by William Gear
Doc had given the child just enough chloroform to deaden his senses. Now he waited, staring sadly down at the unnaturally flattened head, at the wispy blond hair, the half-lidded blue eyes, and the manure-stained, hand-stitched canvas clothing the boy wore. Occasionally the boy’s little hands would twitch, or a leg would spasm as the abused brain sent out some signal.
“Please, God,” the woman kept repeating through her sobs.
Then the boy’s lungs sucked. After a soft rattle in the throat, he stilled.
“I am so sorry,” Doc told them. “He’s gone.”
“Are you sure?” the woman pleaded, peering anxiously at him through reddened eyes. “Cain’t ye do sump’thin?”
“Ma’am, I…”
She turned on her husband, crying, “You kilt him! You big stupid Swede! I told you not to let him stand on the seat! You … You worthless…”
“He be all right,” the man whispered, eyes unfocused. “Ja, sure. You’ll see. Arnie, he’s a tough sprout for sure.”
“It’s no one’s fault,” Doc said in his soothing voice. “People are run over by wagons all the time. Kicked by horses. Maybe it’s just the slip of a knife. A gun goes off by accident. The world is a dangerous place.”
The woman was still staring daggers at her husband. He had worked his hat into a cylinder of tight felt.
Doc took a deep breath, reached down and lifted the boy’s body. “Do you want him delivered to anyone in particular? Perhaps the undertaker? Or will you be taking Arnie with you?”
The man blinked, instinctively extending his arms as Doc offered the boy’s deadweight. Urine was spreading in the boy’s crotch now that the muscles had let loose.
“Ja, I take him,” the man said woodenly.
The woman watched, mute, eyes disbelieving.
“Again,” Doc told them. “I am so sorry.”
Bridget looked up with somber eyes as Doc led the bereaved parents out into the office and opened the door to the street. Closing it behind them, he sighed.
“Didn’t charge them?” Bridget asked, her thoughtful look rearranging her scars.
“Figured they had enough hardship for the day. I can make up twenty-five cents’ worth of chloroform from someone whose world didn’t just collapse.” He paused. “Dear Lord, I hope she gets over this enough to stop blaming her husband. If not, their misery is just starting.”
“God takes people when their time comes, Philip.”
He walked over to the stove and poured a cup of stale coffee. “Does He? I’ve looked for His hand on the battlefield, in prison camp, among the displaced from the war, and among the poor line girls. I’ve looked for it among the just and righteous … and among the fallen and discarded. And then you see a little boy like that, just dead from a slip and fall?”
Doc sucked at his lukewarm coffee. “That notion that God knows when every sparrow falls? Something’s wrong with the entire premise. If He’s in charge of everything? Running the whole shebang? I’ve seen no proof of divine will, no rhyme nor reason in the way things work out. Life’s nothing more than a random madness of events and endings. God’s either a piss-poor steward, or He’s a capricious and callous bastard.”
“Don’t blaspheme, Philip. It’s dangerous.” She fingered the scars on her face. “In the end there’s always punishment for our sins and transgressions.”
“Tell me what possible sin that little boy had time to commit? Or that little newborn girl I went to treat last night? Dead of the bloody flux. If she had time to commit sin—weak as she’s been since I delivered her—she’s wickeder than black-hearted Charlie Harrison was on his worst day? Old Charlie just shot down innocents, beat his wife to death, and garroted honest folks in the alley behind his bar. But he’s still alive and kicking.”
He shook his head. “No, my dear, I’ve been in misery’s front-row seat, and I don’t see God’s hand in any of it. Just random living and dying. Sure, the hard cases tend to die quicker than the rich and prominent, but they associate with a rougher and more dangerous company in the process.”
“When you get in these black moods, I wish I could cheer you.”
“You do, my dear. More than I could ever tell you. If it weren’t for you, I’d crucify myself. Go mad with guilt for driving Butler away. God, I worry about him.”
She stood. “Come. It’s time to lock up. I need you to hurry home and change into your good clothes. I’ll meet you at the Angel’s Lair.”
