The Rainbow's Foot

by Denise Dietz

  “Vamp-what?”

  “Pires. Critters in a story Flo recited. Vampires are dead, but at night they suck the blood from sleeping folks. You should see Flo act out the story.”

  “Min, dear, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to let a thirteen-year-old girl read tales ’bout dead—”

  “Fourteen tomorrow, Madam. Hard to believe she’s growing so fast.”

  “Remember when you first came to Little Heaven and our Flo preened at herself in the petticoat mirror? Why’d you shiver so, Min? Goose walk ’cross your grave this time?”

  “No, Madam. When you spoke of preening in the mirror, I recollected Swan.”

  “It was a fine funeral, Min. All the men-folk passed the collection plate so’s Swan could be buried inside a silk-lined coffin.”

  Minta retied the sash on her black kimono, dividing the petals of several red roses at her waist. “The men who paid the most were the ones who killed Swan, Madam.”

  “Morphine and strychnine killed Swan.”

  “And she bought her drugs from them who paid the most for her funeral. I want a fine funeral, but my body’s to be sent to my sister afterwards. I want to be buried in Wisconsin and—mercy! Why are we talking death on the eve of my girl’s birthday?”

  “Death’s a part of life, Min.”

  “Death is death. I wonder what became of Otto Floto. It’s been thirteen years since the fires.” She heaved a deep sigh. “Where does the time go?”

  “Time’s been good to you,” said Robin, appraising Minta’s abundant red hair and bright brown eyes. Missing teeth marred the perfection of her face, but when she smiled with her mouth shut, she could charm Old Scratch.

  Robin admitted to thirty-nine, shaving her age by a dozen years. Her once slender form was now an hourglass, her face wrinkles hidden by rice powder, and her hair — frizzed so often that most strands had broken off or fallen out — was always covered by an elaborate wig. Every morning she swallowed spoonfuls of Dr. Barker’s Blood Builder and Brown’s Cure for Female Weakness. Despite her age, Robin could still entertain a gent — when she was in the mood.

  She had begun as a Denver crib girl and then shared a house with three other girls. After many offers of marriage, she chose a physician, but he oft spent his nights making house calls, so she left Denver with a visiting steamboat captain. The captain staked her to a new start in St. Louis, where her parlor house was a great success. After a few years, Robin sold the house and returned to Denver to collect on an insurance policy from her deceased husband, whose house calls had resulted in a fatal case of syphilis.

  Robin invested her money in railroad bonds, but lost it all by June 1894, when no fewer than one hundred and ninety-four railroads went belly-up.

  During her years in Missouri, a man on the police force had fallen in love with her and he took frequent trips to visit “friends” in Denver. One evening he told Robin about a prominent Denver citizen. It was rumored that the millionaire killed his first wife in order to marry another woman, but there was no proof. Robin’s policeman proposed he concoct some story about Robin witnessing the deed. Together, they successfully blackmailed the millionaire, who then hanged himself. Robin found herself with child, but her daughter died of the cholera. After the Cripple Creek fires, she built Little Heaven. However, her policeman had recently retired and she’d soon be joining him in St. Louis.

  Minta would become Little Heaven’s new madam.

  Blinking away the past, Robin admired Flo’s birthday cake. The butter had lain in rose leaves, and the eggs had been delivered straight from a henhouse. A gill of wine, warmed cream, nutmeg and currants had been added, and fine sugar sifted across the top. Fifteen candles waited to be lit, one to grow on.

  “Do you remember everything I’ve told you about the running of Little Heaven, Min?”

  “Even if I didn’t, I’ve been here long enough to notice with my own two eyes.” Minta placed her empty glass on top of the table, next to Three Weeks by English author Elinor Glyn. The book had been banned in Boston because of its description of an illicit affair. Following the ban, it sold fifty thousand copies in three weeks.

  Seeing as how Robin wanted the rules explained, Minta said, “The charge for a quick date is five dollars. Fifteen to thirty dollars for spending the night, more if soixante-neuf is desired. The madam’s share is half the set fee.”

  “Good. Go on.”

  “Beer’s one dollar, a split of champagne five. Angels get their share of tips on drinks and music.”

  Robin poured more champagne. Then she reached for a stack of papers next to the birthday cake. “Have you seen this two-week grocery bill for Worcestershire sauce, rum candles, steaks, roasts and chickens? Eighty-one dollars. The dairy bill’s forty-three. No good madam stints.”

