Fighting Alaska (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  ROUND 9

  Jean learned that Madam Burnet’s establishment was not a rough-shod bawdy house. He worked through the night. He greeted gentlemen callers at the curtained front door, then showed them to the parlor, which lay to his right. There, the madam entertained her customers with coffee or stronger drinks. Women who worked for Madam Burnet would drift into the parlor. After a while, customers would be escorted up the stairs. Some would leave later. Some stayed the night. Those who left usually came down the stairs alone.

  Madam Burnet retired to her room around four in the morning. One of the other women acted as hostess for the dwindling numbers of customers who arrived.

  About seven o’clock, Jean went to the kitchen at the back of the building. While he ate breakfast, he was joined by a Negro who entered from a room adjoining the kitchen. Before picking up his fork, he drank coffee and studied Jean.

  “Where’s Jimmy?” he asked.

  Jean pushed the remains of a biscuit smothered with melting butter and strawberry preserves into his mouth, chewed, then smiled. “Looking for a job.”

  The other man nodded. “Saw that coming.” He extended his hand. “Thaddeus Washington.”

  “Jean St. Vrain.” They shook.

  “I’m the day man,” Thaddeus explained. “Our room is behind that door. Your bed will be on the left. You might want fresh linens. Jimmy was never one for wasting soap.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Expect to go shopping today. Madam likes her doorman lookin’ a little more dapper.”

  “Understood. Say, I need a note delivered.”

  “Ask one of the ladies for Horace. Little kid, totally trustworthy. Madam saved his life. The ladies take turns babying him. His home is every room of the house.”

  The men ate. Then Thaddeus donned a jacket and left for the front of the house. Jean requested paper and pencil from Rita, the cook, a skinny, raw-boned woman with skin black as coffee. He scribbled a note to Pete and Mexico Mullins to let them know his whereabouts.

  Horace soon appeared, sent by Thaddeus. He was waist-high to Jean, had thick dark hair, and wore a scrubbed flannel shirt and corduroy trousers. He was a nice-looking boy with one blue eye. The other was hidden by a black pirate’s patch. A pale knife scar marked his left cheek.

  “Yessir, Mr. Vrain?”

  “St. Vrain.”

  “Sorry. Yessir, Mr. St. Vrain?”

  Jean grinned at the boy. He handed him the note. “This goes to Mr. Mexico Mullins at Mrs. Beecher’s lodging house. You know where that is?”

  “Oh, sure. I’ll do it right now. That’ll be a dollar.”

  Surprise crossed Jean’s face. Then he laughed. “Madam Burnet’s taught you well.”

  Horace just smiled and held out his palm.

  Jean then entered the room off the kitchen. It was only a little larger than Mexico’s room, but there were two narrow beds, a wardrobe, a washstand with a mirror, a rocking chair, and a worn but clean Oriental rug. A small stove piped out the back wall to warm the enclosure.

  Jean stretched. He’d been awake more than twenty-four hours. He stripped to his undergarments, washed, then climbed into the bed on the left of the room. As Thaddeus had warned, the bed linens were a bit sour. But Jean was so tired, he noticed the smell only fleetingly before he fell into a dreamless sleep.

  When he awoke, his hand hurt from the blow he’d dealt Dawson Daniels.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw the ghostly redhead sitting on his bed. “Hello. John, right?”

  “Jean.”

  “Jean.” She reached, he propped himself on an elbow, and they shook hands. “Frenchie? Canadian?”

  “U. S. of A.”

  She nodded. “Maud O’Brien.”

  “Hello, Maud.”

  She was dressed a bit more demurely today. She wore a thick robe that reached to her feet. Jean had been quite comfortable around professional woman all his adult life. Since the death of his mother years ago, they were the only sort of women he had any dealings with.

  He asked, with a touch of mischief, “Does Madam Burnet allow this sort of fraternization between employees?”

  Maud raised an eyebrow. “That’s a big word for a skull thumper in a fancy house.”

  He smiled. “I got the impression it’s a fancy fancy house.”

  “That’s why you need a better set of clothes.”

  “Thaddeus warned me that was likely.”

