Enviable? The notion jolted Agatha. Women who’d pleasured men for money, who’d learned how to lift pocket watches from unsuspecting dandies, who danced in saloons with pictures of naked women on the wall and kicked hats from men’s heads. How was it possible she could believe for an instant she envied them?
But if she didn’t, why was she suddenly so sad?
It was getting late. Soon it would be time to get ready for the seven o’clock gathering.
Agatha rose from her chair and saw the gold coins winking at her from the worktable, right where Gandy had left them. She wondered how long it would take to get a sewing machine shipped in from Boston.
Agatha, don’t be silly!
But the girls are so lively, so much fun to be around.
Agatha, you’re getting as senile as Violet!
And imagine what you could earn, making three cancan outfits.
It would be tainted money.
But so much of it. And he pays so well.
Agatha, don’t even think it!
Well, he does. A hundred dollars for less than three hours’ work. And three helping hands thrown in!
It was a bribe and you know it.
Bribery money buys sewing machines the same as other money.
Listen to yourself. Soon you’ll be stitching cancans!
I’ve a mind to try it, with or without a sewing machine.
Since when did you become mercenary?
Oh, all right, so he paid me too much!
And what do you intend to do about it?
She picked up the ten gold coins and feathered them onto her palm. They were so heavy! She’d never known before how heavy ten ten-dollar gold pieces were. And they warmed fast, as the girls had said. She peeled off six and set them aside, then layered the remaining four like dominoes along her palm. Forty dollars was a lot of money. Warm, heavy money.
In the end she listened to her conscience, resolutely clamped her palm shut, and headed for the back door. Even as she did she wished she were as uninhibited as Pearl so she could curse at herself for what she was about to do.
The back door of the Gilded Cage opened on to a short corridor between a pair of storage rooms. Standing in the shadows, Agatha went unnoticed at first. There was neither piano nor banjo music, only the sound of happy chatter. A gay band of saloon regulars, and all the establishment’s employees, clustered around the gilded cage as Gandy and the girls settled the cover over it and arranged its folds. Momentarily, Agatha envied them again. The camaraderie. The way they laughed and teased one another.
She saw immediately what all the hammering had been about. A rope led from the tip of the cage to a pulley mounted in the ceiling, where a trapdoor had been installed. They were bantering about it, pointing, looking up. Jubilee said something and they all laughed. Then Gandy looped an arm around her shoulders. They looked into one another’s faces and shared a private chuckle. Then his hand swept down the hollow of her back and lingeringly squeezed her buttock.
Agatha’s mouth went dry. Her neck felt hot.
She had no idea people did things like that out of their bedrooms.
She gathered her equilibrium and moved down the hall toward them. The scar-faced bartender saw her and left the group to greet her.
“Evenin’, Miss Downing.” He tipped his bowler.
She was surprised that he knew her name. But he treated her politely, which demanded politeness in return. “Good evening, Mr. Hogg.”
Immediately, she could tell he was surprised that she knew his name as well. The unscarred half of Jack Hogg’s face smiled. It was grotesque but she forced herself not to look away, as people sometimes looked away from her.
“Cover looks wonderful, ma’am. Just what Scotty wanted.” When he spoke, the right corner of his mouth drew down; the left corner didn’t move at all.
It struck Agatha how ironic it was that she was standing in the saloon with the picture of the naked woman on the wall, receiving compliments on the red cover she’d sewn. Heaven help her if anyone should walk past the door and glance inside.
“I didn’t come to chitchat. May I speak with Mr. Gandy, please?”
“Sure thing, ma’am.” He raised his voice. “Hey, Scotty! Lady here to see ya.”
Gandy turned from the talkative group near the cage. When he saw Agatha, his dimples appeared and he dropped his arm from Jubilee. He flicked down his shirtsleeves, reached automatically for his jacket from the back of a chair, and shrugged it on while crossing to her.