  “I won’t tighten the purse strings.” Minta’s finger crossed her heart.

  “Here’s a bill for wine, whiskey and beer. Three hundred and ten dollars. But most of my profits are in the meals and drinking. A gent can spend two hundred dollars for the weekend, and that don’t always include an Angel.”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  “I’ve written the fees inside a ledger, but—”

  “The men’s names have to be kept secret, though some like John McDonald and Samuel Peiffer don’t care. Rowdy gents must be led from the house quietly, and Angels must be treated like babies. They can get moody and suicide on laudanum or morphine, as Swan did.”

  “Laudanum’s more the way. You can buy quarts at any pharmacy. Look out for Suzy. She takes it lots.”

  “Suzy takes it for her monthly courses. Frenchy’s been charging clothes on Bennett again, and she’s way behind with her payments. Dee’s drinking too much.”

  “Dee’s getting on in years. She’s plumb scared.”

  “Do you want me to talk to her?”

  “Yes. Might as well slip you into my place easy-like. I’ll be retiring next Christmas.”

  “Beth’s been mooning over John McDonald. She believes his flattering talk and thinks he’d leave that pious wife for love of her. By the by, McDonald telephoned. He’ll be here tonight, and he’s bringing his oldest boy for a first visit. Near the same age as Flo, I suspect. Who should gratify him, Madam? I’d do it myself, but I’ll be pleasuring Samuel Peiffer.”

  “Give over young McDonald to Dee. The boy needs an experienced Angel. Damned if I ain’t fuzzed from this here champagne.”

  “Me, too. When I get to heaven I’ll sip wine all day long. I plan to set up shop in heaven and become one of God’s angels.” Braying her laugh, Minta left the kitchen, climbed the stairs, and inched open her bedroom door.

  Blueberry would be so proud, she thought. Flo was mannered and sweet. She spoke some French and Mex, she sewed like a danged tailor, and she’d done real good in school.

  Recently she’d taken to eating less and she’d slimmed down some. Her face was round like Blueberry’s, but the cleft chin was Nugget Ned’s. Her eyes were her mama’s, so blue that in shadows they looked like purple pansy flowers.

  Flo walked and talked like a lady, but she bit her nails, so Blueberry’s nugget ring stayed inside the jewelry box until the child broke herself of that nasty habit.

  When parlor chores were finished, Flo could be found at the livery, where she groomed and fed the horses, lugged heavy pails of water to the troughs, and pitched hay into the stalls. As a reward for her labors, Alonzo Welty let her ride the horses and she had become an expert equestrian, able to control the wildest steed. With a sniff, Minta shook her head. Although obedient in all other respects, Flo insisted on riding astraddle like Sally Marylander.

  “How do I look, Mama Min?” Flo sauntered across the room.

  Minta remembered the morning near seven years ago when Flo had spilled scent and modeled a petticoat. This evening, her petticoats were safely hidden by the skirts of a blue satin gown with oyster-white eyelet lace at the bodice and sleeves. Her dress was mid-calf in length, meeting high kid boots.

 
“You look very pretty, child, but you have an odor.”

  “I bathed. Then I had to change the wood shavings in Alice and Teddy’s cage, and Spinach went and hid under the stove, and Ethel Barrymore messed on the kitchen floor.”

  “What were Spinach and Ethel doing in the kitchen? I’ve told you over and over that your pets belong outside.”

  “I had to bandage Ethel’s hurt paw or she’d have barked all night. Spinach wriggled inside when I wasn’t looking.”

  Minta grimaced. “A green garter snake for a pet! Honestly, Flo.”

  “President Roosevelt’s son has a garter snake, only he named it Emily for a skinny aunt.”

  “And you named your rabbits Teddy and Alice for the Roosevelts. You must let your animals go, darlin’. There’s too many. Dogs, cats, squirrels, rabbits, and now a snake.”

  “I’ll let some go when their wounds are healed. The Roosevelts have the pets I do. Also guinea pigs, a black bear, a parrot, ponies and a kangaroo. They live inside the White House.”

  “It ain’t gonna stay white if the Roosevelts’ pets mess like yours do. Next thing I know you’ll be draggin’ some dang kangaroo through our parlor. Phew! Why don’t you dab some of my scent behind your ears to lessen Ethel’s smell?”

