The locomotive yawned a blast of steam over the platform that took to the breeze and covered all onlookers. When the steam took it upon itself to drift away, spotlights snapped from the carriage rooftops, swinging skyward, outward, and then back in again to aim at a single point atop carriage three. The lights struck carefully placed mirrors, launching a bevy of prismatic beams that decorated station and spectator alike. Standing within a halo of white stood a man, tall in stature and very much delighted at being among these wonderful individuals.
His suit was that of regal finery, a formal decorated jacket with gold that chased lapel, pocket, and seam, clearly well tailored and thus of considerable expense. He was a man – mid-twenties from many guesses, though in truth in his late twenties – dressed smartly with a hint of eccentricity. He had a mane of auburn hair slicked back to a contour. A small, well-groomed goatee beard coupled with stubble caused the women in the crowd to fawn over his smouldering good looks, a feat encouraged by his charming smile that was frankly overkill.
As he surveyed the faces, the now silent people gazed on in anticipation. The warm night breeze carried their communal anticipation to the man and he relished every lingering moment.
He finally spoke. ‘People of Rustec, we are lucky to have generated such attention from your fine selves. I must say this turnout warms my heart in a way you cannot possibly imagine. Why, might you ask? Because I am in the presence of greatness. Each and every one of you keeps this wonderful town full of merriment, with your devotion and your labour! Why, without you, the mayor would simply have to be content with sitting in the dirt on his lonesome.’
This drew a ripple of laughter, surprisingly so from the mayor himself, something that brought about a stunned raise of the brow from an aide.
‘Out here in these hardships and yet you each endure them. What does this make you if not great? The word was invented for every face that looks upon me; though be aware I look at you with reverence. That is why I am here. You must all have questions and I am the one to answer them. Tonight, I am the servant of you magnificent people!’
While his arms were thrown upward, the carriage’s interiors sequentially snapped in illumination, bursts of light drowning out the meagre station gaslights. The spotlights swung back leaving only a single pair upon the flamboyant announcer. A sudden volley of fireworks took to the sky, sending up glittering reds, blues, and greens.
‘My name is Franco Del Monaire,’ he declared with the utmost pride. ‘I am called many things by many people. I was once, like your fine selves, a working man. Oh yes, I worked, and I toiled and like yourselves found little amusement in this world. Do you not feel the same?’
A cheer went up from the audience.
‘Fine people of Rustec, very fine people, do you not deserve amusement? You work your fingers to the very bone, slaving for that day’s wage. Do you not deserve to be rewarded? Do you not deserve to be entertained on this very night?’
Another blast of agreement came from the crowd, encouraging another smattering of colour to paint the twilight sky.
The Gambler’s Den itself shuddered with action. Doors spilt forward from each carriage. From the last, a line of girls emerged, beautiful in appearance, attired in flowing crimson satin dresses, drawing attention to their bosoms. They stood aside their transportation and curtseyed in unison to the transfixed mass, impeccable smiles on each face.
One of the carriage’s walls was disassembled, revealing a bar stocked with every type of beverage one could possibly wish for. Game tables decked the carriage’s interiors, covering every vice designed to part people from their money. Never had the mass seen such a sight. Such opulence! Such decadence!
And it was for them. Only them.
‘Your pleas have been heard, fine people. In Her infinite wisdom She saw fit to direct us here, to you all, for this very night. Tonight, it was decided that you shall all be rewarded for your toil! We have the duty, nay, the pleasure to entertain every single one of your number!’
Cheers exploded as the man caught sight of the children hurriedly clapping before their parents.
‘It makes no difference how much lines your pockets! Your age and standing is far from our concern, as these are mindless trivialities. All are welcome through our doors! Drink, relax, and gamble in our company, my kind, new friends! Our delight is your indulgence! You are all our guests, here, at the Gambler’s Den this night!’
