Gold Fever

by Vicki Delany

  She looked up. Her eyes were dry and clear. “I don’t have so much money.”

  “Then you can’t leave.”

  “If there’s a dispute about monies owning, tell Mrs. LeBlanc to take it to the magistrate,” Sterling said. “Judge’ll hear her case in due course. Angus, why don’t you take Mary’s arm. Mr. Mann can carry her things.”

  Mr. Mann grabbed the bundle, and Angus slipped his arm through Mary’s with a shy smile. The little party started to move away, Sterling leading, followed by Angus and Mary, Mr. Mann and the bundle of meagre possessions bringing up the rear. The second tough slapped his fist rhythmically into the palm of his meaty hand. A small crowd had gathered at the end of the street. Curtains twitched in the windows of the nearby cribs.

  “You got something you want to say?” Sterling asked. The slapping stopped. The tough looked at his partner.

  “Mrs. LeBlanc believes that ladies can sort out their problems without going to court. She’s asking you not to leave, Mary, until she’s had a chance to talk to you. All nice and lady-like. Proper. If you still want to go, Mrs. LeBlanc’ll probably let you out of paying what you owe her, and off you can go. Now don’t that sound better than dealing with the redcoats and the white man’s courts?”

  Mary hesitated and looked up the street at the unsmiling woman standing alone. Sterling feared she was about to give in, to take her bundle from Mr. Mann, mumble goodbye to Angus, and return to her miserable dwelling and whatever despair had resulted in her wearing Fiona MacGillivray’s cast-offs.

  “I’d like to go with Angus,” Mary said. Her voice was soft, but it didn’t waver. She lifted her head and looked the man in the face. “Please, get out of our way, Mr. Black.”

  “You think your word will stand up in court against a white woman’s, Mary? You’re a fool.”

  “You’re full of nonsense,” Angus shouted. The boy had remained silent as long as he could. “Mary’s word’s as good as anyone’s in a proper Canadian court. Isn’t that right, Constable Sterling? And anyway,” he continued without waiting for an answer (the honesty of which Sterling would have been reluctant to affirm), “if Mary owes Mrs. Leblanc some money, she can pay it out of her wages without living here.”

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Mary said. “You’re free to come and go as you like without worrying if it causes some folks trouble or not,” Sterling said. “The North-West Mounted Police will see to that. Shall we go?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. She lifted her head high and patted Angus’s hand.

  “You’ll regret it, stupid squaw,” Mr. Black said. His partner spat into the street, barely missing Mary’s feet.

  “Take Mary and Angus to the Savoy, Mr. Mann,” Sterling said. “I want a word with Mrs. Leblanc. I’ll make sure those two don’t follow you.”

  Joey LeBlanc remained on the other side of the street as she watched Angus, Mary, and Mr. Mann disappear around the corner. A flicker of anger moved behind her small black eyes before she recovered her composure and extinguished it. Her face returned to its customary empty expression. It was rumoured in this town of a thousand rumours that there had once been a Mr. Leblanc, but Joey had knifed him in St. Louis for doing irreparable damage to a piece of merchandise belonging to the family business, so to speak. Sterling questioned the veracity of the story but not that Joey was perfectly capable of it. He crossed the street while keeping one eye on the two toughs, although neither of them seemed inclined to follow Mary or indeed to have any idea of what to do now, without their boss issuing an order.

  “Lovely evening, Constable,” Joey LeBlanc said, gathering her shawl around her shoulders

  “It is, and I’m sure it’ll stay that way, Mrs. Leblanc, quiet and peaceful.”

  “That chit of a squaw ’as humiliated me in front of my employees and my customers.” Leblanc’s accent held strong memory of Montreal French. She spoke in an even tone, as if they were discussing the weather. “I don’t care for that.”

  “The North-West Mounted Police don’t give a damn what you care for, Mrs. LeBlanc. As long as you keep it to yourself.”

  “Really, Constable, such language. But perhaps that is why a promising, but not-so-young, fellow such as yourself remains only a constable?”

  The barb struck home, and Sterling could tell by the expression on the whore-mistress’s face that she knew it had.