“This must be some dress you’ve got stashed away.”
She stepped up, straightening his lapels, a sly smile on her scarred face. “I don’t know how Sarah managed to find it, let alone in my size. The dressmaker has just finished with the alterations. I want you stunned and astounded, though I’m sure Sarah will steal the evening.”
“And I finally get to meet your mysterious partner? Discover if the goddess of rumor is really just a mortal woman?”
Bridget studied him thoughtfully. “You really don’t approve, do you?”
“Bridget, I understand that you’re just a partner. I realize that the house will cater to a higher standard of client. It’s just … Well…”
“A whorehouse is a whorehouse?” She arched a scar-lined eyebrow.
“No. Um … Hell, I don’t know. I want you home safe with me. Remember what I just said about the company people keep? I don’t like the odds.”
She remained thoughtful. “Do you ever dwell on it, Philip? Perhaps in the middle of the night, during the hour of the wolf? Does it bother you that I was with so many men?”
“A little, I suppose. I always wish I could have been there on that New York street.”
“Ah yes. What a weight we put on a man’s shoulders. The old, desperate ‘if only’ of the male savior. If I’d never chosen the houses, I would never have ended up in your bed, my darling. Now, go on with you. I’ll see you at half past six.” She turned in the door, flashing her red-blond hair as she donned her veil. “Oh, and don’t forget to lock up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She blew him a kiss and was gone.
Doc chugged the last of his coffee and banked the stove, not that it had anything but a few coals left aglow.
“And had I been there to find her on the streets of New York, she wouldn’t have been this woman.”
He made a face. Yes, damn it! The thought of all those men who had crawled between her legs bothered him. He hated and resented each and every one of them. Not just that they’d discharged their penises inside the woman he loved, but that they’d known the magic of her body.
He’d had no idea that sexual intercourse could be an art, or that two people could conjure such sensations and pleasures. He just couldn’t stop imagining her using those same skills as she serviced other men.
From the beginning, however, she had told him: “When I was with a johnny, he was a nameless, faceless job. He might have paid for the use of my body, but I never gave so much as a sliver of my heart. You’re the only man I ever loved, ever told I loved. Damn, Doc, till you I’d never even kissed a man! My cunt may have been used, but my heart was chaste, untouched, and virgin.”
“So what would you change, Doc?” he asked himself as he strode home in the late afternoon. Flies buzzed where someone had a shot a dog and left it in the street.
He averted his gaze to the distant mountains. Clouds were building in the peaks to the west, their bottoms black and inky with rain as they sailed out from Lookout Mountain.
By Bridget’s own admission the seventeen-year-old girl he would have rescued on the New York streets had been ignorant, unlettered, her accent untenable, her etiquette unmannered, and mind empty. Everything that Bridget had become—the intelligent, smart, brave, and resourceful woman he loved—was the culmination of her years in the houses.
“Dear God,” he whispered to himself as he climbed the steps to his house. “I’m still a fool.”
He never darkened the door of his house without the hope that Butler would be waiting—th
at silly grin on his bearded face, his blue eyes slightly unfocused as his listened to the phantoms in his head.
The house greeted him with emptiness.
After he had dressed in his new black broadcloth sack suit, Doc ran a comb through his sandy locks and checked himself in the mirror. Still struggling over the dilemma Bridget presented, he walked slowly to Blake Street and arrived at Phillipa’s old house more than fifteen minutes early.
He stared up at the brick structure, thinking of his history with the building. Of the role he’d played in bringing Bridget’s attacker down. He’d spirited Parmelee’s girls away at the same time the blackguard had left to rape and mutilate the woman Doc would come to love. That act, in turn, had brought her here to this very same building. Couldn’t that be said to be God’s hand?
He blinked. Suddenly shaken down to his core. Was he twice the fool?
Even if it was God’s hand, he surely wasn’t being punished for blasphemy. He’d ended up with Bridget. Or at least the part of Bridget’s life that this damn pile of brick and her mysterious partner didn’t lay claim to.
Doc smiled wryly, amused by his silly preoccupation. He climbed the steps and lifted the old familiar knocker before letting it clank.
