If Wishes Were Kisses: Six Beloved Americana Romances, a Collection (Small Town Swains)

by Pamela Morsi

  "Thank you."

  "I'm just sorry that you didn't get to meet Tom."

  "Who?"

  "Tom, the young fellah that we've taken on."

  Princess nodded, recalling Ma's latest stray.

  "He's a nice feller, fine looking, hard worker, got good manners. I thought to myself when I met him, this fellah would do right well for our Princess. But it's too late now, I suspect."

  "Yes," Princess agreed. "I don't think I could ever care for anyone the way I care for Gerald."

  Chapter Seven

  The smell of stale beer and honest sweat permeated the dark, narrow clapboard building with the rather auspicious name of Queenie's Palace. Tom walked in by himself. He'd needed to find a boy to deliver a message to Cessy. He couldn't have her waiting all evening for him to arrive on her porch. But he couldn't afford to visit on her porch and ignore the information that he was undoubtedly to find out tonight.

  The place was not busy since it was two nights before payday. Most of the oil field workers were already broke. There was no need to come out to a joint without money. The beer and bootleg were never sold on credit. And even if a fellow was not inclined to follow on the line upstairs, it took cold, hard cash to dance, drink, or even talk with one of the gals.

  The walls and floor of the rough saloon were all raw planking, not even a covering of whitewash to brighten the place. More than a dozen brilliantly colored paintings of every size and subject hung on the walls. Tom glanced at the signature on the one nearest him. Tommy Mathis was apparently the favorite artist of the whorehouse/beer joint.

  In the far corner an old man in a scraggly straw hat banged out ragtime tunes on a upright player, as three or four couples weaved drunkenly on the floor to the rhythm of the music.

  Cedarleg was having a word with a woman at the bar. As soon as he spotted Tom he waved him over and met him halfway, handing him a beer.

  "Find a boy to send your message?"

  Tom nodded. "A nickel the little fellow wanted. When I was a boy, I'd have run a note from here to Guthrie for five mils."

  Cedarleg shrugged. "A half a penny don't go near as far as it used to." The older man directed him toward a table. "So you grew up around here, did ye?"

  Tom momentarily blanched. He had not realized he'd admitted so much. "I ... I grew up not far from here. Up on Shemmy Creek."

  "The Methodist Indian Home?" Cedarleg asked.

  "How'd you know that?"

  "I know the place. You said you have no family," Cedarleg replied. "You got that Indian look about ye."

  "Yes, I grew up there." He hesitated and then looked over at Cedarleg with pointed defiance.

  The older man nodded. "You got a headright?"

  "What? No," Tom answered. "My mother was white. She left me there when I was a baby. Guess she got herself mixed up with an Indian or maybe she was raped, I don't know. I don't even know her name, I just know that I should have never been born."

  Tom heard the anger in his own voice and silently cursed himself for revealing so much. He never let it out, those feelings he kept very deeply buried.

  "You should've never been born? Good Lord, where'd you get an idea like that?" Cedarleg asked, astounded.

  "Isn't that what most people would believe about a part-breed bastard?" he asked.

  Cedarleg shook his head. "If you'd not a-been born, poor old Bob Earlie'd be crippled or dead now. And Ma and I woulda missed getting to know ye."

  "I'm not wishing I wasn't here," Tom assured him.

  Cedarleg shook his head. "But you sure got a sad attitude as to why. It's like that old song they sing at church, 'Everybody's got a place in God's choir.'"

  Tom shrugged. "But some people have better places than others."

  "Son, you need to give up that kind of wrong thinking," Cedarleg told him. "You're a grown man now. You're near to marry up with that little town gal you got. And you'll have boys of your own soon. I believe every child deserves to think well of its daddy. I'm sorry for you that you can't. But if you don't think well of yourself, your younguns won't be able to, neither."

  Tom looked over at his friend. His heart felt suddenly open, almost raw. He pushed the feeling away forcefully. When he answered, his voice was harsh with anger.

  "Don't worry about me, old man," he said. "One of these days I'll have so much money the whole world will respect me."

