by Matt Braun
Fontaine returned shortly before noon. He found her moping about, still dressed in her housecoat, staring listlessly out the window. She didn’t move as he crossed the sitting room and stopped at her side. Her expression was pensive, vaguely sad. He tried for a light note.
“What’s this?” he said. “I planned to take you out for lunch. Why aren’t you dressed?”
“I just haven’t gotten around to it.”
“Come now, my dear, that is hardly an answer. What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Papa.” Her voice wavered. “I’m so confused.”
Fontaine studied her with concern. “Need I ask the source of your confusion? Something to do with men, is it?”
“I was standing here thinking I miss them. And then I thought how perfectly ingenuous. How naive.”
“No one would ever accuse you of naïveté. You are much more the sophisticate than you realize.”
“Am I?” Lillian said with a tinge of melancholy. “One minute I want them out of my life, and the next I wish they were knocking on the door. How sophisticated is that, Papa?”
“You punish yourself unnecessarily,” Fontaine said. “Quite often logic dictates one thing while the heart dictates another. Are you in love with either of these men?”
“No, of course not.”
“And the stage is still your beacon?”
“Yes, more than anything.”
“Then logic prevails, my dear. There are simpler ways to resolve matters of the heart.”
Lillian turned from the window. “I’m not sure I understand, Papa. What is it you’re suggesting?”
“Nothing unseemly,” Fontaine assured her. “You are lonely for male companionship and nothing could be more natural. Amuse yourself without becoming involved.”
“Wouldn’t that be unfair to them?”
“I’m sure your mother educated you about the whys and wherefores of men. A woman need not worry about trifling with their affections.”
“Yes, but how would—”
Chester burst through the door. His face was flushed and he looked as though he’d just run a marathon. He hurried across the room, gesturing wildly.
“Your gentleman friends just shot it out! Not five minutes ago in front of the bank.”
Lillian appeared to stagger. “Hank and Jake?”
“None other,” Chester said. “I saw it myself.”
“Are they … dead?”
“Warner got it in the arm and Tallant lost a piece of his ear. They’re both lousy shots.”
Fontaine put an arm around Lillian’s shoulders. He looked at Chester. “How did it happen?”
“Warner started it,” Chester said. “Tallant was coming out of the bank and Warner stopped him on the street. They exchanged insults, and next thing you know, they pulled their guns. Wounded one another with the first shot.”
“Unfortunate,” Fontaine remarked. “I assume it had to do with Warner’s lawsuit?”
“No, Dad, it was literally an affaire de coeur. They were fighting over Lillian.”
“Me!” Lillian was nonplussed. “Why would they fight over me?”
Chester suppressed a grin. “Warner used some dirty language. Accused Tallant of stealing your affections.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“You haven’t heard the rest of it. Tallant cursed Warner out and accused him of the same thing. That’s when they went for their guns.”
“How dare they!” Lillian fumed. “I never gave either of them reason to believe I favored one over the other. I asked both of them to leave me alone!”
“Not to hear them tell it,” Chester informed her. “They each think the other one stole your heart away. Talk about jealousy.”
“I feel like a common streetwalker. Men fighting over me, for mercy’s sake! It’s disgusting.”
A knock sounded at the door. Chester opened it and admitted Lulu Banes. She rushed across the room to Lillian.
“Have you heard?”
“Chester just finished telling me. I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” Lulu said archly. “Lucky the fools didn’t kill one another.”
“I wrote each of them notes,” Lillian said with a dazed expression. “And they weren’t love notes, either. I told them to stay away.”
“Honey, you think they compare dance cards?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean your notes had the opposite effect. They both thought you ditched one for the other.”
“Well, that’s absurd,” Lillian protested. “Neither of them has any claim on me. I made that very clear.”
Lulu chuckled. “Not clear enough, sugar. They just got through fighting a duel for you. How’s it feel to be fought over?”
“Absolutely revolting! I wish I’d never met either of them.”
“And I’d give anything in the world to be in your place. How I wish, I wish, I wish.”
Lillian sniffed. “You’re welcome to them.”
“Not in this lifetime,” Lulu said woefully. “They’ve only got eyes for you, kiddo.”
“Then I’ll have to persuade them otherwise, won’t I?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Lulu, I mean to put an end to it—permanently!”
* * *
For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings:
How some have been depos’d, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed,
Some poison’d by their wives, some sleeping kill’d;
All murder’d: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court …
Fontaine plowed on with the soliloquy from King Richard II. The patrons of the Tivoli were by now resigned to his nightly orations from Shakespeare. For the most part, they ignored him, milling about and carrying on conversations interspersed with laughter. He might have been playing to an empty house.
Two members of the audience were nonetheless attentive. Jake Tallant was seated at his usual table, his right ear heavily bandaged with gauze. Across the aisle, Hank Warner sat with his left arm cradled in a dark sling that matched the color of his suit. Fontaine was surprised to find them in the crowd, for their wounds were still fresh from the morning gunfight. He suspected their attendance had little to do with Shakepeare.