“Miz Downin’,” he greeted her simply, coming to a halt before her. He thrust his head forward, still adjusting his lapels, a simple enough motion, yet masculine. She was unaccustomed to witnessing men don their clothes. It did something restive to her stomach.
“Mr. Gandy,” she returned civilly, fixing her gaze on his chest.
“Y’all did a fine job. ‘Predate your hurryin’ like y’ did.”
“You overpaid me.” She held out the four gold pieces. “I cannot in good conscience accept all this money.”
Still holding his lapels, he glanced at the coins. “Deal’s a deal.”
“Exactly. Sixty, I believe it was. I’ll accept that much, even though it’s still more than equitable.”
He remained silent for so long that she glanced up. He was considering her with his head tilted to one side. His hair touched his white collar. His necktie hung loose. His dimples were gone.
“You’re an amazin’ woman, y’ know that, Miz Downin’?”
Her gaze dropped beneath his disconcerting perusal.
“Please, just take the money.”
“You’re plannin’ t’ come back here in...” He pulled his watch out and she concentrated on his dark thumb as it released the catch. The cover flipped open. It was made of bright, shiny gold. She wondered if he’d ever extracted it—warm—from between Ruby’s breasts. Or was it only Jubilee he touched intimately?
She returned from her woolgathering to hear him asking, “Why?”
“I... I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
One of his eyebrows curled like a question mark fallen sideways. “In less than an hour you’re plannin’ t’ come back here and begin the ruination of my business. Yet you come in here with forty dollars sayin’ I overpaid you for a sewin’ job you didn’t wanna do in the first place. Why?”
She glanced up again. More quickly down. He was too ungodly handsome. “I told you, my conscience would bother me if I kept it all.”
She’d never met a man so adept at insouciance. His voice became so soft it alone triggered her blush. “It’ll take some money t’ shut me down. Why don’t y’all add it t’ your temperance fund?”
Her head snapped up. He was grinning like a stroked cat, laughing at her.
“Take it!” she demanded, grabbing his wrist and slapping the coins into his palm.
His dimples deepened and she turned to leave. He grabbed her arm to stop her. She pierced his hand with a malevolent look and he immediately released her. “Sorry.”
“Was there something else, Mr. Gandy?” she inquired sharply.
“The girls tell me they asked you t’ make some costumes for them but you refused.”
“That’s right. I’m all through doing business with you. From here on out I fight you.”
“Ah, commendable.” He raised one long index finger. “But don’t forget free enterprise. You know now that I really do pay well.”
“I explained to the girls that I have no sewing machine. It would take an impossible length of time and it wouldn’t look good to the ladies of the temperance union. Besides, I’m a milliner, not a seamstress.”
“That’s not what they said after watchin’ you put together that cover.”
“The answer is no, Mr. Gandy.”
“Very well,” he conceded with a half bow. “Thank you for returnin’ my money. Maybe I can buy a nude for the other wall.”
She realized as she stood there sparring with him that her heart was beating a little too
earnestly. Her face, however, remained stern.
“Until seven o’clock, then,” she said, repeating his earlier words, offering the faintest bow.
He raised his chin and laughed. “We’ll be expectin’ y’all. And the doors’ll be open.”
As she left, he withdrew a cigar from his pocket and studied the rear of her skirts—poufs and froufrous. And enough cloth to make a revival tent! He wondered how in tarnation the woman put together such a rig. Nimble-fingered little thing, he thought. And living on a shoestring, if his guess was right. He’d be willing to bet that ten-dollar gold pieces weren’t the only things that spoke louder than words... in her case, so did sewing machines.
He was a gambler. He’d put money on it.
CHAPTER
5
The ladies of the Proffitt Women’s Christian Temperance Union met on the boardwalk shortly before seven P.M., bringing their temperance pledges with them. At the top was the organization’s name and motto, coined by Frances Willard, the founder and president of the national W.C.T.U.: For God and Home and Native Land. The pledge contained the promise that he who signed, “with God being his helper, would never touch, taste, or handle, for beverage purposes, any intoxicating liquor, including wine, beer, and cider,” and that he would “use all honorable means to encourage others to abstain.” Below were blanks for name and date.
