Читать книгу Gold Fever - Vicki Delany - Страница 5

Constable Richard Sterling settled his broad-brimmed hat on his head, said goodbye to the corporal in charge of the Dawson town detachment and opened the door. A lanky blond boy, a tumble of too-long arms and legs, stood in front of him with his hand extended towards the latch.

Sterling grinned. “Angus, what brings you here? Looking for me?”

“Yes, sir. Well, we’re looking for a Mountie, that is.” “We?” Sterling said, before noticing two people watching the exchange from the bottom of the steps. He nodded to the man. “Mr. Mann.”

“My ma said we had to get a Mountie. Let’s go.”

“Hold up, Angus. Where are we going?” Sterling touched the brim of his hat.

“I don’t believe I’ve been introduced to this lady.” Which was factually true, although he knew well enough that she worked out of a crib on Paradise Alley and handed her earnings over to Joey LeBlanc.

Seeing the recognition in his face, the woman lowered her eyes.

“Oh, right,” Angus said. “This is Mary…uh…just Mary. My friend.”

“Sterling,” Mr. Mann said. “Weeze wasting time. Youze gos now.” He made a sort of shooing gesture with his hands towards the woman, and she set off down the street with long determined strides that belied her short legs. She was wearing a dress far too large for her and made of considerably better fabric than most of the cloth one saw in Paradise Alley.

“What are you and Mr. Mann doing in the company of that woman, Angus, and where are we going?” Sterling asked as they fell into step behind the German man and the native woman.

“To get her things,” Angus said. “She’s moving into the Savoy.”

“She’s moving into the Savoy!” Sterling almost stopped in his tracks. Angus kept on walking, forcing Sterling to take a skipping step to keep up. “Does your mother know about this?”

“Of course. It was her idea.”

“Of course. Do you know where this…Mary lives?”

“Second Avenue, I think.”

“That’s right. Angus, before we go any further, you’d better tell me what you’re doing and why you need a police escort to do it.”

They turned the corner, and Mary picked up her pace. She scurried through the street with her head down, looking at nothing but the ground in front of her feet. This part of Second Avenue was popularly known as Paradise Alley, for obvious reasons. Although Sterling’s father, a stern, strict preacher who ruled his flock, and his family, like an old testament prophet expecting judgement any moment, would have had more than a few strong words to say about such blasphemy. The street was narrow, full of mud and debris, lined with two neat rows of nearly identical narrow wooden dwellings. These were the cribs, where women plied their trade, peak-roofed, wide enough for only one long thin window beside the door, their frontage not much more than a few feet wide. A few sported an awning over the door, presumably to keep the customers dry while they waited their turn. In the early evening there weren’t many men around. A few women, with worn faces and tired bodies, tattered dresses and cheap jewellery, stood in their doorways or gathered together on the strip of boardwalk, exchanging gossip and watching the passing traffic. No one spoke to Mary as she marched down the middle of the street, mindless of several inches of her ill-fitting dress dragging through the mud and ignoring the men and boy following her.

She stopped in front of one of the shacks. “Here,” she said. It was no better, and no worse, than any of the others.

Angus stepped forward, ready to go inside with her. She lifted a hand. “Please wait.”

Sterling stood in the street with a scowling Mr. Mann and a red-faced Angus, feeling conspicuous in his red tunic, broad-brimmed hat, and high black boots. The women watched with expressionless eyes. The few customers on the street stayed well clear.

He could see them coming from a long way away. Two toughs with many-times broken noses, calloused hands, good clothes and a practiced swagger. As they approached, the women disappeared into their homes, slamming doors behind them as if a skunk were coming down the road with tail raised. A small woman in an unadorned brown housedress stood alone on the far side of the street, watching.

One of the men stopped several yards short of Sterling, and the other approached with a friendly smile that didn’t touch the steel in his eyes. Sterling doubted the man had given anyone an honest smile since he ceased to be a toddler. “Help you, Constable?”