  “You and your friends,” he glanced at the two hired toughs, “are to leave Mary alone.”

  “ Mais, monsieur, she owes me money.” LeBlanc shrugged and held out her arms. “What is a poor widow to do to get justice?”

  “Take it before a judge, madam. But if any harm comes to Mary, I’ll know where to come looking.”

  “’arm Mary? Who would do such a thing? A damaged whore is no good to me. She’ll return of ’er own free will, Monsieur Sterling. The world is a frightening place for a woman on ’er own.”

  “Perhaps,” Sterling said. He walked away without bothering to say goodbye. In his wake the street returned to life; whores opened the doors of their cribs and men crept out from alleys and side streets.

  * * *

  It was well after eight when I arrived at the Savoy. Most of the dance halls in Dawson are open twenty-four hours a day, six days a week. Even in the early hours of the morning or in the middle of the night—or what passes for night this far north in late June—the croupiers are spinning the tables and dealing cards and calling out their magic words, the bartenders are pouring rivers of liquor, and the dance hall girls are kicking up their heels for a dollar a dance and selling champagne by the wagon load. But at eight o’clock in the evening, something special settles over town as the musicians and callers come out onto Front Street, set themselves on the boardwalk, or in the middle of the street, and announce with much fanfare that the show is about to begin.

  Then they all troop back inside, hopefully followed by a crowd of eager cheechakos and sourdoughs, every one of them begging for the chance to spend their money.

  Tonight the stage at the Savoy was presenting scenes from the plays of Mr. William Shakespeare, a goodly number of heart-wrenching songs specially designed to have the lonely miners weeping in their dust-encrusted handkerchiefs, and a rather poor vaudeville act, which would have to do until I could find something better. At midnight the stage show ended, the percentage girls stepped forward to dance, and the performers changed their stage costumes for evening wear. The dancing would go on until six a.m., at which time the girls would cash in their drink tokens and stagger home.

  They were in the middle of the opening dance when I walked into the hall. I counted the girls in the row: all present and accounted for. They kicked up their heels and flashed their petticoats and the crowd roared in approval. Ellie stepped forward to begin her song. She was the oldest of my girls by far. Sometimes she struggled to keep up with the younger ones, particularly at the end of a long night. But the men liked her, and that was all that counted. Perhaps she reminded them of dead mothers and abandoned wives. She acted as a mother hen, looking out for the other girls, which relieved me of some of that chore.

  I stood at the back, inches away from the wall—it would never do to lean—and watched. Ellie finished her song, gave a deep curtsy in exchange for thunderous applause, and the dancers trooped out again. I made a mental note to tell the second girl from the left to give her petticoats a good wash before stepping onto my stage again. Chloe was so bad tonight that only nimble movement on the part of the dancer next to her avoided several collisions. Drunk, I suspected. In my dance hall, as in all the others, the girls were expected to accept drinks from the customers once the dancing began, and more than a few would be quite tipsy by the end of the evening. But to show up drunk for the stage show? That was not at all acceptable. Chloe had always been a problem—a generally miserable, lazy, pastyfaced, skinny piece of flotsam who didn’t have any apparent talents. She wasn’t popular with the men, and I would have shown her the door long ago if she wasn’t such good friends w
ith Irene. Irene, stage name of Lady Irenee, liked having Chloe around, and as long as Irene was the men’s favourite, I would keep her happy. I thought that Chloe served as a substitute for the fussy lapdog with ribbons in its fur theatrical women like to carry around. That wouldn’t be too practical in Dawson: such a creature would disappear into the mud the first time its mistress set it down, if it avoided being eaten once the bigger dogs got a look at it.

  Now that I was thinking about it, I realized there had been a chill between Irene and Chloe over the last few days. Perhaps they’d had a falling out. Maybe I could cut Chloe loose while Irene was angry with her.