The magician kept the audience entertained between acts. The curtain then opened on the melodrama of the evening, The Dying Kiss. Lillian was all too aware of Tallant and Warner, for their tables were just beyond the orchestra, near the stage. She noted that they studiously ignored each other, but she thought their presence was scandalous. The eyes of every man in the room were on her, and she knew what they were thinking. She was the temptress who provoked men to gunfights.
After the melodrama, she hurried backstage to change for her final number. She was still seething as she slipped into her teal gown and tried to repair her makeup. When she went on, her face was scarlet and she had little doubt that everyone in the theater looked upon her as a scarlet woman. She was, in all likelihood, branded the lover of the two men seated down front. The orchestra led her into a lively tune.
I came from Alabama
With a banjo on my knee
I’m going to Louisiana
My true love for to see
It rained all night the day I left
The weather it was dry
The sun so hot I froze to death
Susanna, don’t you cry
Oh! Susanna, oh don’t you cry for me
I’ve come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee
The crowd gave her a rousing ovation. Tallant, undeterred by his mangled ear, applauded mightily. Warner, limited to one good arm, pounded the table with the flat of his hand. She took three curtain calls, then bowed offstage into the wings. Nate Varnum was standing nearby, and she asked him to invite Tallant and Warner backstage. Her look was such t
hat he restrained himself from questioning her judgment. He hurried off.
Fontaine and Chester were finished removing their greasepaint. They exchanged glances, having overheard her conversation with Varnum, and joined her near her dressing room. Fontaine appeared troubled.
“Do you think this is wise?” he asked. “Bringing them together so soon after their altercation?”
“Their welfare doesn’t concern me,” Lillian said. “I intend to put an end to it here—tonight.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing, my dear.”
“Yes, I know very well, Papa.”
Varnum came through the door at the side of the stage. Warner was directly behind him, followed by Tallant. Everything came to a standstill as the cast—chorus girls, acrobats, jugglers, and the magician—paused to watch. Varnum led the ranchers backstage and stopped outside Lillian’s dressing room. The men seemed disconcerted by her summons, nodding to her with weak smiles. Her eyes flashed with anger.
“Look at you!” she said in a stinging voice. “You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
Tallant and Warner ducked their heads like naughty urchins. Lillian felt a momentary pang of sympathy, for they were proud men being humbled in public. But she was determined to see it end. She lashed out at them.
“Do you have any idea how you’ve humiliated me? Fighting like common thugs in the street. And all in my name!”
“Lillian, listen,” Warner said, thoroughly abashed. “I wouldn’t offend you for anything in the world. I just wasn’t thinking straight.”
Tallant nodded his head rapidly. “That goes double for me. I’m as much to blame as Hank.”
“Yes, you are,” Lillian said shortly. “Now, I want you both to shake hands. Let it end here.”
Warner and Tallant swapped a quick glance. After a moment, Tallant stuck out his hand and Warner clasped it in a firm grip. Lillian allowed herself a tight smile.
“I hope you can behave like gentlemen from now on. You might even become friends.”
“I tend to doubt it,” Warner said.
Tallant grunted. “Yeah, not too likely.”
“Well, you won’t have me as an excuse.” Lillian looked from one to the other. “I am leaving Pueblo and I never want to see you again. Either of you.”
“Hold on!” Warner barked, and Tallant added a hasty, “Let’s talk about this!”
Fontaine stepped forward. “Gentlemen, I believe my daughter—”
“Please, Papa,” Lillian cut him off. “I have to do this myself.”
“Of course, my dear.”
“Goodbye, Hank. Goodbye, Jake.” Lillian permitted herself a softer smile. “Please don’t say anything to make it more difficult. Just leave now. Please.”
Tallant and Warner seemed on the verge of arguing it further. But then, under her cool stare, they mumbled their goodbyes and turned away. No one said anything as they crossed backstage and went out the door. Fontaine looked at Lillian.
“Leaving Pueblo?” he said. “Wasn’t that what you told them? I recall no discussion to that effect.”
“Yes, Papa, we are leaving.”
“You might have consulted me first.”
“I’m sorry,” Lillian said evenly. “I’ve had my fill of ruffians, Papa. It’s time to go on to Denver.”
Fontaine nodded judiciously. “Certainly our notices merit moving onward and upward. You may have a point.”
“Just a damn minute!” Varnum jumped in. “You can’t run off and leave me high and dry.”
“Indeed?” Fontaine said, suddenly testy. “For a man who dislikes Shakespeare, you take umbrage rather too quickly. Do we have a contract with you, Mr. Varnum?”
“I gave you your start!” Varnum objected loudly. “And besides, it’s not professional.”
“Hmmn.” Fontaine feigned deep consideration. “Never let it be said that the Fontaines are less than professional. What say, my dear, shall we give him another week?”
Lillian sighed. “One week, Papa, but no more. I’m anxious to see Denver.”
“I concur,” Fontaine said, gesturing idly in Varnum’s direction. “There you have it, my good man. One week and we bid you adieu.”
“Godalmighty,” Varnum groaned. “I’ll never find a headliner act in a week.”
“Nor will you find one to replace The Fontaines, my dear fellow. We are, in a word, singular.”
