The Gamble (I) (16 page)

“For starters, three bright red cancan dresses.”

A disquieting awareness of his masculine pose hit her like a fist in the stomach. The paler color of his bared wrists and forearms, the tendons running taut from the hands clasped behind his head, the crinkles on the armpits of his white shirt, the black boot resting casually across his knee, the smoke ascending from the ashtray between them.

“Ah,” she crooned knowingly, “three bright red cancan dresses.” She cocked one eyebrow. “And after that?”

“Who knows?”

She dropped the game-playing. Her voice turned serious. “I’m committed to my temperance work. You know that, don’t you?”

He dropped his arms and studied her silently for several seconds. “Yes, I know.”

“No amount of bribery can change my mind.”

“I hadn’t thought it could.”

“Tomorrow night we’ll be downstairs when your customers arrive, handing out pamphlets that we’ve had printed, passing out literature detailing the hazards of the fare in which you deal.”

“Then I’ll have t’ think of a new way t’ woo my customers, won’t I?”

“Yes, I suppose you will.”

“You haven’t been around for a couple o’ days.”

“I’ve been busy. I wrote a letter to the First Lady, thanking her for keeping the White House dry.”

“Old Lemonade Lucy?”

Agatha burst out laughing, then smothered the sound with a finger. “So disrespectful, Mr. Gandy.”

Half the country called the First Lady that, but it had never seemed quite so funny before.

“Me and plenty of others. She keeps that place drier than the great Sahara.”

“At any rate, I wrote to her.
The Temperance Banner
encourages its members to do so. I also wrote to Governor St. John.”

“St. John!” Gandy wasn’t so blithe about this news. Murmurings about the proposed amendment to the state constitution had more than one Kansas saloon owner nervous. “My, my. We are busy little beavers, aren’t we?”

Studying her, he reached for his cheroot and took a deep draw on it. The smoke rose between them before he seemed to realize he’d exhaled it. “Oh, pardon me. I forgot—you hate these things, don’t you?”

“After the sewing machine, how could I possibly deny you your pleasure, especially when we’re on your battleground?”

He rose and went to the window, anchored the cigar between his teeth, and lifted the sash. She watched his satin waistcoat stretch across his back, wondering which of them would win in the final outcome. He stood looking out, smoking the cheroot, wondering the same thing. After some moments he braced one boot on the sill, leaned an elbow on his knee, and turned to study her over his shoulder.

“You’re different than I thought at first.”

“So are you.”

“This... this war we’re engaged in, you find it rather amusin’, don’t you?”

“Me?” She spread a hand on her chest. “I thought you were the one who found it amusing.”

“Maybe. In a way. It isn’t turnin’ out anything like I thought it would. I mean—what general reveals his battle plan to the enemy?”

She smiled. Her face became transformed into the younger, pretty countenance Violet had remarked upon earlier. Her pale eyes softened. Her austerity dissolved.

“So tell me—what name did Mr. Potts give your ‘Lady of the Oils’?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear the other night when you swept in with your invadin’ host.” Again he made her laugh.

“There were only four of us.”

“Is that all?”

“And, anyway, how was it possible to hear anything in that din?”

“Her full name is Dierdre in the Garden of Delight, but the men have nicknamed her Delight.”

“Delight. Mmm... I’m sure Mrs. Potts is thrilled that Elias won your contest. Next time I see her, I must be sure to say congratulations.”

Gandy replied with a full-throated laugh. “Ah, Miz Downin’, you’re a worthy opponent. I must say I’m comin’ to admire you. However, y’all didn’t last too long in the saloon the other night.”

“We were crowded out.”

“Tsk-tsk.” He shook his head slowly. “Too bad.”

She decided it was time to stop playing cat-and-mouse with him.

“You
are
my enemy,” she stated quietly. “And in spite of how my personal opinion of you may be slowly altering, I must never lose sight of that fact.”

“Because I sell alcohol?”

“Among other things.” It was difficult to believe those other things when he leaned on the windowsill that way—all charm and humor and enticing looks. But she understood quite clearly how he shamelessly used his charm
and humor and enticing looks to sway her from her good intentions.

“What else?”

Her heart thudded harder than normal. She didn’t stop to question the wisdom or the consequences of what she was about to ask.

“Tell me, Mr. Gandy, was it you who pinned the threatening note to my door the other night?”