  Soon a hush settled over the room; the audience knew what was coming. It was time for Irene’s first song. She slipped onto the stage hidden behind two enormous crimson fans carried by two crouching dancers, who looked rather silly doing so. Only her feet, clad in satin slippers, were visible, but as one, the men sighed with delight. The music of the five-piece orchestra rose to a crescendo, the crimson fans were swept to one side with a flourish, and Irene stood in centre stage, her face hidden behind a smaller version of the two fans. The men roared. The fan was lowered slowly, provocatively, and Irene peeked out. She was well into her thirties and somewhat stocky, but still pretty despite a face scarred by the effects of bitterly cold winds and a hard life. On stage and on the dance floor, she conveyed such a cheerful enthusiasm that all the men loved her. She was easily the most popular dance-hall girl in Dawson, which did wonders for my business.

  Unfortunately, my business partner, Ray Walker, also loved Irene. Too much, I feared.

  She flicked her fan back and forth across her face, and the men went wild.

  “You know how to play with fire, Mrs. MacGillivray.” Constable Richard Sterling moved so quietly, even in his heavy boots, I hadn’t heard him come up beside me. Although I knew full well he only wanted to speak to me without everyone in the room hearing, I took an involuntary step back. At a good deal more than six feet with the bulk to match, Sterling always seemed to stand too close for comfort. He smelled of pipe smoke, boot polish and the mud of the streets.

  “My son found you?” “We settled the lady in a room overhead. Mrs. LeBlanc’s

  gentlemen employee tried to talk Mary out of leaving. I suspect you’ll find Mrs. LeBlanc on your doorstep tomorrow; she recognized Angus.”

  We have a rather awkward relationship, Constable Sterling and I. I am, of course, not attracted to him at all, but somehow early in the morning, which is when my mind struggles towards sleep, I find myself thinking about him more than might be considered reasonable, and when he stands near me, my heart skips a beat or two, before wisely settling back into a sensible rhythm.

  “I don’t waste my time worrying about Mrs. LeBlanc,” I said, concentrating on the activities on the stage, where the girls were flittering about behind Irene. Definitely time to get rid of Chloe—she tripped and barely avoided a collision with Ellie, who tossed her a filthy look. “You realize the situation the poor girl finds herself in?”

  “Not that she said a single word to me, or even looked me in the eye. Angus didn’t understand why they needed a police escort. I sent him home, by the way.”

  “Thank you. I have offered her my protection, for what it’s worth.”

  “It’s worth a good deal, Fiona.” Sterling straightened his perfectly straight wide-brimmed hat in a gesture I recognized as meaning he was about to take his leave. “If removed, it would be much worse than never given. Good night.”

  He took a step towards the door, hesitated and turned back. “That is a striking dress. Most becoming. Excuse me.” And he was pushing his way through the crowd.

  If I were an imaginative woman, I might believe that the proper Constable Sterling had actually blushed.

  Chapter Four

  At closing time, the girls trooped upstairs to my office to be paid for the drinks they’d convinced their “dance partners” to purchase. The bartenders gave them a small disk to mark every drink sold, and the girls stuffed the disks into the tops of their stockings. By the end of a good night, the legs of some of the most popular girls resembled baby elephants’. Chloe brought up the back of the line. As usual, her night’s takings were as slim as her talent.

  Shortly after four o’clock, Irene had slipped outside for a bit of fresh air. I followed her and told her I was disappointed with Chloe’s performance that evening. I suggested Irene have a friendly word with her. Irene told me, biting off every word, that she would never again have a “friendly word” with Chloe.

  Oh, goodie, I thought. Outside my office window, Dawson was warming up to the day’s commerce. Men shouted, women chattered, horses and donkeys stepped through the ever-present mud, and loaded carts rattled down the street. The loud whistle of a steamboat announced its arrival. Ever since break-up in May, the waterfront had been clogged with boats beyond count, everything from luxury steamboats to musclepowered rafts made out of green wood, pulling into the makeshift harbour on the mud flats. All were full to bursting with men and women in pursuit of a dream that would more often than not bring nothing but frustration and disappointment. A steady stream of people was already leaving the Yukon, their dreams shattered by the reality of life in a northern mining town thrown up out of trees, mud and muskeg, and mines that were staked and claimed before word of the strike reached the outside.

  Chloe placed a handful of disks on my desk.

  I pulled a thin envelope out of my drawer.