  Cedarleg's eyes widened and he gave a chuckle. "You planning to get rich, are ye? Well, I'm glad I met you now before you got too important for me to know."

  Tom realized immediately how belligerent he sounded. He meant to smooth it over, but the arrival of King Calhoun precluded that.

  The big man entered not from the street, but from the doorway at the back of the bar. Apparently he had been upstairs, and appeared casual in his shirtsleeves. A very good-looking, buxom blonde was on his arm. She was brightly painted up with a big, welcoming smile, and everyone who nodded deferentially at Calhoun grinned warmly at her.

  Tom watched as the two made their way to the table. They looked strangely right together. It was almost as if the image of the hard, portly businessman was improved by the fast-looking female at his side.

  "I'll just move to this next table and leave you two alone," he told Cedarleg.

  "I'll introduce you, you'll like Calhoun," Cedarleg said. "He's a straight-shooter and as down-to-earth a man as you'll ever know."

  "No, I don't want to meet him," Tom said. "I'll just sit over here by myself, take no notice of me."

  Cedarleg looked at him curiously. "Never realized you were shy, son," he said.

  Tom didn't comment. He moved to a chair facing away from Cedarleg at the next table. He would still be able to hear, he hoped, but would not attract the attention of his employer

  He could not meet King Calhoun as Tom Walker. Not if Gerald was to marry the man's daughter. As soon as he had Cessy saying "I do," Tom would have to disappear from the face of the earth. Certainly it would be risky. A lot of men who worked for Calhoun knew him as Walker. But maybe he and Cessy would not take an active interest in the business. He'd let Calhoun handle the day-to-day workings of the oil business and he would just bask in the wealth and luxury that it could provide. He regretted losing the chance to talk face-to-face with Calhoun. He was very intrigued with the oil business and wished he could have the opportunity to find out more. But marriage to Cessy was the most important part of his plan. And she was to marry Gerald Crane. So her father couldn't have so much as a passing word with Tom Walker.

  "Evenin' Mr. Calhoun, Queenie." Tom heard Cedarleg's greeting and the scrape of his chair as the old man rose to his feet. "It's good to have you back in town, King."

  "It's good to be back," Calhoun answered. "I hate them damned bankers with a passion."

  Cedarleg made a noise that sounded like agreement. "Ye cain't trust 'em further than you can throw 'em. And an old fellah like me cain't throw 'em very far these days."

  They all laughed. The sound of Cedarleg's humor was familiar. Calhoun's was a deep bass chuckle. And the woman's was a throaty little giggle that was somehow lush and feminine at the same time.

  "You boys just go ahead and talk about business," she said to the men. "I know you're just dying to get your heads together about drill bits or limestone formations and I'll leave you to it. Besides I've got some introductions to make."

  There was a light slapping sound that Tom interpreted as Calhoun patting the woman on the backside. He kept his eyes on his beer, all his concentration centered on listening to the conversation at the next table.

  For that reason, he was startled when a female arm came around his shoulder and the woman he knew to be King Calhoun's Queenie leaned down beside him.

  Up close, she was a bit older than he'd thought. She was probably in her mid-thirties. Her heavy face makeup was garish, but there was something about the genuineness of her person that was welcoming. In that second, Tom felt that in some way he'd known her all his life. That was undoub
tedly how other people responded to her, also. It was a very fortunate trait for a woman in her business, or any business for that matter.

  "Are you Cedarleg's tool dresser?" she asked.

  He stared at her mutely, praying that Calhoun was not looking in their direction. He nodded slightly.

  "Do you have a name?"

  Tom hesitated. His face was still turned away from Calhoun, but he didn't want his future father-in-law to even hear of Tom Walker in passing.

  "I'll just call you Tool Dresser," Queenie said with a warm smile, as if she was quite used to fellows who didn't wish to identify themselves.

  She reached over and took Tom's hand.

  "Let's go to the back," she said. "There's somebody I'd like you to meet."

  He looked at her in disbelief.

  "Come on, Tool Dresser," she said. "I don't bite. And even if I did, I wouldn't bite a good-looking young fellow like you."

