The Gamble (I) (11 page)

As Pearl opened the back door, Agatha suggested, “Perhaps you can order the dresses from St. Louis or... or...” It suddenly struck Agatha how absurd her suggestion was. Cancan dresses weren’t exactly advertised in the ready-made catalogues.

“Sure,” Jubilee said. Then they filed out despondently.

When they were gone, Violet gazed at the door. “Well, my stars,” she said breathily, touching her temples.

“My sentiments exactly,” Agatha rejoined, dropping into her chair. “That’s the most zest this old shop has seen since it opened.”

“They’re wonderful!” Violet exclaimed.

Yes,
thought Agatha sadly,
they are.
“But we cannot befriend them, Violet, you know that. Not when we’ve just been voted officers of the temperance union.”

“Oh, bosh! They don’t sell spirits. And they’re not ladies of the evening anymore. They just dance. Didn’t you hear them?”

“But their dancing promotes the sale of spirits. It’s all the same.”

Violet’s mouth pursed. For the second time in several hours she declared in a piqued voice, “Sometimes, Agatha, you’re no fun at all!” Then, leading with her chin, she left the shop for the day.

Alone, Agatha pondered the strange afternoon. She’d felt more alive than she had in years. She’d laughed and
for a time completely forgotten that the young women were unsuitable clientele for her millinery shop. She had simply enjoyed them instead. But most amazing of all was that she’d actually told them about her accident. It had felt wonderful. And the girls had been amusing. But now that the hubbub had died down, she felt depressed. She wondered what it felt like to be part of a sorority such as that shared by Jubilee, Pearl, and Ruby, to be true friends as they were. Violet was her friend, but not in the sense that the three young dancers were friends. They radiated a real understanding and acceptance of one another, a pride in their limited accomplishments, and an amazing lack of competition. Also, they had the group they called their “family”—not a real family, but better, perhaps, because they were related by choice, not by blood. And that “family” was headed by a riverboat gambler they followed as if he were the Messiah. Curious. Enviable.

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.

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.