Amusement fled his face. His forehead beetled and his foot hit the floor. “What?”

Her heart thumped harder. “Was it?”

“How the hell can you ask such a thing?” he demanded angrily.

It thumped harder still. But she rose to her feet, plucked his pen from its holder, and held it out to him. “Will you do something for me? Will you print the words
good, stay,
and
what
on a piece of paper in capital letters while I watch you?”

He glared at the pen, then back up at her. He clamped the cheroot between his teeth and yanked the pen from her fingers. Leaning from the waist, he slashed the letters across a piece of scrap paper. When he straightened, his eyes bored silently into hers. He neither offered to hand her the paper nor backed away, but stood so close to the desk she’d have to brush him aside to reach it.

“Excuse me.” She nearly bumped him, but he stood his ground rigidly.

“Don’t push your luck,” he warned through gritted teeth, just above her ear.

She picked up the paper and retreated. The smoke from his cigar burned her nostrils as she studied his printing.

“Satisfied?”

Relief closed her eyelids, brought a light rush of breath from her nostrils.

He stood before her seething with anger. What the hell did this woman want from him?

She opened her eyes to confront him directly. “I’m sorry. I had to be sure.”

“And are you?” he snapped.

She felt her face color but stood her ground. “Yes.”

He swung toward the desk, stubbed out his cigar in two angry twists of the wrist, and refused to glance her way again. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a lot o’ work to do. I was orderin’ a shipment o’ rum when you interrupted me.” He sat down and began writing again.

Her heart turned traitor and flooded with remorse. “Mr. Gandy, I said I was sorry.”

“G’day, Miz Downin’!”

Her face burning, she turned and shuffled to the door, opened it, and paused with her back to him. “Thank you for the sewing machine,” she said quietly.

Gandy’s head snapped up. He stared at her back. Damned infernal harpy! What was it about her that got beneath his skin? She took another shuffling step before his bark stopped her.

“Agatha!”

She hadn’t thought he remembered her name. Why should it matter that he did?

“I’d like t’ see that note if you’ve still got it.”

“Why?”

His face tightened even further. “I don’t know why in blue blazes I should feel responsible for you, but I do, goddammit!”

She didn’t hold with profanity. Why, then, didn’t she take him to task for it?

“I can take care of myself, Mr. Gandy,” she declared, then closed the door behind her.

He stared at it, unblinking while he heard the outer door open and close. With a vile curse he flung down his pen. It left a splatter of ink on the order he’d been writing. He cursed again, ripped the paper in half, and threw it away. Then he balled his fists one around the other, pressed them against his chin, and glared at the office wall until her shuffling footsteps finally stopped sounding through his open window.

The W.C.T.U. ladies learned a new song. They sang it with rousing enthusiasm at four saloons the following night.

Who hath sorrow? Who hath woe?

They who dare not answer no.

They whose feet to sin decline

While they tarry at the wine.

They handed out pamphlets to the men and continued soliciting signatures on pledges. To everyone’s surprise, Evelyn Sowers stepped forward several times, boldly accosting saloon goers. With her intense eyes, her sometimes dramatic gesturing, she displayed an amazing oratory flair none had known she possessed.

“Brother, take care of your future now.” She seized upon an unsuspecting cowboy who scarcely looked old enough to shave. “Don’t you know Satan assumes the shape of a bottle of spirits? Beware that he does not trick you into believing otherwise. Have you thought about tomorrow... and tomorrow... and the tomorrow after that, when your hands begin trembling and your wife and children suffer without—”

“Lady, I ain’t got no wife and children,” the young cowpoke interrupted. With wary eyes he sidestepped Evelyn, as if she were a coiled rattler. As he made for the door of the saloon, Evelyn fell to her knees, hands lifted in supplication.

“I beg you, young man, stay out of that male refuge! The saloonkeeper is the destroyer of men’s souls!”

The shiny-faced youth glanced over his shoulder and scuttled inside with a look that said he feared Evelyn far more than the dangers to be found behind the swinging doors.

Four more cowboys came along the boardwalk spiffed to the nines, their spurs shining, their jinglebobs ringing. Evelyn stopped them in their tracks with her emotional appeal.