  “A fellow named Mexico Mullins brought by your bag earlier. But if you don’t have anything in there that will make Madam Burnet happy, you’re in luck. A fellow left behind a bag a few weeks back. He was about your size, a nice dresser. You can probably get away with wearing his gear.”

  “He doesn’t want it?”

  “He got killed over a card game the day he left here. He doesn’t need it. Lucky you.”

  “Lucky me.” Jean lay back and looked at the ceiling. “I could use some luck.”

  “I’ll say. You could have squeezed more money out of our boss.”

  Jean shrugged. “I get fed and a bed. I don’t have to stand in mud or get snarled at on the beach. The work’s not that hard.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “Close enough.”

  Maud eyed him closely. He studied her in return. Her red hair wasn’t piled on her head as it had been last night, but was loose and tied behind her head at her neck. Her skin was pale but clear. Her jawline hadn’t yet begun to sag, and her cheeks were verging on plumpness as if she hadn’t yet shed her youthful baby fat. Her nose was long and straight. Her blue eyes flashed.

  “You don’t seem crazed with gold fever like most I’ve seen here,” Maud said. “What’s your deal?”

  “What’s your interest?”

  She thought about that a moment. “Maybe you remind me of someone.”

  “Hmm.” He considered. “I guess it wasn’t my dream. Gold hunting. I’ve always done things the hard way. I’m not saying that’s smart. But picking up gold on the beach like robbing laying hens…I guess that’s just too easy for me.”

  “All this hard work you go in for…what are you, trying to work your way into heaven?”

  Jean saw the hard look on Maud’s face, so he didn’t laugh too heartily. “No, I’m not sure they’d have me.”

  “The mission preacher who comes to the house once a month says there’s hope for us all.”

  “I don’t know, I guess I just need to feel I’m earning what I get.”

  “So, why did you come to Nome? Everyone else is here for the easy pickings.”

  He put his hands behind his head so he could look at her. “Like I said, not my dream. But I have a pal. He’s been the best, through the years. Taught me an awful lot. It was his dream. So I came along. But we got here, and someone shot his dream through the heart.”

  “How so?”

  “Know a guy named Kearney?”

  Maud frowned. Her face reddened. “I know him. Sam Kearney. He’s a bully.”

  “Yep, I’d say you know him.”

  She was quiet a few moments. Then she stood. “You’re supposed to get a shave and a bath. Boss Burnet’s orders. The barber is around the corner on Steadman. Then get back here to try on those new clothes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Maud turned at the door and smiled at him. “I like that. A man with manners.”

  “It’s probably smart to show good manners around the loveliest well-mannered ladies north of the forty-ninth parallel.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, then stalked out the door.

  But as Jean soaked in a tub of cooling water in the rear of Dibert’s Barber Shop, he closed his eyes and thought about the smile Maud had given him. He studied it further while his face was wrapped in a steaming towel before Dibert took a razor to his grizzled face.

  During his walk back to Madam Burnet’s, Jean recalled some words of wisdom he’d heard from Billy Basham, “You can’t trust wooden nickels or the smiles of a whore.”

 
; The thought made Jean grin. He was still grinning when he returned to his room. His bed had fresh linens, and the dead man’s bag of clothes rested in the middle of them. As Maud had predicted, he found a nice suit that fit well enough. He made a mental note to thank her.

  After another hot meal from Rita, he relieved Thaddeus at the front door.

  And the night began.

  Business never really stopped during the day at Madam Burnet’s, but the nighttime hours were busier. The evening’s activities progressed for Jean much as they had twenty-four hours earlier. Then, about two o’clock in the morning, a disturbance upstairs interrupted Jean’s tedium.

  He heard a door slam, followed by a man’s shouts, “Missy! Missy, where are you?”

  Then a woman’s voice, “Hank! Hank, come back here!”

  More slamming doors, and more voices, both men’s and women’s, raised in dismay.

  “Missy! Missy!”

  Jean dashed up the stairs. He found men and women standing in the hall, some shouting, some quiet and puzzled. At the end of the hall was Hank, a burly fellow Jean had seen go up several minutes before the racket started. He was thumping on a door and yelling for Missy.