  She peered at me through red-streaked eyes and a badly cut fringe of greasy brown hair.

  “I’m sorry, Chloe, but you are dismissed.” I held out the envelope. “You were drunk when you got on stage. If I’d been here when you arrived, I wouldn’t have let you get that far. These are your wages, and I’ll count out the money owing for your disks.”

  “What?” she asked, blinking as if trying to make out my face through a fog.

  “I said you are dismissed.”

  “You can’t fire me. Ma’am.”

  The girls who were on their way out the door, or who had remained behind to chat for a few moments, stopped dead. You could almost hear the ears pricking up.

  “Sobriety is a condition of your employment, which was explained to you.”

  “I need this job.”

  “You should have thought of that before taking a drink. Good day.”

  “Please, ma’am. Gi’me another chance. I’ve the toothache, you see. I needed a sip to dull the pain. That’s all.” She rubbed the side of her face with her fingers.

  The girls were watching me. A few more drifted back down the hall and stood outside the door listening, Irene among them. I shoved the envelope towards Chloe again. “Your employment is terminated. Please leave.”

  She snatched the money out of my hand. Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth drew into a flat line. Most unattractive. She spat at my outstretched hand. My reflexes are still good, and I managed to pull back in time. The onlookers gasped.

  Chloe clutched her pay envelope to her chest. “They say you’re the hardest woman in the Yukon. Nothing but a blackhearted bitch under that fake Lady-Muck-Muck accent.”

  “I’ve been called worse by better people than you.” I gathered up the remaining coins as if to slip them into the drawer where I kept a good solid billy club. “It would be better if I don’t have to call Mr. Walker to have you thrown out.”

  “Bitch,” she repeated. She turned and walked away. The dancers parted and watched her pass.

  The blob of spittle was beginning to sink into my desk blotter. I scooped it up with my handkerchief and dropped the mess into the waste basket. The silent crowd of watching girls scattered at a look from me.

  “I can assure you there is nothing at all fake about my Lady-Muck-Muck accent,” I said to no one in particular.

  Ray came into my office lugging a bag brimming with our take for the evening. I was happy to see that he was struggling with the weight. Like every business in Dawson, we accepted gold dust as
legal currency. “Trouble?” he growled as the last of the girls slipped away.

  “No,” I said as he dropped the bag in the desk drawer, which he’d reinforced with a cage of steel bars. I’d never lived in a more law-abiding town, but we didn’t take any chances. I locked the drawer and slipped the key into my reticule. Time to go home and sleep. I’d do the books and banking later.

  “Young Murray might work out as head bartender,” Ray said, standing back while I locked the office door.

  “I hope so. That’ll take some of the pressure off you.” Our previous head bartender had left town abruptly. We needed a new man to put in charge, but Ray was having trouble finding someone he could trust with not only the earnings but also the liquor.

  The male employees, the bartenders and croupiers, were Ray’s responsibility. I managed the percentage girls—who came in at midnight when the stage show ended to dance with the men—and the performers. I also kept the books.

  Mary came out of her room as we walked down the hall. Her black eyes glanced down to avoid looking at Ray.

  “Good morning, Mary,” I said. “I won’t ask how you slept, as I’m sure the racket kept you up all night. I hope you were comfortable.”

  “I slept fine, Mrs. MacGillivray,” she whispered. “I can ignore the noise.”

  “A useful talent. Mary, this is Mr. Walker, my business partner. Ray, Mary is beginning employment in Mrs. Mann’s laundry today, and I offered her a room until she finds something more permanent. And a good deal quieter.”

  “Pleased to meet ye, Mary,” Ray said, with a surprised look at me.

  Mary blinked.

  “He said he’s pleased to meet you,” I told her. Ray hailed from the teeming tenements and shipyards of Glasgow, and his accent could be almost indecipherable to the uninitiated. He was a tough little Scotsman with a nose mashed flat enough to spread out in several different directions and a mouthful of broken or rotting teeth. He stood barely five foot six and didn’t carry an ounce of perceptible fat or muscle on him—the visible heritage of a hard Glaswegian childhood.