A young woman in her early twenties opened the door and met him with a smile. She wore a light green poplin dress with silk trim and a curved corset that left no doubt about the swelling endowment beneath her silk-trimmed bodice. Raven-black hair was piled high and hung around her ears in ringlets. A smile lay behind her green eyes and dimples formed in her cheeks as she greeted him. “How may I help you?”
“Dr. Philip Hancock, ma’am. I’m afraid I’m early. I’m a guest of—”
“Oh, yes! Aggie’s Doc. Do come in! I’m Agatha.” She led the way through the parlor and into the handsomely furnished bar. Compared to the last time Doc had seen it, the wood was waxed and polished. “Might I get you something? Perhaps a Madeira?”
Doc had heard about the trials and tribulations of not only minimally furnishing the house, but obtaining symbolically exotic drink. Scarcity was everywhere with the trails closed. Nevertheless, one of Pat O’Reilly’s agents had happened upon five cases of Madeira, which—being in greatest supply—would be the most promoted drink of the evening.
“Madeira would be fine, and I’ll do my best to steer the others away from the sour mash.” Somehow Sarah had also cadged the last two bottles of Tennessee whiskey in the territory. Those drinks were to be judiciously dispensed.
Agatha continued to smile as she stepped behind the bar and poured Doc a full glass. “Your help extending the sour mash will be most appreciated.”
“You are the actress, if I recall.”
“That’s right.” She leaned forward, glancing slyly to the side. “With the show I’s paid to act, but had to give it out for free. Here I’ll be paid for the lay and the acting. We’re gonna be putting on performances. Not like the stage, but costumed readings and such. What’s different from the troupe is that Sarah an’ Aggie ain’t gonna be slipping a’tween my covers at night with a hard prick and all sloppy drunk and stinking.”
“One doesn’t think that of actresses, I mean that they’d be taken advantage of that way. I know Aggie will treat you fairly.”
She glanced speculatively at him. “You gonna be attending to our female needs?”
“I’ve been asked to see you all once a month, but you’re welcome to send for me at any time.”
The rustle of fine fabric announced the arrival of another woman, older, perhaps closing on thirty. She wore a lace-trimmed yellow silk taffeta with a tightly corseted waist. Cut low over the bosom, it exposed considerable cleavage. The Basque sleeves were short, accenting pale white forearms. She had done her hair up in ringlets that hung to either side of her head. Her smile was practiced and didn’t extend to the familiar wariness in her blue eyes.
“This is Aggie’s Dr. Hancock,” Agatha said. “Doc, this is Theresa. She’s been with Aggie for a while.”
The wariness faded slightly as Theresa offered her hand, a genuine delight in her eyes. “I’m most pleased to meet you, Doctor. And not a little curious. Especially after the trouble with Parmelee. You’ve done what I never thought could be done, saved Aggie’s face, and swept her off her feet.”
“As she has swept me. My pleasure, Theresa. Bri … Um, Aggie speaks highly of you. I know you’re the only one of her old employees she has honored with an invitation to the Angel’s Lair.”
“Bri…?” Theresa glanced at Agatha. “Oh my. Did you mean ‘bride’?”
Flustered, Doc winced, hands up. “No, I’m sorry I—”
Theresa’s eyes widened. “She told you her real name?” She lifted fingers to her lips. “Dear God, she’s really in love with you.”
“Aggie”—he forced himself not to stumble—“and I seem to be rather fond of each—”
“What’s her real name?” Agatha interrupted.
Doc gave her an apologetic smile and said nothing.
“I don’t even know that,” Theresa mused, thoughtful eyes on Doc. “You be damned careful with her. You hold her heart in your hands, Doc. Don’t. Fucking. Drop it.”
He smiled at the irony. “As she, it seems, also holds mine. Which of us, I wonder, has the steadiest grip?”