  One of the madam’s girls grabbed Jean’s arm as he approached. “His craziness has switched from gold to Missy,” she said. “Thinks he owns her.”

  “This happen often?”

  “Once a week or so. All the girls have some suitor thinks she’s waiting just for him.”

  “You got one?”

  Her laugh was a short bark. “Not yet.”

  Jean lunged down the hall, grabbed Hank by the shoulder and spun him round. “Okay, mister. Come on down stairs.”

  “Missy!” Hank’s eyes were wild. Desperation ruled his features. “I gotta have Missy!” He swung a sledge-sized fist at Jean’s jaw.

  Jean moved his head. The fist slammed into his collar bone. He felt a buzzing numbness in his right hand. Jean pushed Hank away, but Hank barreled back in. A fist grazed Jean’s shoulder. He stopped another on his right forearm. Then Hank tried to stomp on Jean’s feet.

  “Nope,” Jean said. He jabbed a left into Hank’s ribs, his right smashed the man over the heart, and the follow-up left sank into Hank’s belly. The burly man collapsed to the floor, heaving for air.

  Jean waved to the people crowding the hall. “Go back to your business, folks. Just a little misunderstanding.”

  Jean helped Hank down the stairs and out the front door.

  Later, a man came down the stairs and looked up at Jean. He wore a matching plaid coat and vest and dark brown wool trousers. A gold nugget dangled from his watch chain. He had handsome, clean-shaven features under closely cropped dark hair. After he placed a dark gray homburg on his head, he shook Jean’s hand and introduced himself. “Tex Rickard. I was visiting Missy during the unpleasantness. Come see me sometime, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Jean St. Vrain. Where will I find you?”

  He tipped Jean by handing him a small gold pebble. “The Northern. I own it.” Then he touched his hat brim and left.

  Jean looked at the lace curtains hanging over the closed door. Then he had an idea.

  The rest of the night, Jean approached those men he judged to have the deepest pockets. They might have been dressed in finery like Rickard or in modest suits. But Jean watched the way they carried themselves, how they acted with others. If a man met his measure, Jean would quietly say to him, “Madam Burnet’s ladies have great charms. They are in great demand. I can make sure you remain undisturbed.”

  By the time Jean retired to the kitchen for another of Rita’s breakfasts, his pockets were heavier with coins and gold.

  Late that afternoon, when Maud O’Brien awoke, Jean was sitting on her bed. “What do you want?” she demanded. “Here to fraternize?”

  Jean smiled. “I owe you thanks.”

  She gave him a cross look. “For what?”

  “A fine suit of clothes. I have a dead man’s clothes, and they don’t even smell like fresh-cut pine.”

  “Hmph.” Maud rolled over, turning her back to him. “So?”

  “So. Let’s get something to eat.”

  “Rita will have our supper.”

  “No, somewhere else. I’ll buy you a meal.”

  She rolled back around to look at him. Her red locks were spilled against the pillow. Her skin was not quite so white as the sheets. She narrowed her eyes. “What do you want?”

  Jean spread his hands. He noticed the roughness of his skin, the enlarged knuckles of each hand, the broken nails. He looked at the distrust in her face. “To thank you.”

  Maud held his gaze. Then she pulled the sheet up to her nose and gave him a long, hard study.

  Finally she tucked the edge of the sheet under her chin. “All right. I’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes.”

  Twenty minutes later they were on C Street, seated and drinking coffee in The New York Kitchen. Maud placed her cup in its saucer and asked him, “Why are you really here?”

  Jean grinned. “Is it third time’s charm if I say to thank you again?”

  “No, not that! Why are you in Nome?”

  “Like I told you. For a friend.”

  “So what’s going on? Where is this friend?”

  Jean was surprised to discover a tickle of amusement at her insistence, and he started to smile. That’s when the aproned man who had taken their order delivered their meal to their table – two steaks, roasted potatoes and carrots, stewed tomatoes, and a plate piled with biscuits.

  “Let’s eat first,” Jean said. “Then I’ll tell you.”

  He marveled at her appetite, which rivaled that of a stevedore he’d fought in New Orleans.