  “No need. I’ve got my own perfume. Mr. Peiffer gave me a big bottle.”

  “He did? Whatever for?”

  “My birthday. He thought I was only twelve but I set him straight. Soon I’ll be slim like Sally Marylander. She said I had good bones.”

  Shrugging off her kimono, Minta swayed toward the straddle chair. “Tie my corset strings tighter, Flo. I’ve got to fit my new red gown and I sewed the waist at twenty-three inches. Should have made it twenty-five. I look like . . . what’s the name of your pregnant pussycat?”

  “Mrs. Wiggs. You’re giddy, Mama Min. Have you been into the champagne?”

  “Madam Robin poured a taste to celebrate your cake bein’ baked, that’s all.”

  “May I drink champagne tonight?” Flo knotted the corset strings with nimble fingers.

  “Yes. One glass at midnight to toast your birthday. Now, get on with you. I’ve set Suzy the task of greeting guests at the door, but it’s your party.”

  “I don’t like Suzy.”

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, she says she’s from St. Louis. I mentioned places Madam Robin told me about and Suzy looked plumb addled. No, more like scared. I can’t believe she ever lived there. I think Suzy fibs.”

  *****

  During her interview with Madam Robin, Sarah Dusseldorf said she had traveled straight to Colorado from a parlor house in St. Louis. Her fiancé had died, she said. She bawled her head off, and Robin didn’t question her new Angel very closely. If she had, she would have discovered that Sarah had never set foot in Missouri.

  In truth, Sarah had fled Denver, changing her hair color from blonde to brown and her name from Sarah to Suzy. She didn’t intend to remain long at Little Heaven. It would be a respite to get her bearings and recover from her duel with Madam Rebecca Silverheels. Madam Becky had been jealous because Sarah was bedding Cortez Wilson, a foot racer Becky considered her gent. Outside the city limits, in Denver Park, Becky and Sarah shot at each other. They both missed, but during the drunken brawl that followed, a well-placed kick had left Sarah with a broken nose.

  Sarah heard that Becky considered the episode unfinished and was loading her gun anew. Customers stayed away, former friends shunned Sarah, and she decided to disappear. She didn’t really believe Becky would trail her to Cripple Creek, or that Cort would press charges over the money Sarah stole from him, but better to be safe than sorry.

  She liked the name Suzy. She liked Little Heaven, too. Madam Robin was old and easy to fool. Her apparent successor could be a problem, but tonight Minta was muddled from champagne. Still, it never hurt to butter the bread.

  “Your daughter’s sure a pretty little thing, Miss Minta,” lisped Suzy, hoping her words sounded heartfelt. Flo was pudgy on the bottom, flat as flapjacks on top. Her eyes and mouth were too big. Beautiful hair, though. Hair was important.

  Paying Suzy no heed, Minta sat on a long horsehair sofa in the middle of the room and watched Flo. Right now Flo talked to the piano player, Abraham Washington, called Washman. Next to Flo and Washman stood John McDonald’s son, lofty as his father and handsome to boot.

  There’d been decor changes since Minta had entered Little Heaven’s parlor thirteen years ago. The Victrola still pointed toward the piano, and the petticoat mirror still reflected hemlines, but Robin had added tufted banquettes and a dozen potted ferns. Artist Jack Gottlieb had wiped out the painted stars on the ceiling and created a colorful fresco, where naked satyrs chased hedonistic nudes around the crystal chandelier.

  Drawing her gaze away from the satyrs’ exaggerated penises, Minta gulped down her champagne and focused on Suzy, seated next to her.

  “It’s easy to see where Flo inherited her beauty,” Suzy lisped. “I mean, with you as her mother and all.”

  Minta hiccupped and stared toward the piano again. Flo was drinking from a bottle of Coca-Cola and casting sheep’s eyes at the McDonald boy. Where the hell was Dee?

  “When do you think she’ll be ready?” Suzy said.

  “Ready for what? Have you seen Dee?”

  “No, ma’am. Ready to become an Angel.”

  “What in blue blazes you talkin’ ’bout?”

  “Your daughter.”

  “Flo an Angel? Never!”

  “She’d make you a fortune, Miss Minta. She’s a virgin, ain’t she?”