“Reckon we’ll see,” Agatha noted, turning as Bridget entered the room wearing a turquoise silk dress. Black embroidery, topped by bands of dark blue velvet ribbon, decorated the hem. Additional black embroidery trimmed the bodice bottom; her corset emphasized her narrow waist before curving up to her full bust. Black velvet stripes ran down the sleeves to dainty black-lace cuffs. The velvet collar contrasted with her pale and freckled chest and shoulders. She wore her red-blond hair long in the back and contained by a beaded net that merged with her light veil.
“What do you think, Philip?” she asked, dropping into a curtsy.
He stood paralyzed. Turquoise was definitely her color, setting off the tones of her skin, eyes, and hair. “If I hadn’t been in love before, you’d have me prostrate.” He swallowed hard. “You have to be the most beautiful creature on earth.”
Walking up to him, hoopskirt swaying, she lifted her veil and kissed him tenderly on the lips before backing away and saying, “You’re a dear one yourself, Doctor.”
At the knock, Agatha excused herself and went to greet the next arrival.
“So that’s your new girl?” Doc asked.
“One of them. Three more are on the way. One from New York, one from Washington City, and another from Philadelphia. All enticed with the promise of riches and a novel working environment. They’ve money enough to ride the rails to End-of-the-Tracks, and from there, stage service on into Denver.”
Theresa shrugged. “Assuming the railroad don’t make it to Cheyenne first. Heard General Dodge has laid out a city. They’re already selling lots. And if the railroad don’t come to Denver? Why, hell, we may all be moving north with our fancy house.”
The new arrival proved to be Pat O’Reilly dressed in a neat brown suit. “A hale and hearty welcome to ye all!” he cried, marching through the parlor with Agatha on his arm. “’Tis a joy and an honor t’ be here fer the lovely opening of Angel’s Lair.”
“Hello, Pat,” Aggie greeted, giving the man a peck on the cheek. “This is as much your celebration as ours. We’re so delighted that you took the time from your duties to come.”
“Aye,” he replied jovially. “I’ve got me engineers and superintendents whipped into shape. We’re stockpilin’ the gold. Casting what we have in two-hundred-pound ingots and ready to run the tailings through the new smelter. I tell ye, lass, ’tis going to be the making of Colorado, ’tis.”
He offered a hand. “Doc, good t’ see ye. Hear ye’re still taking roight foine care of Aggie, here.”
“As she’s taking care of me.”
“A word, if ye will?” Pat took him by the arm, stepped to the side, and lowered his voice. “From what I hear, Aggie’s becom
e a real help t’ ye in the surgery. That she’s as much nurse as office help t’ ye. That she’s learning the medical trade.”
“She is.” What the hell was the man’s point?
O’Reilly studied him thoughtfully. “Ye could do a lot worse, Doctor. And fer what it’s worth, I think yer a roight foine man.” He took Doc’s hand, shaking it firmly.
“Mr. O’Reilly, I thank you for your high opinion of me, and when it comes to Aggie—”
“Gorgeous, ain’t she?” O’Reilly inclined his head in Aggie’s direction. “I’ve nivver seen th’ woman this happy. She glows in yor presence, Doctor.”
“She does, indeed. Did you have a point, Mr. O’Reilly?”
“Aye, don’t muck it up, man. Marry her while ye’ve a chance. Otherwise yer a damn fool.”
Turning on his heel, O’Reilly raised his voice and called, “Now, lassies, whar be the drink? Ah yes. Thank ye.” He lifted the glass Theresa handed him. “The Angel’s Lair. Health and prosperity.”
At the same time, two violins and a cello began to play in the far parlor. Doc recognized the selections as Brahms. Or thought he did. It could have been his poor ear, or being so long away from the concerts he’d attended in Boston, or the quality of the musicians. Denver, though filled with musicians, wasn’t exactly known as a musical mecca.
Big Ed Chase made a grand entrance, having to duck his head as he entered the bar. He greeted O’Reilly. Introduced himself to Aggie, who had lowered her veil, then shook hands with Doc. The man’s cold blue eyes took in the surroundings, as he said, “So tell me, Doctor, what’s your interest in Angel’s Lair?” He hesitated. “Beyond the lovely Miss Aggie, that is.”