The announcement was punctuated with sequential spats of fireworks that ran above one carriage to the next. As Franco swung himself forward in a long, respectful bow and the air burst above him in stardust, Rustec communally erupted in delight.
To be a showman of this magnitude took quite a considerable amount of presence and it was this trait that ensured Franco was mobbed no matter where he went. From the drinking tables on the platform itself, people would rise from their seats as he roamed about, responding to his encouragement or sparse conversation. Smiles adorned every face he saw, even the ones who had lost their money on foolhardy wagers. Hands repeatedly jutted out for shaking, every single one reciprocated warmly by their host.
Thanks was given, constantly, and Franco accepted with utmost humility. Glasses were thrust in cheer, and those were met with cheer in return. Even declarations of affection were handled appropriately. The occasional flirtatious or outright scandalous suggestions were thwarted yet handled in a way that the offender felt no animosity. Quite the opposite in fact.
Advice on the games was relentless, no matter which carriage he ventured into. When should one double down in Blackjack (‘a soft 17 if you wish to put me out of business’)? What numbers are the best to cover on the roulette table (‘all of them if you can afford it, but split over what feels lucky’)? How best to deceive at liar’s dice (‘never tell your spouse the truth and it’ll come naturally’) and countless more were answered. They were all questions he had provided answers to in the past, to other patrons in other places such as this; but all gained the impression that it was the first time such a thing was queried.
The spectacle was in full swing. The train platform was awash with tables, packed with those enjoying both drink and company. The wealthy sat shoulder to shoulder with the poor with complete disregard for social standing. Money knew no such barriers and those across the spectrum made and lost theirs without prejudice. Worker and dockhand aside bank teller and accountant.
The mayor himself drank boisterously, surrounded by pitmen – their coal-dusted overalls mirroring their unwashed faces. Flat caps were tossed into the air on the chorus of songs, the lyrics only broken when the mayor slipped and fell upon his backside, an accident he took in good humour and was helped back on his feet from. The only outcome from this was the demand for more drink, paid by the town coffers no less.
The showgirls of the Gambler’s Den performed their roles impeccably. They waited the tables and poured the drinks, with naught a drop spilled and never an order wrong. They ushered and bantered, turning cards and dividing chips. Encouragement was served to those who succumbed to losses and congratulations to the ones who luck had sided with.
All this was done with professionalism and a beat of lashes to encourage the slacking of purse strings. After all, as Franco would dictate, everyone was going to lose their money at some point. You may as well do so half drunk and at the mercy of a pretty smile. Any who were not hosting game tables were working front of house, gliding among their designated tables with trays of drinks. Each turn and sway was made with precision; every bat of the eyelashes and response a heady concoction that added to the ambience.
While Franco provided his presence and luck played the cards and rolled the dice, the women in his employment very much bound the show together with their hospitality. Inevitably, the occasional letch or more intoxicated reveller would make an inappropriate advance or comment but these were quickly retracted. It only took a nod of the head for the train’s security to stroll over and correct any social mistakes
. Apologies were quickly administered. Tips rose sharply.
Come the strike of nine, three of the showgirls took to a makeshift stage and performed acts to rousing applause. One, freckled and adorned with a shock of red curls, demonstrated the mysterious art of hypnosis on the first individual who offered assistance. He himself loudly dismissed its effects until complying with the suggestion that he should forage around the platform like a chicken.
The second performer, taller and raven-haired, showed a particular aptitude for ventriloquism. The spectacle brought riots of laughter as she proceeded to manipulate the conversation between two volunteering sisters to reveal secret absurdities.
The final presentation in this extravaganza was reserved for the woman who differed from the others. She seemed to have an authority over the showgirls, seen at times to whisper suggestions into their ears. Instead of the uniformed dress that the others sported, she wore a variation with flair, extra lace here, a flow of ribbon there, punctuated with a slit up the skirt itself.
