Gold Digger. Vicki Delany

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СКАЧАТЬ Richmond, sir.” Angus took the bill. The reporter snapped his fingers at the men hovering over his luggage. “You two, take my bags to the Richmond. I’ll be along in a minute. What hours does this Savoy keep, son?”

      “Huh?” “He means when does it open,” Sterling said.

      “Oh. Ten o’clock. Sir.”

      “Not till ten?”

      “Ten in the morning,” Sterling explained. Ireland laughed a deep, hearty laugh. His red beard, liberally streaked with grey, shook, and his open mouth showed a row of small teeth. A single gold tooth caught the sun. His laugh was as contagious as his surname would suggest. It rolled over the watching crowd until everyone was chuckling along. Even Angus smiled. Only Sterling failed to participate in the general merriment.

      When he regained control of his breathing, Ireland wiped his eyes. “I must say, my boy, this sounds like my kind of town. Now, I’d better follow those oafs to the hotel, or I’ll never see my luggage again. Perhaps I’ll run across you later at this dance hall of yours.”

      “I don’t think so,” Sterling said. “Children aren’t allowed in the dance halls.”

      Ireland looked shocked. “Would’ve taken you for much older than that, lad.” He winked at Angus. The boy flushed.

      The crowd separated to allow the reporter from the San Francisco Standard through.

      Sterling and Angus watched him go.

      Show over, the throng ebbed away. Crates of cargo were being unloaded from the bowels of the steamship, and the townspeople were eager for a glimpse of the contents.

      “Two dollars is a lot of money,” the policeman said. “More than some men with families to support make in a day.”

      “Do you want me to give it back, sir?”

      “No. A fool and his money are easily parted, and Ireland’s come to the right place for that. And there’s nothing wrong with directing him to your mother’s either. Some people would say that the Savoy is the best dance hall in Dawson. But if you want to be a policeman, Angus, think about this: Not many men give away money for nothing, although sometimes they try to make it look that way. But there comes a day when they expect to be paid back. And you don’t want to be owing them.”

      Angus looked at the Mountie. “But how could I pay him back, Constable Sterling? I don’t have any money of my own.”

      Sterling grinned and tousled the boy’s blond head. Another few months, and Angus would be too tall for headrubbing. The way the boy was growing, give him another year and he’d be taller than Sterling. It wouldn’t be long before Angus would be encountering men wanting to prove themselves by starting a fight with the boy, not noticing, or caring, that the childish face didn’t quite match the man’s body.

      Up ahead, a drunken prospector stumbled in the mud. He shouted abuse at an elegantly dressed man innocently passing by and took a wild swing. Unfortunately for the drunk, the man had lost over a thousand dollars on the roulette wheel at the Monte Carlo the previous night and was looking for someone, or something, on which to take out his anger. Before he knew what was happening, the drunk was scrambling in the mud and the gambler’s boot was back, readying for a kick to the head. Sterling gave a shout of warning and ran.

      Chapter Four

      Promptly at five o’clock, I walked through the doors of the Savoy, barely avoiding being hit by a drunk that Ray and one of the bartenders were throwing out into the street.

      I scarcely glanced at the patron as he flew past. Ray grinned at me. Despite the poor light, his stiff white shirt was so white it practically gleamed, and he’d combed his few strands of greasy hair. He returned to the bar, where men were lined up three deep.

      The Savoy Saloon and Dance Hall. How I loved every ugly, hastily constructed, tottering, hideously decorated square foot of it. So cheap and gaudy, my acquaintances in London would have laughed out loud to see it. But it was mine. And there was nothing cheap about the money the place made for Ray and me.

      The customers parted respectfully as I sailed into the room. I love a good parade, as long as I’m at the centre of it.

      Barney, one of my regular customers, was slumped on a stool, his upper torso lying across the mahogany bar. But he kept talking as he entertained the younger men with tales of George Carmack, and the Indians Jim and Charlie, and of the first strike on Rabbit Creek, soon to be renamed Bonanza. Half of the men in his audience regarded him with eyes full of admiration, eager to hear again the story they’d heard a hundred times before. The other half were disbelieving and turned from the old prospector in disgust or dismissal. But Barney’s stories were all true—embellished perhaps, but still true. Barney had found gold. I’d say he wasted it on drink, dance-hall girls, and the sad women who plied their trade in the cribs of Paradise Alley, but I suppose he considered it to be money well spent. He’d had sixteen gold nuggets made into a belt for a birthday present to give to a girl working at the Horseshoe. She’d thanked him with a chaste kiss on the cheek, and the old fellow had just about fainted with the sheer joy of it. These days he passed his nights, and most of his days, in Front Street bars like mine, telling his stories and earning his whisky by the strength of his reputation.

      A puddle of spilled liquor was spreading across the floor beneath the centre table, and I was about to signal to one of the bartenders to fetch a mop when the door flew open. A large man stood there, his eyes taking in the room. He was old for this gold-rush town, over sixty probably, and immaculately dressed in pin-striped trousers, a fresh white shirt and black jacket with stiff black waistcoat crossed by a watch chain of thick gold. A heavily-starched collar and perfectly straight bow tie clenched his fleshy neck with such force that it looked as if they were trying to strangle him. His black hat was clean and placed directly in the centre of his head. His face was tinged pink from a recent shave.

      Sweeping off his hat in a flowing, liquid movement that reminded me of an actor in a stage show I’d seen in London many years ago, he approached me. It had been a very bad actor in a very bad play, which for some unknown reason had been the hit of the season.

      “Indeed, I am at the right place,” he said, “for although your establishment is somewhat less than imposing from the outside, one glimpse of your ladyship and I understand that this must be the place of quality in Dawson.” His freshly cut red hair was faded and heavily streaked with grey.

      I laughed. “Thank you, but I don’t think anyone has mistaken me for a ladyship before.” That was not exactly true. There had been that embarrassing encounter in Bath in 1889 with Lady Rickards-Sommerfield. Not embarrassing for me, of course, but for my gentleman companion it had marked the beginning of a downward spiral into social disgrace.

      “Allow me to introduce myself.” He took my hand and touched it lightly to his lips. He wore immaculate white gloves. You didn’t see those in Dawson much. “Jack Ireland. San Francisco Standard.”

      I snatched my hand back. “A newspaper reporter?”

      Ireland misinterpreted my reaction. “Don’t worry, dear lady. I can see that your fine establishment is one to be celebrated. It will make wonderful background for my stories about Dawson and the Klondike.” His eyes passed over me and surveyed the room.

      Following Ireland’s gaze, I saw my place.

      It СКАЧАТЬ