  After their plates were clean, they each ate a slice of apple pie with more coffee. Then Jean told his tale – of the plans that brought him and Pete to Nome, of their careers together that eventually led to that meal in the Hotel Carlton in San Francisco.

  Finally he said, “That’s it. Might make a good bedtime story. It could put you right to sleep.”

  “I’ve heard worse,” Maud said. “And I’ve heard a lot of tall tales in bed, but no one’s told me a bedtime story in a long time.” She checked the Regulator that ticked on the wall. “Speaking of time, we need to get to work. You don’t want to get on Thaddeus’ bad side.”

  She took Jean’s arm on the walk back. At the foot of Madam Burnet’s stairs, before they separated, Maud said, “Thank you.”

  “No ma’am,” Jean said. “Like I said, thank you.”

  Jean again spent his night whispering in the ears of select patrons. The next morning again saw him richer by several generous tips. He took breakfast in Rita’s kitchen and retired to his room.

  He washed his face and studied it in the mirror. This was a rare practice for him. He knew the years of fighting had scarred his looks so he appeared older than his age. A hank of dirty blond hair hung over a rectangular forehead. His blue eyes were hooded, and creases radiated from their corners. His hooked nose was a tad crooked, and his prominent cheeks were emphasized by scarring. His jaw line narrowed from his cheeks, but his face avoided looking long and narrow because of a squared-off chin. The deep smile lines no longer looked boyish but ragged and a bit tired.

  Jean was turning toward the bed when he heard a knock. When he opened the door, Maud stepped in.

  He compared what he’d seen in his face to her looks. There were circles under her eyes, and she looked a little bleary. But a flash of youthful vigor still brightened her face. Jean felt as if all his youth had been pounded out of him.

  Locks of Maud’s hair still showed wet from her bath. She wore a robe he hadn’t seen on her before. She clung to the knob as if she might need the door for protection.

  “Good morning,” Jean said. “Can I help you?”

  She looked at him, then tilted her head against the door. “I’d like to hear a bedtime story.”

  ROUND 10

  “I heard he was dead,” Jean said.


  He was buttoning his shirt. Maud had told him he should set up a fight if he wanted a stake to get home, even if he didn’t want to fight anymore. “You should see Wyatt Earp,” she’d said.

  “I’d heard he was dead, too, but the newspapers got it wrong,” Maud said. “It was one of his brothers, Warren I think. He was a lawman in Arizona.” She got up from the bed and took his arm in both her hands. “Go see him. He owns The Dexter Saloon.”

  Jean gazed at her flashing eyes and red hair. He made a noncommittal grunt before he left.

  Thaddeus met him in the hall. “Man here lookin’ for you. Name of Mexico Mullins.”

  “Send him back to the kitchen.”

  Mexico greeted Jean at the small table there. Rita dished up plates of food for both.

  “This is good,” Mexico said. “I need your help, kid. Your pal, Pete, is a mess. He won’t leave my room. He’s turnin’ into a drunk.”

  Jean frowned. “Stop bringing in bottles.”

  “It’s not me. He’s got somebody runnin’ ‘em in to him when I’m not around. I can’t babysit this guy, I got cards to play.”

  Jean shook his head. “Can you go over there with me now?”

  “Sure.”

  “Finish up. Rita is insulted by leftovers and good manners. Then we’ll go.” Jean sighed. “I have an idea.”

  They found Pete sitting on the floor, tangled in his blankets, leaning against Mexico’s bed. Both his hands were around a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

  “Hey, Jean, how are you, boyo?” Pete said opening a bleary eye. Whatever vitality Jean had once heard in Pete’s voice was gone.

  Jean closed the door and stood before his partner, Mexico at his shoulder. “Pete,” Jean said, “you look like hell. And you’re abusing Mexico’s hospitality.”

  “I’m sorry about that, I am. I am. But I’m not sure. I’m just not sure.”

  “Of what, Pete?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m not sure where to go.”

  Jean put his arms akimbo. “Do you want to go home, Pete?”

  “Home?” Pete’s knuckles whitened on the bottle. “But I’ve got a gold claim here.”

  “You’ve got nothin’, Pete.” Jean’s voice was harsher than he’d meant, but there it is, he thought. “Nothin’ at all. The court has your claim.”