“Do you recognize the evils of the vile compound you’ve come here to consume? It robs men of their faculties, their honor, and their health. Before you step through that door—”

But they’d already stepped through, looking back at Evelyn with the same trepidation of the young cowpoke.

Evelyn seemed to have found her true calling. During the remainder of the evening as the ladies made a sweep of four saloons, she embraced her newfound ministry with growing fervor.

“Abstinence is virtue; indulgence is sin!” she shouted above the noise from the Lucky Horseshoe Saloon. And when she couldn’t outshout the noise, she led her troops inside, walked straight up to Jeff Diddier, and stated, “We’ve come on a mission of morality—to awaken your conscience.” When Evelyn produced a temperance pledge and demanded that Diddier sign it, the ruddy-faced bartender answered by pouring himself a double shot of rye and gulping it down before Evelyn’s eyes.

Though Agatha personally didn’t hold with Evelyn’s histrionics, the woman succeeded in shaming two of Jim Starr’s customers into signing the pledge. This success prompted four of Evelyn’s “sisters” to drop to their knees with her and begin singing at the top of their lungs. Agatha tried it. But she felt like a fool, kneeling in the saloon. Thankfully, after several painful minutes on the hard wooden floor, she was forced to stand again.

At the Alamo Saloon, Jack Butler and Floyd Anderson appeared to be so embarrassed by seeing their wives in the company of the fanatic Evelyn that they shamefacedly
slipped out the door and disappeared. Spurred on by yet another victory, Evelyn grew increasingly flamboyant in both speech and gestures.

By the time the W.C.T.U. contingent reached the Gilded Cage, the place was going strong, and so was Evelyn. She elbowed her way into the crush of men, raised both hands to heaven, and bellowed, “What an army of drunkards shall reel into hell!”

The dancing and singing stopped. Ivory turned from the piano. The card games halted. Evelyn looked manic. Her eyes blazed with unnatural fervor; her fists came down on tabletop after tabletop. “Go home, Miles Wendt! Go home, Wilton Spivey! Go home, Tom Ruggles! Go home, all of you, back to your families, you sinful wretches!” Evelyn grabbed a mug of beer and upended it at Ruggles’s feet.”

“Hey, watch it!” He came out of his chair.

“Filth!
Nux vomica!
Swill a man wouldn’t feed to his swine!”

Agatha felt her face coloring. The W.C.T.U. members prided themselves on nonmilitancy and grace. She looked up, found Gandy’s eyes leveled on her, and glanced away quickly, only to confront three other pairs of dismayed eyes—Jubilee’s, Pearl’s, and Ruby’s.

Into the sudden lull Gandy spoke with his usual
savoir vivre.
“Welcome, ladies.” He stood behind the bar, hatless, dressed totally in black and white.

Evelyn swung on him. “Ah, the rum-soaked ally of Lucifer! The trafficker in ardent spirits! Beg the Lord’s forgiveness for the negligence and bestiality you cause to be visited upon innocent families, Mr. Gandy!” Two cowboys who’d had enough scraped back their chairs and headed for the door.

Gandy ignored Evelyn’s tirade.

“You’re just in time.” He raised his voice and called, “Drinks’re on the house, everyone!”

The pair of cowboys spun in their tracks. The roar that rose nearly deafened Agatha. While it boomed around her ears, she met Gandy’s eyes again. Though the others might be unable to read beyond his surface charm, she had seen him grin too many times not to recognize the absence
of mirth in his expression tonight. His eyes pierced her like two icicles. Gone was the amusing glitter she’d come to expect. What passed for a smile was really a baring of teeth.

While their gazes locked, he found the neck of a bottle, filled his glass with amber liquid, and lifted it.

Don’t, Gandy, don’t.

He gave her a salute so slight nobody else noticed. Then he tipped his head back and changed the salute to an insult.

She had never seen him drink before.

It hurt.

She turned away, feeling empty for no reason she could explain. All around men pushed their way to the bar and raised their glasses for free drinks. Behind her the piano and banjo started up again. Jubilee and the Gems struck into a chorus of “Champagne Charlie,” ending with the words, “Come join me in a spree.” Evelyn knelt in the middle of the rowdydow praying for the depraved. With her hands crossed over her chest and her eyeballs rolled back, she looked as if she’d been bitten by a rabid dog. At the keno table, men jeered. From the wall, Delight smiled down benevolently on the chaos.