When the ladies arrived, Gandy, wearing a convivial smile, came out to the boardwalk to greet them. From the shadows Agatha studied him. The saloon lanterns threw a cone of light through the open doors as he stood pressing them open. The orange glow highlighted only parts of his face. It appeared freshly shaven for the occasion. From the low crown of his black hat to the tips of his shiny black boots, he was indecently attractive. Freshly brushed black suit, ice-blue waistcoat, immaculate white collar, and black string tie. Even the malodorous cheroot was absent from his fingers.
He took his time, letting his glance pass from one female face to the next until he’d met each pair of eyes. Only then did he leisurely tip his black Stetson.
“Evenin’, ladies.”
Some shifted nervously under his indolent perusal. Several nodded silently. Others glanced uncertainly at Drusilla Wilson. Agatha stood stiffly, watching. How confident he was of his charm, of his effect on those of the opposite sex. His very pose seemed calculated to enhance his striking appearance—weight on one hip, jacket gaping open, hands draped lazily over the tops of the swinging doors, the diamond ring winking even in the twilight.
Gandy’s dark, amused eyes picked out Agatha.
“Miz Downin’,” he drawled, “you’re lookin’ exceptionally fine this evenin’.”
Agatha wished she could slip between the cracks in the boardwalk. Momentarily, she feared he would mention the job she’d done for him—she wouldn’t put it past him to thank her drolly. To her relief his attention moved on.
“Miz Parsons. My, my.” His dimples proved more effective than flowery words. Violet tittered.
Stepping farther onto the boardwalk, Gandy turned to Drusilla.
“Miz Wilson, I don’t b’lieve I’ve had the pleasure.”
She glanced at his extended hand, clasping her own together. “Mr. Gandy, I presume.”
He nodded.
“I’ll shake your hand when it has put your signature on this.” She thrust forward the pledge and a pen. Gandy scanned them coolly, then threw back his head and laughed.
“Not today, Miz Wilson. With three dancin’ girls and that white-limbed beauty on the wall in there, I b’lieve I have the winnin’ hand.” He pressed both swinging doors back against the wall. “But y’all do what y’ can t’ reverse the odds.”
With a half bow he turned and left them.
It became obvious with the arrival of the saloon’s first patrons that its attractions far outweighed those of any temperance pledge. The swinging doors remained folded back. From inside came the welcoming sound of the piano and banjo. The oil painting beckoned from the wall. The green baize of the gambling tables welcomed like oases in a desert. Gandy himself greeted his customers. And everyone awaited the appearance of Jubilee and the Gems.
Outside, the ladies took up a chorus of “Cold Water Is King,” singing at the top of their lungs, only to inspire Gandy to send Marcus Delahunt onto the boardwalk to play his banjo and muddle their song. When Mooney Straub, Wilton Spivey, and Joe Jessup approached, the music grew louder from both factions.
Drusilla Wilson herself approached the trio, shouting to be heard above the din.
“Friends, before you set foot inside to support this ally of Satan, consider how you might better work toward your final salvation. Beyond these doors is the twisting road to ruin, while on this paper is the...”
Their laughter covered the remainder of her plea.
“Lady, you gotta have a wheel loose if ya think I’m signin’ that thing. Ain’t ya heard? There’s dancin’ women here!”
“And that pitcher o’ the naked lady,” added Mooney.
“And we aim to name ‘er!”
Guffawing, they jostled three abreast through the open door. The place began to fill fast. Things were much the same with Drusilla’s next three attempts to waylay Gandy’s customers. They laughed in her face and hurried inside, already reaching for their coins.
