sadly as she buttered a biscuit. “Don’t expect too much from a man. Love changes just as people change.”
Gail touched her sister’s hand. “I’m sorry ...”
“Nothing different from any other marriage. Can’t always be like the first few weeks. Do you have a beau?”
“Saw an interesting man on the train today. Much older than I, a former Confederate cavalry officer, but something sweet about him.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“Said he was a cowboy.”
“How drunk was he?”
“Didn’t seem drunk at all.”
“Unusual for a cowboy, but I don’t suppose they’re bad as miners. Miners are filthy, crazy, cut your throat for a dime. Did your Confederate charmer continue on to Denver?”
“He’s in town.”
“You’ll have to invite him to supper with us one night.”
“I don’t know where he lives. All his money was stolen in the holdup. Said he’d find a job.”
“Maybe Bart could get him something. Was he educated?”
“A college man, but wouldn’t work in a bank. Doesn’t like to shave.”
“Is he good-looking?”
“He’s been in some fights recently.”
“Maybe you try for something a little better?”
“I’ll probably never see him again. What time will Bart get home?”
“Sometimes he doesn’t come home at all. Bart says there’s ten times the activity here than in an ordinary town. I’ve been married three years, and all I can tell you is this: Men are fascinated with us, until they get us. Then they want us to be maids and mothers, and leave them alone.”
~*~
Belle McGuinness sat in her office, cheroot in hand, studying the ledger on her desk. His sharp eyes roved up and down the columns, reading numbers the way another person reads a novel. The Grand Palace was healthy. Money rolled in night after night. She was in the right place for once in her life. If she could keep it up a few more years, she’d be rich.
Belle grew up poor and ragged, her mother a prostitute, nobody knew who her father was. She became a prostitute at twelve, a drunken farmer nearly beat her to death at thirteen. When fourteen, a soldier tried to jam his knife into her. She’d been in many cat fights with other women; a scar on her cheek was camouflaged with rouge. Her finishing schools were whorehouses. She learned to be cold and tough. You can’t trust anybody. She carried a derringer in her garter.
Bart Madden, Patricia’s husband, entered her office, wearing a dark blue business suit with long frock coat and wide striped cravat.
“What’re you doin’ here?” Belle asked. “Ruin your reputation, you git seen with me!”
“Do you mind?” He kissed her cheek. “I’ve missed you.” He had dark saturnine features, straight nose, receding hairline.
She pushed him away. “Be careful you don’t git powder on yer coat. Yer wife’ll see it an’ beat the shit out of you.” Belle threw back her head and laughed.
Madden’s face reddened. “Don’t worry about my wife. I can handle her.”
“Then why do we sneak around like we’re doin’ somethin’ wrong?”
“Bank presidents can’t leave their wives for other women. Doesn’t look right in the banking community. Give me another year.”
“Give you all the time you want, darlin’. Just remember, momma don’t like to be alone.”
He grabbed her shoulders. “My bank paid for every stick of wood in this building, every glass behind the bar, every thread on your back! You make a fool out of me, you’ll be sorry!”
“You ’spect me to act like your wife,” Belle said, “but you’ve got a legal wife, remember? ’til you put that ring on my finger, you got no call to tell me how to live.”
“If you loved me, seems you could wait.” He wrapped his arms around her. “When the bank is on a more solid footing, I’ll divorce my wife and marry you, I promise.”
“No you won’t. You’re ashamed of me, because everybody in this town knows I was a whore.”
“When my investments pay off, I could marry a nigger and get away with it. You’ll be the queen of Lodestone when I’m finished with you.”
“I’m queen of Lodestone now. Don’t need you for that. I want a man who’ll stand by me.”
“That’s me. I’ll do it.”
“’til you put that ring on my finger, I’m a free woman. You want to foreclose on the Grand Palace, I’ll git my finances elsewhere. Even a fool can see this place is a gold mine.”
He tried to keep smiling. What could he do to bring her into line? Hit a soft spot. “I always wanted somebody to have faith in me, believe in me, and trust me. If I say I’ll marry you in a year, why can’t you accept it?”
“If every man married me who said he would, I’d have more husbands than the King of Araby has wives. Like I said, till you give me a ring, I’m a-keepin’ my eyes open.”
~*~
Stone ran back and forth behind the bar. One drunkard after another. Keep pouring. Wash glasses every chance you get. Give the right change. Didn’t know where he’d sleep that night, shirt soaked with sweat, apron covered with spilled everything.