  She laughed that little throaty giggle at her own joke and continued to tug on his arm. Tom felt he had no option but to follow her.

  He rose to his feet, deliberately keeping his back to the other table, and stepped sideways to avoid even giving a hint of his profile to the man behind him.

  Queenie seemed to accept his strange behavior as reticence. As they made their way to the back, she took his arm and patted his hand as if offering comfort.

  "Cedarleg tells me you've been on edge the last few days," she said.

  Tom felt they'd covered a far enough distance that he could give a surreptitious glance back toward Calhoun's table. Neither he nor Cedarleg were paying any attention to him. That was good. But the two were going to discuss business, and he was not going to be there to hear it. He needed to get loose from the woman beside him and get back out there somehow.

  She led him into the hallway next to the stairs.

  "Ma'am, I really appreciate this but I don't think . . ."

  "You got the dog, Tool Dresser?" she asked him casually.

  "What?"

  "You got the dog? It makes no difference. We got gals that got it and gals that don't. I just try to match people up."

  "I ... I don't have a venereal disease," Tom answered.

  "Don't now, or didn't never?" Queenie asked.

  "Never," he answered.

  "Good, that's real good," she said. "Some of the young men straight from the farm, they think it makes them more manly to have it. But it ain't no bargain to my mind. I don't care how much spirit of niter or arsenicals you take, once you got it you pretty much always got it. And you only got to hear those poor fellows screaming while they piss to appreciate that it ain't something a man can much enjoy."

  "Miss Queenie, I—"

  "You just call me Queenie, everybody does," she interrupted. "I'm going to set you up with Frenchie. She's my best and I know she'll take a real shine to you."

  "Queenie, I don't . . ."

  "Don't worry about the money," she said. "I owe Cedarleg a couple of favors, and Ma would skin me alive if I was to try to fix him up with some of my gals."

  "No, it's not the money, it's just that . . ."

  Queenie paid no attention to him.

  "Frenchie! Frenchie, come meet Tool Dresser."

  Tom turned toward the woman who was hurrying down the stairs. She was too heavily made up for him to determine her age. She was short, a little stubby, and rather dark complexioned. Her very long and thick hair hung loose down her back and was the strangest color of red that Tom had ever seen. It obviously had its origins in a dye bottle.

  When she reached the second stair on the landing, she leaned forward to grab Tom by the shoulders and gave him an exuberant kiss.

  "Oh, precious!" she exclaimed. "You're so good looking, I'd do you for free."

  "Don't let that go to your head, Tool Dresser," Queenie said beside him. "Frenchie'd just about do everybody for free."

  The young woman gave her boss an unhappy glare and wrinkled her nose mischievously.

  "That's what she was up to when I found her," Queenie said.

  "Oh, pooh, don't listen to her," Frenchie told him. "Come on up to my room and I'll make you feel like you're the only man for me in the whole wide world."

  "Uh, Frenchie I . . ."

  Tom turned back to Queenie to explain. She just grinned at him and patted him encouragingly upon the back. "Go ahead, you two. Have a big time. Cedarleg wants you to get a good night's rest, Tool Dresser. And Frenchie can sure make that possible. Just don't fall asleep in her bed. She's got a living to make."

  Grabbing the fly button on his overalls, Frenchie led Tom, muttering and mostly mute, up the stairs and into the first doorway at the top. Safely inside, she shut the sounds of the barroom out and wrapped herself tightly against him.

  "What was you hoping for, precious?" she asked. "You want a basic easyover, or maybe something a little more snappy?"

  "There's been a little misunderstanding, Frenchie," he said. "I am not looking for any female companionship this evening."

  "Oh, now, precious," she coaxed, rubbing her bosom up against him enticingly. "Don't get scared on me. Is it your first time? I love first timers. I always give 'em a two-for-one."

  Tom ran his hand appreciatively through the strangely colored hair that hung down her back.

  "It's not my first time," he said. "Although I have not had much experience with ladies on the line."

  "With your good looks and sweet ways, I bet you never had to," she answered.

  Tom didn't reply to that.

