Читать книгу Gold Digger - Vicki Delany - Страница 13

“He lose much?” Sterling asked.

“’Bout five thousand,” Jake said, his face showing not a glimmer of emotion as he gathered up chips. “Fellow’s been in here since opening. That last bet musta wiped him out.” Jake was nattily dressed in a stiff white wing-tip collar, a colourful silk neck piece and sharp bowler hat. His enormous black moustache curled up at the edges. Turning his attention back to the job, he spun the big wheel. “No more bets.”

“What a fool,” Sterling mumbled. But he wasn’t surprised. He’d seen as much, more, lost and won in one hand of poker or one throw of the dice.

The dim space of the gambling room always reminded Sterling of the shack of a church his father had preached in all the years of his childhood. The walls were cheap wood, the floorboards no better, the kerosene lamps much too dim. Men crowded into the room as eager to make their fortune at the tables as Reverend Sterling had been to save the souls of his flock. The results would be the same— disappointment and despair.

The smoke in the poorly ventilated room was so thick, it was difficult to see the far side of the room, where a serious poker game was underway. Mouse O’Brien sat at the table: the game would be nothing but serious. O’Brien was a giant of a man, not much off seven feet tall, with a chest the size of that of an ox, and shoulders and thighs to match. He kept his hair cut short and his moustache neatly trimmed and wore custom-made suits, starched white shirts, and a diamond stick pin in his perfectly folded cravat. He always carried a bag containing a pair of spare shoes to put on in place of his muddy boots whenever he walked through any door. He was called “Mouse”, a nickname he accepted with good grace—recognizing that he had no choice in the matter—ever since he’d been heard to squeal, as loudly as a pigtailed schoolgirl, when a tiny brown field mouse had crossed his path on the trail to Bonanza Creek.

Stacked in neat rows on the green-baize table in front of Mouse was a pile of chips. His big hands dwarfed the cards he held, and the only man left in the game, of the table of four, sweated heavily. Johnny Jones, who had more money than skill. Or nerve. Sterling stood behind Jones. The dealer’s eyes flickered, but he said nothing.

Jones had a good hand—three tens. Good but not great. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow. Mouse looked up from his cards and spoke to one of the men watching. “Get me a drink, will you, friend. I can’t leave the table right now. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Jones folded. The edges of Mouse’s lips turned up as he raked in the pot. Sterling would have bet a month’s wages that the big man’s hand had been garbage.

“I’m finished.” Jones got up from the table, moving heavily. “Holy Christ, I’m wiped out.”

“Language, Johnny,” Sterling cautioned.

Jones threw him an ugly look. Sterling braced for a confrontation. It wouldn’t be the first time a heavy loser had looked for someone on whom to take out his anger.

“Good game, Mr. Jones,” Mouse said, as he checked his gold pocket watch. “Thank you for the sport, and let me offer you this.” Mouse held a small gold nugget between his fingers. “Get yourself in another game.” Jones considered the offer, pride struggling with greed. He snatched the gold and headed for the faro table.

“That wasn’t necessary, Mouse,” Sterling said. “He wouldn’t have taken me on.”

Mouse shrugged his shoulders, like glacier ice shifting on the mountains. “Boy can’t play worth a damn…doggone… but he can’t give it up either. A man’s gotta feel sorry for him. Game’s over, boys. Time for my favourite lady to give me a song.” The giant gathered up his winnings and lumbered into the dance hall.

Sterling followed as Ruby’s thin, quaking voice struggled to the end of its song.

Like all the dance halls in Dawson, the one in the Savoy was considerably less than advertised. The tiny stage had been roughly carved out of green wood by workers who didn’t know or care what they were doing, and in a big hurry to get it done and move on to the next job. There were no windows, and the kerosene lamps smoked badly, but no one ever complained. Complaining in Dawson never got a man any further than out the door.

Flags—crossed Union Jacks and Stars and Stripes—had been draped above the stage and used to decorate the private boxes on the second story. Below the boxes, rows of uncomfortable benches, filled with cheering, stomping miners, surrounded the stage in a horseshoe pattern. The room was tightly packed with sweating bodies and clothes gone too long without a wash; cheap lamp oil and dancers’ cologne mingled with the generously applied scent of the toffs and the stink of the labourers. Over it all lay the smell of male anticipation and scarcely restrained excitement.

Ruby’s voice was nothing short of terrible, and the song she sang sickeningly sentimental, but some of the older men wiped away a tear or two as she dragged out the last, painful note.

The audience applauded wildly as Ruby curtsied, allowing the front of her low cut gown to hang temptingly open, and departed the stage. The men shifted in their chairs, sat just a bit straighter and whispered to their neighbours. Fiona MacGillivray stood at the back of the room, close to the wall. She had wiped most of the mud off her dress and her arm was bound in a sling of purest white cotton. Her thick black hair was pinned into a storm cloud behind her head, but stray tendrils caressed her temple and the back of her neck. Her dark eyes never stopped moving across the room.

Ray Walker stood beside Fiona, but unlike hers, his eyes were still, fixed directly on the stage. He could afford to take a break: at the climax of the stage show, the bar would be quiet for a few minutes.

A hush fell over the shabby room, lasting only as long as it took for a heart to give one beat. The orchestra held their instruments still, and the audience—grizzled old miners, tender-footed gold-seekers, hard-hearted gamblers, ruthless businessmen, Indian fighters with nowhere left to go, and one Scottish bartender—held their collective breath.