On her command, the lights of the carriages faded to a low warmth. The beat of drums began to emanate from an unseen player as the woman took a handful of cast-iron torches and set them alight with the stroke of a match. The flames streaked through the air, lingering, tracing shapes, which gained in speed and complexity as the drums followed suit. Swiping a bottle of liquor from the bar carriage, she took and held a mouthful before launching a ball of flame into the night sky.
The audience gasped and cooed as this was repeated. The air ignited violently, in each direction, with each spray from her lips. Some harbouring more nervous temperaments felt unnerved from the sudden rush of heat assaulting their faces but cautiously applauded when appropriate. As a finale, a torch was brought to her lips, then pulled away as the eruption started, launching the bellow skyward with frightening intensity.
The woman bowed when done and the drums fell silent. Silently, and under hundreds of watchful eyes, she stood in profile and arched her form backwards. Each of the torches was slowly lowered with the flickering flame that plagued them extinguished with a clap of her mouth. When each was done, she straightened her back and bowed once more. The carriage lights were restored to luminescence.
Expectedly the applause was deafening.
There was no formal closing ceremony, though warm words were informally given. Midnight was celebrated by the star-clad sky being painted with gaudy, but spectacular, explosions. The hours crept on, thinning out attendees. The numbers simply dwindled the longer the time went on. Some made their retreat due to empty pockets. A good many ventured home when they had clearly consumed too much drink. Others simply couldn’t tolerate the hour and found the solace of a bed far too alluring.
The night had been filled with good cheer, fine alcohol, and gracious company, ensuring that the Gambler’s Den legacy was secured for some time yet. When the last glass was emptied and the final cards played, the morning light had yet to begin breaking over the horizon.
Come the morning, Rustec was still. The normally busy desert docks were silent. Huge transport ships sat in sequence with no stirring. The daily market was nowhere to be seen. Most were suffering from the aftereffects from the night before. Many had overindulged in food and drink, hangovers were being nursed, and the clean-up had begrudgingly begun. The moon remained in the sky, as did the morning stars, which would retire under the veil of light within the hour.
The Gambler’s Den itself slowly began to show signs of life. Near the back of the train was the personnel carriage where the employees slept, a boxcar for storage, and a sweeping observation car at the end, outfitted as a lounge. Franco emerged from his personal carriage, half-dressed and scratching through his unkempt hair. The night had gone very well. As usual, small towns like this were full of those who needed entertainment and whilst money was difficult to earn, the philosophy of giving the people what they wanted, which Franco lived by, had paid dividends.
The showgirls had now arisen and were set into the routine of cleaning up under the lazy light. It didn’t take long for the dusty station to be devoid of litter and broken glass, defying the fact that the evening’s festivities had even taken place. A few stragglers who had lain out on the platform benches or fallen asleep in the chairs were gradually awoken and encouraged to attempt the journey home.
Surveying the scene, Franco sucked on his cigarette until taking the decision to bravely venture onward. He passed under the entranceway and covered his eyes as the sun set his vision awash with white. Finally, when his eyesight returned, he blinked in the sight of Rustec’s streets that remained perfectly quiet. It brought a measure of vanity – as, for Franco, it meant a job well done. Nothing signified a good time more than half of the locals comatose come the working day. Now all he had to do was tie up loose ends.
He turned back on himself and spied the invitation banner that fluttered in the breeze. Rather than be pleased he muttered an obscenity. How in the name of all of the worst things in the world was he supposed to get to it? It hung some twenty feet in the air, curled around – what was that?
Franco covered his eyes again.
A gas lamp? Someone had hung their grand invitation around a gas lamp of all things? Why not have it sit in the mud or have a horse urinate on it while we’re at it? The shocking lack of theatricality gnawed at him but what else was expected when you slipped money to nobodies to hang the announcement up? The more pressing matter was how he was going to get it down.