“No.” Mary came out of her home, clutching a cloth-wrapped

bundle to her chest. Mr. Mann took the package then handed it to Angus. His arms hung loosely at his sides, but his body was as tense as wire on a range fence, and Sterling was glad the German would be on his side if worse came to worse.

“We’re in no hurry. Get the rest of it, Mary,” Angus said. “There is no more.” “This is all you have?” He sounded as if he couldn’t

quite believe it. Considering he was the son of Fiona MacGillivray, Sterling had no doubt the boy truly didn’t believe a woman could get by with so little.

Then Mary saw the two men. Her colour didn’t change and her expression didn’t waver, but Sterling saw the tension crawl into her neck and shoulders.

“Leaving?” the man asked in a voice as polite as his false smile.

“Yes,” Sterling said.

The man took one step to stand in front of Mary. She stared at her feet. “Mrs. LeBlanc would like you to stay.” Mary’s eyes flicked towards the woman in the brown dress watching the exchange. “Go back inside, and there’ll be no hard feelings.”

“Mary doesn’t want to stay,” Angus said.

“Angus,” Sterling said, “be quiet. Shall we go, Mary?”

The big man was solidly in her path. She took a tentative step to one side. Without appearing to move, he shifted slightly and blocked her. “Mrs. LeBlanc says you owe a month’s rent on your cabin, Mary.”

She looked up. Her eyes were dry and clear. “I don’t have so much money.”

“Then you can’t leave.”

“If there’s a dispute about monies owning, tell Mrs. LeBlanc to take it to the magistrate,” Sterling said. “Judge’ll hear her case in due course. Angus, why don’t you take Mary’s arm. Mr. Mann can carry her things.”

Mr. Mann grabbed the bundle, and Angus slipped his arm through Mary’s with a shy smile. The little party started to move away, Sterling leading, followed by Angus and Mary, Mr. Mann and the bundle of meagre possessions bringing up the rear. The second tough slapped his fist rhythmically into the palm of his meaty hand. A small crowd had gathered at the end of the street. Curtains twitched in the windows of the nearby cribs.

“You got something you want to say?” Sterling asked. The slapping stopped. The tough looked at his partner.

“Mrs. LeBlanc believes that ladies can sort out their problems without going to court. She’s asking you not to leave, Mary, until she’s had a chance to talk to you. All nice and lady-like. Proper. If you still want to go, Mrs. LeBlanc’ll probably let you out of paying what you owe her, and off you can go. Now don’t that sound better than dealing with the redcoats and the white man’s courts?”

Mary hesitated and looked up the street at the unsmiling woman standing alone. Sterling feared she was about to give in, to take her bundle from Mr. Mann, mumble goodbye to Angus, and return to her miserable dwelling and whatever despair had resulted in her wearing Fiona MacGillivray’s cast-offs.

“I’d like to go with Angus,” Mary said. Her voice was soft, but it didn’t waver. She lifted her head and looked the man in the face. “Please, get out of our way, Mr. Black.”

“You think your word will stand up in court against a white woman’s, Mary? You’re a fool.”

“You’re full of nonsense,” Angus shouted. The boy had remained silent as long as he could. “Mary’s word’s as good as anyone’s in a proper Canadian court. Isn’t that right, Constable Sterling? And anyway,” he continued without waiting for an answer (the honesty of which Sterling would have been reluctant to affirm), “if Mary owes Mrs. Leblanc some money, she can pay it out of her wages without living here.”

“I don’t want any trouble,” Mary said. “You’re free to come and go as you like without worrying if it causes some folks trouble or not,” Sterling said. “The North-West Mounted Police will see to that. Shall we go?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She lifted her head high and patted Angus’s hand.

“You’ll regret it, stupid squaw,” Mr. Black said. His partner spat into the street, barely missing Mary’s feet.

“Take Mary and Angus to the Savoy, Mr. Mann,” Sterling said. “I want a word with Mrs. Leblanc. I’ll make sure those two don’t follow you.”