“Where’s that goddamn stupid bartender!”
A miner with a leather slouch hat stood before him, picking his teeth with a knife. “Bottle of booze.”
Stone lifted it out of the case and set it before him. “Four dollars.”
The miner dropped a five-dollar coin on the counter. Stone took it to the cashbox, retrieved one dollar, tossed it to the miner.
“I gave you a twenty-dollar gold eagle! You’re a dirty cheatin’ crook! I might be drunk, but I’m not that drunk.” The miner smashed the bottle over the bar and held the lethal jagged edge in his fist.
Stone took a step back and waited for the timely arrival of the man with the truncheon, but he didn’t come. The miner climbed on top of the bar.
“Go git ’im, Ned!” goaded a miner nearby.
Stone didn’t dare shoot him in a town with a police department. “You’d better climb down. Check your money, you’ll see I’m right.”
The miner snarled, the bottle’s edge glittering in the lamplight. He crouched, ready to jump on Stone, who drew a Colt and fired. The broken bottle shattered in Ned’s hand. He stared at the tiny fragment remaining. Truth dawned on him. He made a self-conscious half smile, shrugged, lowered himself to the ground.
“That was some pretty fancy shootin’!” said a clean-shaven miner. “Who the hell’re you?”
Stone holstered his gun, concerned both his Colts would get rusty behind the bar, liquids splashing constantly, floor slippery, a man could break his neck, worse job he’d ever had.
“What does a man have to do to get a drink around here!”
Stone carried whiskey to a gambler in a white shirt and red cravat. Then he drew a mug of beer for a man who looked like the local schoolteacher. A miner passed out on the bar, cheek lying in a puddle of spit. Stone placed his hand on the miner’s head and shook him. “Time to go home.”
The miner didn’t budge. Another customer pulled the drunkard out of the way and let him fall to the floor.
Stone filled the new customer’s glass. A month as a bartender before he could leave for San Francisco, wasn’t sure he could make it. Maybe I can find a better job.
~*~
Bart Madden walked toward the best neighborhood in Lodestone, hands shoved into his pockets, mind still at the Grand Palace.
He didn’t know what to do about Belle, because he’d fallen in love with her. But everyone knew what she was. He’d be ostracized. A banker had to be respectable, but Belle wanted a ring on her finger.
Madden had a headache. Too much on my mind. Some said the mines were petering out. The maid took his hat and cane. His wife sat in the living room with a young woman who bore the Petigru family resemblance.
“My sister, Gail.”
A choice morsel, he thought as he took her hand. �
��Heard you had a bad trip.”
“I was robbed at gunpoint.”
“Welcome to the frontier.” He sat on an upholstered red velvet chair in front of the fireplace. The maid brought a glass of whiskey. “Patricia’ll give you the grand tour tomorrow. Watch out for drunks.”
The clock on the mantel said ten o’clock. “I’m awfully tired,” Gail said. “Do you mind if I turn in early?”
Patricia escorted her upstairs. They entered the guest bedroom. Patricia frowned as she pulled down the bedspread.
“Are you all right?” Gail asked.
“Just a little distracted. Sleep well.”
Patricia descended the stairs. Bart sat in his office, looking at documents. Patricia stood before the desk. “How dare you disgrace me in front of my sister!”
“I say something wrong?”
“You can smell that woman’s cheap perfume all over the house. Do you think I don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Everything about you and Belle McGuinness! I don’t care what you do with her, but just don’t bring her into my house!”
She stormed out of the office. How does she know? He bit his cigar. If she left him now, bad for business. He found her in the kitchen, taking a glass of water from the maid. “Ethel, would you leave us alone for a moment, please?”
The maid retreated. “It’s not what you think,” Madden said to Patricia. “You know how evil gossip is.”
“Cheap perfume isn’t gossip. I’m sure my sister noticed it.”
“I had a drink, so what? I have to mix with the populace. That’s how I drum up business for the bank. They might look like drunken prospectors to you, but some are worth millions.”
“They wear cheap perfume?” Patricia asked sarcastically.
“Wherever miners go, you find women. I have to mix with the people.”
“Mix with whoever you want. Rut with hogs if you want. But keep them out of this house!”
Gail undressed in front of the mirror. She was five-two, smooth creamy skin, full of life and hope, but something missing.
She knew what it was. When would he come along? Her sister was already an old lady at twenty-five. Gail dropped a nightgown over her head, blew out the lamp, crawled beneath the covers.