Seeing that the youth of the town didn’t get to participate in the drinking nor games, they ventured through the streets as usual. A street child clad in tatters sauntered past, stopping and taking stock of the local celebrity with open-mouthed awe.
‘You the train man?’ the child meekly probed.
‘Aye,’ he answered, still deliberating his conundrum.
There was a pause.
‘That yours then?’ the child asked, pointing at the material fluttering with licks of wind. The damn thing was taunting the pair of them.
‘Aye,’ Franco repeated himself, a touch more sour than before.
‘It’s pretty high up.’
‘That it is.’
In a glimmer of inspiration Franco took to his knee, producing a silver coin from a pocket, which mesmerized the child with its reflection.
‘How do you fancy earning this?’ he rasped, mouth still occupied with smoke. The child hadn’t seen so much money in a long while, and only spoke to ask how.
Five minutes later Franco carried the invitation banner over his shoulder whilst whistling a tune in contentment. Simple problems were solved with simple solutions, he deduced.
Sliding back the door to his private carriage, Franco tossed the banner down in an empty space. The lavishly decorated interior was awash with red velvet and gold trim. The furniture was kept to a minimum, consisting of an elegant bed, a desk, and two sofas. Exotic materials, trinkets, and mementos littered the place: souvenirs from exotic places far from Rustec, far from any civilization, were pinned or placed.
It was an enigmatic affair though sorted into some semblance of order when scrutinized. The single desk was littered with the contents of other people’s pockets, weighing down stacked charts made by those who excelled in cartography. For those who desired order and neatness in their lives, this car was a literal nightmare. For Franco, it was home.
He took the handle of a mug filled with coffee. A quick draw on the drink revealed it to be cold, though that mattered not with a headache such as his. This tranquillity was interrupted as a sudden rapping at the connecting door drew his attention.
‘Are you awake yet?’ came a voice.
He ground the stub of his cigarette into a makeshift ashtray.
‘If I wasn’t then you just made sure of that. You’re under the impression that I slept.’
Misu made a small smile as she entered, swinging the door to a close behind her, examining her boss’s shirtless physique with a glance. It di
dn’t go unnoticed.
‘I confess, I did see you taking a stroll on the platform. Walking around like that will distract the other girls, Franco. You should be more modest with what you put on display. They’re only human, you know.’
‘And yet you show no concern for your own wellbeing. That is quiet telling. Like a swan who points out the rest of her flock to a predator to spare her own life.’
He cockily swigged from the coffee once more until it was emptied.
Misu covered her smirk with a hand, retrieving a clean shirt from the back of the sofa and tossing it to him.
‘Put that on. You should stop fantasizing about what you cannot have, my dear manager. That sort of attitude could become the end of you. I have news from our dear driver that he is ready for the off on your word. The girls are waiting your inspection.’
Franco begrudgingly pulled the material over his head and wrestled with the cuff buttons.
‘A little keen, aren’t they? We still have some time. We still have, uh …’ He trailed off under the realization that his pocket watch was absent from his trousers.
Instead, Misu filled the gap. ‘Two hours,’ she flatly stated.
‘Exactly, we have another two hours. Seems awfully impatient of them.’
‘I keep them prompt and organized. You said you expected no less of the women in our employ.’
‘That does indeed sound like something I would say.’ He loosely brushed his hair into some sort of shape with his fingers, changing the subject. ‘How were the takings last night?’
‘A little on the low side but nothing too worrying. We’re still down but I don’t see that continuing as a trend given where we’re heading next. I’ve already amended the books so they’re ready for the safe. That is, unless you want me to do that as well?’
It was a bone of contention that Franco didn’t trust anybody with the safe key other than himself. It was kept on his person at all times. He had decided before any others were employed he would be the only one to have access – as much for everyone else’s protection as his own. Nobody would be tempted to take something they shouldn’t and as a result, he wouldn’t have to wildly speculate as to the culprit and sow discord among the ranks.
Den of Shadows Page 2