Joey LeBlanc remained on the other side of the street as she watched Angus, Mary, and Mr. Mann disappear around the corner. A flicker of anger moved behind her small black eyes before she recovered her composure and extinguished it. Her face returned to its customary empty expression. It was rumoured in this town of a thousand rumours that there had once been a Mr. Leblanc, but Joey had knifed him in St. Louis for doing irreparable damage to a piece of merchandise belonging to the family business, so to speak. Sterling questioned the veracity of the story but not that Joey was perfectly capable of it. He crossed the street while keeping one eye on the two toughs, although neither of them seemed inclined to follow Mary or indeed to have any idea of what to do now, without their boss issuing an order.

“Lovely evening, Constable,” Joey LeBlanc said, gathering her shawl around her shoulders

“It is, and I’m sure it’ll stay that way, Mrs. Leblanc, quiet and peaceful.”

“That chit of a squaw ’as humiliated me in front of my employees and my customers.” Leblanc’s accent held strong memory of Montreal French. She spoke in an even tone, as if they were discussing the weather. “I don’t care for that.”

“The North-West Mounted Police don’t give a damn what you care for, Mrs. LeBlanc. As long as you keep it to yourself.”

“Really, Constable, such language. But perhaps that is why a promising, but not-so-young, fellow such as yourself remains only a constable?”

The barb struck home, and Sterling could tell by the expression on the whore-mistress’s face that she knew it had.

“You and your friends,” he glanced at the two hired toughs, “are to leave Mary alone.”

“ Mais, monsieur, she owes me money.” LeBlanc shrugged and held out her arms. “What is a poor widow to do to get justice?”

“Take it before a judge, madam. But if any harm comes to Mary, I’ll know where to come looking.”

“’arm Mary? Who would do such a thing? A damaged whore is no good to me. She’ll return of ’er own free will, Monsieur Sterling. The world is a frightening place for a woman on ’er own.”

“Perhaps,” Sterling said. He walked away without bothering to say goodbye. In his wake the street returned to life; whores opened the doors of their cribs and men crept out from alleys and side streets.

* * *

It was well after eight when I arrived at the Savoy. Most of the dance halls in Dawson are open twenty-four hours a day, six days a week. Even in the early hours of the morning or in the middle of the night—or what passes for night this far north in late June—the croupiers are spinning the tables and dealing cards and calling out their magic words, the bartenders are pouring rivers of liquor, and the dance hall girls are kicking up their heels for a dollar a dance and selling champagne by the wagon load. But at eight o’clock in the evening, something special settles over town as the musicians and callers come out onto Front Street, set themselves on the boardwalk, or in the middle of the street, and announce with much fanfare that the show is about to begin.

Then they all troop back inside, hopefully followed by a crowd of eager cheechakos and sourdoughs, every one of them begging for the chance to spend their money.

Tonight the stage at the Savoy was presenting scenes from the plays of Mr. William Shakespeare, a goodly number of heart-wrenching songs specially designed to have the lonely miners weeping in their dust-encrusted handkerchiefs, and a rather poor vaudeville act, which would have to do until I could find something better. At midnight the stage show ended, the percentage girls stepped forward to dance, and the performers changed their stage costumes for evening wear. The dancing would go on until six a.m., at which time the girls would cash in their drink tokens and stagger home.

They were in the middle of the opening dance when I walked into the hall. I counted the girls in the row: all present and accounted for. They kicked up their heels and flashed their petticoats and the crowd roared in approval. Ellie stepped forward to begin her song. She was the oldest of my girls by far. Sometimes she struggled to keep up with the younger ones, particularly at the end of a long night. But the men liked her, and that was all that counted. Perhaps she reminded them of dead mothers and abandoned wives. She acted as a mother hen, looking out for the other girls, which relieved me of some of that chore.