Then came a ne’er-do-well named Alvis Collinson who’d lost his wife to pneumonia two years earlier. A surly man with a nose like a mushroom, Collinson was known around town for his hair-trigger temper. He worked at the stockyards when he worked. When he didn’t, he spent most of his time drinking, gambling, and starting fights. Countless knuckles had rearranged his face. The left eyelid drooped. The nose bulged hideously. The cheeks, with their broken capillaries, had the appearance of a red cauliflower. His filthy clothing appeared oily from body excretions. When he passed Agatha the air turned sour in his wake.
Evelyn Sowers surprised everyone by stepping forward and accosting him.
“Mr. Collinson, where is your son?”
Collinson stopped. His head jutted and his fists clenched.
“What business is it o’ yours, Evelyn Sowers?”
“Have you left him home alone while you sit here night after night pickling your innards?”
“What the hell ya doin’ here anyway, all you old biddies?” Alvis cast a hateful glare across the entire group.
“Trying to save your soul, Alvis Collinson, and give your son back his father.”
He swung back to Evelyn. “Leave my boy outta this!”
Evelyn stepped directly in front of him. “Who’s taken care of him since your wife died, Alvis? Has he had his supper? Who’ll tuck him into bed tonight? A five-year-old boy—”
“Get outta my way, hag!” He gave her a push that sent her stumbling backward. Her head struck a post and several ladies gasped. Their song faded into silence. But Evelyn bounced off and grabbed Collinson’s arm.
“That boy needs a father, Alvis Collinson. Ask the Lord where he’ll get one!” she shouted.
He shook her off. “Haul your bustles back to your kitchens if ya know what’s good for ya!” he roared, stamping inside.
By now Marcus Delahunt’s fingers had stopped moving on the banjo strings. In the sudden silence Agatha’s heart hammered with fear. She glanced inside to find a frowning Gandy observing the altercation. With a jerk of his head he motioned Delahunt inside, calling, “Close the doors.”
The musician went in, leaving the doors flapping.
“Ladies, let us sing,” Drusilla interjected. “A new song.”
While they sang “Lips That Touch Whiskey Shall Never Touch Mine,” the saloon filled to capacity and not a man had signed a pledge. As the last verse began outside, a roar went up inside. Over the tops of the swinging doors Agatha saw Elias Potts being clapped on the shoulder and congratulated for winning the picture-naming contest. The portly druggist was hoisted to a tabletop and seated in a spindle-backed chair. Then they lifted their drinks in a toast to the nude, shouting
, “To Dierdre and her garden of delights!”
Overhead, the new trapdoor opened and the red-shrouded cage began descending on a thick red satin rope. The men roared, and clapped, and whistled. The background music of the banjo and piano was scarcely audible above the uproar. Potts, scarlet to the fringe of his near-bald head, grinned and dried the corners of his mouth as the cage hovered before him.
The piano player struck one fortissimo chord.
A long leg jutted out from between the folds of red.
The banjo and piano hit and sustained another chord.
The high-heeled white boot rotated on a shapely ankle.
A glissando rolled.
The leg shot out and the toe of the boot braced on Elias Potts’s left knee.
The music stilled.
“Gentlemen, I give you the jewel of the prairie, Miss Jubilee Bright!”
The music swelled and the red drapes swooshed to the ceiling! The men went crazy. There stood Jubilee, dazzling in unrelieved white.
The words about whiskey faded from Agatha’s lips as she stared. Jubilee leaned from the cage in a dress slit from hem to hip, its strapless bodice covered in glittering white sequins. In her incredible white hair bobbed an even whiter curved feather whose tips, too, flashed with sequins. She braced her toe on Potts’s knee and leaned forward to stroke his jaw with a fluffy white boa. Her voice was sultry, the words slow and ripe with innuendo.
“It’s not because I wouldn’t...”
Never had Agatha seen a more beautiful leg than the one braced on Potts’s knee, never a more enviable face than the one leaning close to his. She could not tear her eyes away.
“And it’s not because I shouldn’t...”
The Gamble (I) Page 9