Lillian turned toward her dressing room. Lulu was waiting by the door and gave her Kewpie-doll smile. “Sugar, you sure know how to end a romance. I never saw two chumps dusted off so fast.”
“I hope I wasn’t too harsh on them. Although I must say they deserved it.”
“Well, who knows, maybe I’ll snag one of them while he’s sobbin’ in his beer. But whether I do or don’t, I’m gonna miss you, kiddo.”
“Oh, Lulu, I’ll miss you, too.”
“Yeah, but I can always say I knew you when. You’re on your way to the big time now.”
“Do you think so, honestly?”
“Sugar, I’d lay odds on it.”
Theatrical people were superstitious and rarely counted their good fortune until it came true. Yet Lillian, who was caught up in the moment, cast her superstitions aside. She already knew it was true.
She saw her name in lights.
CHAPTER 21
THE ENGINEER set the brakes with a racketing squeal. A moment later the train rocked to a halt before the Denver stationhouse. Towering skyward, the Rockies rose majestically under a noonday sun, the snowcapped spires touching the clouds. Lillian thought it was a scene of unimaginable grandeur.
Passengers began deboarding the train. Fontaine signaled one of the porters who waited outside the stationhouse. When the baggage car was unloaded, the porter muscled their steamer trunks onto a cart and led them across the platform. In front of the depot, Fontaine engaged a carriage and told the cabbie to take them to the Brown Palace Hotel. From all he’d heard, the hotel was an institution, the finest in Denver. He planned to establish residence in proper style.
On the way uptown Lillian noted that the streets were cobbled and many of the buildings were constructed of brick masonry. She recalled Libbie Custer telling her that a town founded on a gold strike had become a center of finance and commerce. Over the years, the mining camp reproduced itself a hundredfold, until finally a modern metropolis rose along the banks of Cherry Creek and the South Platte River. Denver was transformed into a cosmopolitan beehive, with opera and a stock exchange and a population approaching 20,000. The city was unrivaled on the Western plains.
The Brown Palace was all they’d been led to expect. Thick carpets covered the marble floor of the lobby, and a central seating area was furnished with leather chairs and sofas. The whole of the lobby ceiling glittered with an ornate mural, and a wide, sweeping staircase ascended to the upper floors. The place had the look and smell of wealth, home away from home for the upper class. At the reception desk, Fontaine noted a calendar with the date May 25, and he marked it as an auspicious day. Their journey had at last brought them to Denver.
“Good afternoon,” he said, nodding to the clerk. “You have a suite reserved for Alistair Fontaine.”
“Yes, sir,” the clerk replied. “How long will you be staying with us, Mr. Fontaine?”
“Indefinitely.”
“Welcome to the Brown Palace.”
“Thank you so much.”
Fontaine signed the register with a flourish. Upstairs, led by a bellman, they were shown into a lavish suite. A lush Persian carpet covered the sitting room floor, and grouped before a marble fireplace were several chairs and a chesterfield divan. There were connecting doors to the bedrooms, both of which were appointed in Victorian style and equipped with a private lavatory. A series of handsomely draped windows overlooked the city.
Lillian whirled around the sitting room. “I can hardly believe we’re here. It’s like a dream come true.”
“Indeed, my dear,” Fontaine said. “Far more civilized t
han anything we’ve seen in our travels, hmmm?”
“And running water,” Chester added, returning from the bedroom. “I think I’m going to like Denver.”
“I’m going to love it!” Lillian said gaily. “Papa, when will we see the theater? Could we go this afternoon?”
“Tonight, I believe,” Fontaine said. “We’ll take in the show and get a feel for the crowd. No need to rush.”
“I’m just so anxious, that’s all. I wish we were opening tonight.”
“What is one night more or less? We will have a long run in Denver, my dear. You may depend on it.”
Fontaine exuded confidence. By telegraph, he’d spent the last week negotiating with Burt Tully, owner of the Alcazar Variety Theater. Their notices from Pueblo, just as he’d predicted, had made Tully eager to offer them headliner billing. Though Tully’s principal interest was in Lillian, Fontaine had nonetheless struck a lucrative deal for the entire act. Their salary was $300 a week, with a four-week guarantee.
Early that evening, they took a stroll through the sporting district. For reasons lost to time, the district was known locally as the Tenderloin. There, within a few square blocks of Blake Street, gaming dives and variety theaters provided a circus of nightlife. Saloons and gambling, mixed with top-drawer entertainment, presented an enticing lure. Sporting men were attracted from all across the West.
One block over was Denver’s infamous red-light district. Known simply as the Row, Holladay Street was a lusty fleshpot, with a veritable crush of dollar cribs. Yet while hook shops dominated the row, there was no scarcity of high-class bordellos. The parlor houses offered exotic tarts, usually younger and prettier, all at steeper prices. Something over a thousand soiled doves plied their trade on Holladay Street.
Hop Alley satisfied the more bizarre tastes. A narrow passageway off Holladay, it was Denver’s version of Lotus Land. Chinese fan-tan parlors vied with the faint sweet odor of opium dens, and those addicted to the Orient’s heady delights beat a steady path to this backstreet world of pipe dreams. To a select clientele, dainty China dolls were available day or night. Vice in every form was available at a price.