I stood at the back, inches away from the wall—it would never do to lean—and watched. Ellie finished her song, gave a deep curtsy in exchange for thunderous applause, and the dancers trooped out again. I made a mental note to tell the second girl from the left to give her petticoats a good wash before stepping onto my stage again. Chloe was so bad tonight that only nimble movement on the part of the dancer next to her avoided several collisions. Drunk, I suspected. In my dance hall, as in all the others, the girls were expected to accept drinks from the customers once the dancing began, and more than a few would be quite tipsy by the end of the evening. But to show up drunk for the stage show? That was not at all acceptable. Chloe had always been a problem—a generally miserable, lazy, pastyfaced, skinny piece of flotsam who didn’t have any apparent talents. She wasn’t popular with the men, and I would have shown her the door long ago if she wasn’t such good friends with Irene. Irene, stage name of Lady Irenee, liked having Chloe around, and as long as Irene was the men’s favourite, I would keep her happy. I thought that Chloe served as a substitute for the fussy lapdog with ribbons in its fur theatrical women like to carry around. That wouldn’t be too practical in Dawson: such a creature would disappear into the mud the first time its mistress set it down, if it avoided being eaten once the bigger dogs got a look at it.

Now that I was thinking about it, I realized there had been a chill between Irene and Chloe over the last few days. Perhaps they’d had a falling out. Maybe I could cut Chloe loose while Irene was angry with her.

Soon a hush settled over the room; the audience knew what was coming. It was time for Irene’s first song. She slipped onto the stage hidden behind two enormous crimson fans carried by two crouching dancers, who looked rather silly doing so. Only her feet, clad in satin slippers, were visible, but as one, the men sighed with delight. The music of the five-piece orchestra rose to a crescendo, the crimson fans were swept to one side with a flourish, and Irene stood in centre stage, her face hidden behind a smaller version of the two fans. The men roared. The fan was lowered slowly, provocatively, and Irene peeked out. She was well into her thirties and somewhat stocky, but still pretty despite a face scarred by the effects of bitterly cold winds and a hard life. On stage and on the dance floor, she conveyed such a cheerful enthusiasm that all the men loved her. She was easily the most popular dance-hall girl in Dawson, which did wonders for my business.

Unfortunately, my business partner, Ray Walker, also loved Irene. Too much, I feared.

She flicked her fan back and forth across her face, and the men went wild.

“You know how to play with fire, Mrs. MacGillivray.” Constable Richard Sterling moved so quietly, even in his heavy boots, I hadn’t heard him come up beside me. Although I knew full well he only wanted to speak to me without everyone in the room hearing, I took an involuntary step back. At a good deal more than six feet with the bulk to match, Sterling always seemed to stand too close for comfort. He smelled of pipe smoke, boot polish and the mud of the streets.

“My son found you?” “We settled the lady in a room overhead. Mrs. LeBlanc’s

gentlemen employee tried to talk Mary out of leaving. I suspect you’ll find Mrs. LeBlanc on your doorstep tomorrow; she recognized Angus.”

We have a rather awkward relationship, Constable Sterling and I. I am, of course, not attracted to him at all, but somehow early in the morning, which is when my mind struggles towards sleep, I find myself thinking about him more than might be considered reasonable, and when he stands near me, my heart skips a beat or two, before wisely settling back into a sensible rhythm.

“I don’t waste my time worrying about Mrs. LeBlanc,” I said, concentrating on the activities on the stage, where the girls were flittering about behind Irene. Definitely time to get rid of Chloe—she tripped and barely avoided a collision with Ellie, who tossed her a filthy look. “You realize the situation the poor girl finds herself in?”

“Not that she said a single word to me, or even looked me in the eye. Angus didn’t understand why they needed a police escort. I sent him home, by the way.”

“Thank you. I have offered her my protection, for what it’s worth.”

“It’s worth a good deal, Fiona.” Sterling straightened his perfectly straight wide-brimmed hat in a gesture I recognized as meaning he was about to take his leave. “If removed, it would be much worse than never given. Good night.”

He took a step towards the door, hesitated and turned back. “That is a striking dress. Most becoming. Excuse me.” And he was pushing his way through the crowd.

If I were an imaginative woman, I might believe that the proper Constable Sterling had actually blushed.