  "You're very pretty and quite tempting, Frenchie," he told her. "But I'm . . . well, I'm involved with a young woman right now. And I just wouldn't feel right about . . . about enjoying your time."

  "She'll never know," Frenchie assured him. "At Queenie's Palace we are very discreet."

  "I would know," Tom said quietly.

  "Well, I can get you off with my mouth. It's what I'm best at. They don't call me Frenchie cause I'm from France," she joked. "And the good girls don't do that, so it don't count as being unfaithful."

  "For me it counts," Tom told her quietly.

  Frenchie stepped back then and folded her arms across her chest with a look of disgust. "Well, damn," she complained good-naturedly. "And you're so pretty, too. I'll go downstairs and the ugliest old coot in town will have his money on the table asking for a double-dip, around-the-world with a topper."

  Tom grinned at her, grateful not to be obliged to argue further. He dug into his pockets. For him it was two days until payday, also. And he'd given his last nickel to have the note delivered to Cessy.

  "I've only got four cents," he told her.

  "You don't owe me nothing," Frenchie said. "Worse luck that. Anyway, Queenie don't let me handle the money. She says I loan out more than I take in. You settle up with her. But be sure and tell her that I didn't even get your pants off."

  "Thanks."

  He opened the door and Frenchie called out to him. "If that gal of yours don't do you right, you come back this way now."

  She ran the tip of her tongue around the line of her lips seductively and Tom paused momentarily at the sight, swallowing down purely physical desire.

  "Good-bye, Frenchie," he said and left before the remnants of his better judgment deserted him.

  He was genuinely surprised at himself. It had been a good long while since he'd enjoyed the pleasure of a woman. And it seemed almost stupid to turn down what was so generously offered. But somehow it did seem wrong. He'd been kissing and cuddling on Cessy's front porch every night for the last week. It would be wrong, very wrong to spend his first evening away from her in the arms of another woman.

  At the bottom of the stairs one of the Palace's other girls spotted him and smiled hopefully.

  "Where's Queenie?" he asked her.

  The woman's face registered disappointment and she pointed mutely toward the back door.

  As he made his way in that direction, he passed a huge, dangerous-looking cowboy who gave him a threatening perusal
. Tom was momentarily taken aback until he heard the sounds coming from the doorway beneath the stairs, the click of the wheel, the rattle of dice. Queenie was running gambling in the back room. And this formidable man watching the door was the lookout.

  "I'm just trying to find Queenie, I need to settle up," he said.

  The fellow gave a jerky indication with his thumb toward the Palace's back door.

  Tom made his way past the cowboy outside and into the dark, deserted alley behind the building. The noise from the joint was muted here. That was probably why he heard Queenie before he saw her.

  She was bent over double, retching miserably. Tom hurried to her side.

  "Are you all right, Queenie?" he asked.

  She straightened with guilty haste.

  "I'm fine!" she declared, one moment before she fainted.

  Tom caught her. Immediately, surprised and scared, he turned to call back to the Palace, but knew that no one would hear him over the boisterous noise and the twangy piano. He slipped an arm under her knees and carried her over to the pump and water trough near the corner of the building.

  She was already coming around as he dampened his handkerchief. He set the cool cloth against her forehead.

  "Are you better now?" he asked.

  She sat up, looking around curiously. "What happened?"

  "You fainted."

  Queenie laughed lightly, without humor. "A gal never has her smelling salts when she needs them."

  She tried to get up. Tom was instantly at her side.

  "You're ill," he said.

  "It's just something I ate," she assured him. "What are you doing down here. Thought I left you with Frenchie. Didn't you like her?"

  "I'm sure she's wonderful," Tom said. "A couple of years ago, I wouldn't have hesitated to enjoy her completely. But for all that I'm not sleeping too well, I ... I am courting a young lady."

  "Is that so? Courting ain't married, Tool Dresser. And most fellahs think that what the gal don't know won't hurt her."

  "I'm not willing to risk it," Tom told her. "In some ways I think I've been given a chance to start over again. And I would feel . . . well, I wouldn't feel right about indulging myself."