  “Shut up, Suzy! Flo’s a child. Where’s Dee? Dang, my head’s fuzzed with bubbles.”

  “Only one cure for a fuzzed head. I’ll fetch another glass.”

  “Cure for champagne’s champagne? That’s a new one.”

  “Champagne’s not hard whiskey, Miss Minta. It’s a ladies’ drink.”

  “She was always a lady, even when she played at being one. Now she’s lost and gone forever.”

  “Who?”

  “Blueberry. Do you think she’s finally found her rainbow?” Minta heaved a deep sigh. “People fly now, you know.”

  “That’s right, ma’am. Wait here while I fetch the champagne.”

  Nothing sadder than a drunk whore, thought Suzy. She herself had vowed never to touch another drop. Apart from her fractured nose, four teeth had been broken during the Denver Park brawl, two directly in front.

  Because of that fight, she had lost some of her beauty but not all. Her body, clothed tonight in amethyst silk, was first-rate, and she knew how to use it. Her hair was beautiful and she used that too.

  Although she considered the brown color duller than her natural blonde, Suzy arranged her shiny strands in an elaborate coiffure, the heavy masses skewered with dozens of hairpins. During an evening she’d take out the pins one by one, letting rich waves fall over her breasts to her waist. The gent who selected her for his partner had the privilege of removing the remaining hairpins while she knelt at his feet, her face between his legs. By the time her hair hung loose, her gent was usually wild with lust.

  Her nest egg was growing by leaps and bounds and so was her reputation.

  For her own credo, Suzy had adapted what she called “The Eight Pees.” Plan purposefully. Prepare perfectly. Proceed positively. Pursue persistently.

  After all, no farmer ever plowed a field by turning it over in his mind.

  *****

  As she watched Suzy stroll toward the iced champagne, Flo tried to dismiss the woman’s unsettling presence and concentrate on having a good time. The parlor furniture gleamed and even the ceiling nymphs seemed to be sharing her fun.

  Everyone had told her how pretty she looked. They were fibbing, of course, but she liked hearing it.

  Good bones, she reminded herself. Miss Sally said someday I’d have good bones.

  Cat McDonald had good bones. He had removed his black silk tie and celluloid collar and rolled up the
sleeves of his white shirt. His arms, face, and the part of his chest that showed were sun-kissed. She remembered the kiss Cat had given her at the Gillette bullfights. If he kissed her tonight, she’d kiss him back.

  Whistling down the rim of her Coca-Cola bottle, she heard a satisfying hum. Then she raised her eyes to meet Cat’s lazy grin.

  “If I had my guitar,” he said, “we could join up with the piano player. I’d strum and you could blow into your bottle. They’d call us the Little Heaven Congeries.”

  “What’s a con-jur-ee?”

  “A collection of things. Horse, steer and goat, or Tinker, Evers and Chance.”

  “Tinker Evers and what?”

  “Chance. Ain’t you heard of Joe Tinker, Johnny Evers and Frank Chance?”

  Flo pictured the pages in her history book. She had a good memory but the names didn’t sound familiar. “Are you teasing me, Cat McDonald?”

  “No. They play baseball for the Chicago Cubs. Last year they met the Detroit Tigers in the World Series. Evers and Chance kept the Tigers from scoring by throwing the ball like a bullet shot from a gun. Tinker to Evers to Chance.”

  Flo felt her cheeks flush. She hadn’t known what the word con-jur-ee meant and Cat had just shown superior knowledge about a stupid game called baseball, even if she did admire the animal names, Cubs and Tigers.

  Making a silent pledge to learn more about baseball, placing her empty bottle on the table next to the Victrola, she said, “Never expected to find you here at Little Heaven.”

  “Never expected to find you entertaining in Little Heaven’s front parlor, Fools Gold.”

  “Spit! It’s my birthday. This party’s for me.”

  “And when the party’s over?”

  “I’ll bed down in the kitchen. And you?”

  “I’ll bed down with a lady named Dee. Understand she’s got long yellow hair. Sure do admire yellow hair.” Cat laughed, his teeth very white in his sun-darkened face. “I’d rather bed down with you, Fools Gold.”

  “I sleep alone!”

  “Glad to hear it. Didn’t know it was your party, but I’m prepared.” From his trouser pocket, Cat retrieved sharp white bones threaded with string. “Happy birthday, honey.”