Gold Digger. Vicki Delany

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СКАЧАТЬ horribly with my best dress, but I’d chosen it nevertheless, partially because there was not much else to buy, but also because to uneducated, uncultured miners and labourers heavy red wallpaper spells “class”. The centre of the wall behind the bar was occupied by a portrait of Queen Victoria, looking every year of her advanced age. In honour of the two primary nationalities making up the population of the Yukon, we had stuck a Union Jack into the right of the frame and the Stars and Stripes into the left. On either side of the monarch hung a large painting of a voluptuous nude female, one black-haired, one fair.

      At the Savoy we cater to all tastes.

      I had never met our beloved monarch, but judging from stories I’d heard, some of them directly from the excessivelyindulged mouth of her eldest son, she wouldn’t have approved of us in the least. By London standards, even by Toronto standards, it was a hovel. But we made more in a night than most gaming house proprietors in Toronto or London could dream of earning in a week. We had so much custom that I sometimes wondered how everyone managed to fit inside. And no matter how much we charged, the customers kept streaming through the doors.

      “Madam.” Ireland touched the brim of his hat and went to the bar. The men could tell a swell when they saw one, and they shifted to let him through. He shouted for a drink for himself and one for the men on either side.

      I caught a glimpse of myself in the ornate, gilt-edged mirror hanging on the back wall. A large crack streaked across the entire width of the glass. The mirror had been dropped when it was hung, but this was Dawson: we were grateful for the slightest touch of opulence, and no one looked at anything very closely, not wanting to see the reality underneath.

      I tugged lightly at my waist to pull the bodice lower and display my necklace better. A clean-shaven young man blanched and tossed down his drink in one swallow. He joined the crowd at the bar and shouted for another.

      I went into the dance hall to check that Helen had laid out the chairs for the evening’s performance. When I returned, Jack Ireland, of the San Francisco Standard, was asking Rupert Malloy, one of the men enjoying the free liquor, how long he’d been in the Klondike. I knew the answer—two weeks. But Rupert could play the game, and he began spinning a tale of prospecting in the wilderness, fighting off bloodthirsty Indians, ravenous wolves, and greedy prospectors for a chance at the gleaming yellow metal. He paused and fingered his empty glass with a deep sigh. Ireland snapped his fingers at Sam Collins, the head bartender and our oldest employee.

      “Don’t waste your time listening to Rup here,” said a man standing behind Ireland’s shoulder. “You want the real stories of the strike, can’t do no worse than speak to ol’ Barney over there.”

      Ireland looked at Barney, almost snoring with his head resting on bar. At the sound of his name, Barney’s head jerked up. “So Injun Jim, he says to me…”

      “Thanks for the tip, friend.” Ireland signalled for Sam to pour a drink for his informant and slid a few feet down the bar. The crowd shifted, like the waters of the Yukon River on a still day when a raft drifts by. Sam Collins’s weather- and life-worn face had gone pale, and he stared at the floor as he placed the glasses on the counter.

      “Young man there says you know some stories of the strike of ’96.” Ireland slapped Barney on the back. The old man belched.

      “Another drink for my friend here,” the newspaperman shouted.

      Barney lifted his freshened glass in one worn paw. “Summer of ’96,” he said before toppling forward, planting his face into a puddle on the shiny mahogany bar.

      Ray moved before I had time to snap my fingers. Sam had turned his attention to a newly arrived pack of Yankees, still wet behind the ears from river water, so Ray yelled at the new boy to give him a hand. Together they lifted Barney off his stool. The crowd parted to let them through.

      Ireland picked up his drink and walked over to me. “Bet you have some stories to tell.” He spoke directly to my cleavage.

      “No,” I said. “Not a one. If you’ll excuse me…”

      He grabbed my upper arm. “I’ll make it worth your while.” Talk in the room stopped as abruptly as if it had been scripted. Everyone stared at us, frozen in place, mouths open, glasses half-raised. They looked as if they were performing in a tableau for the entertainment of the Prince of Wales.

      I stared at Ireland’s hand, before lifting my eyes to his face. “Release me,” I said.

      He looked at me, and I tensed, expecting trouble. He backed down and let go. As one, the clientele let out a single breath and returned to their drinks.

      Ireland knew he’d lost face. His cheeks were red, his eyes small, dark and cold. His fists were clenched tightly at his sides, and a vein throbbed in his neck.

      I smiled my best dance hall hostess smile. “Have you had a look into our gaming rooms, yet, Mr. Ireland? The finest roulette wheel in Dawson. And of course, we have faro and poker as well.”

      The reporter didn’t return my smile. “Quite the piece of work, aren’t you, Miss…?” His grammar and accent seemed to shift, depending on to whom he was speaking. He’d been excessively formal with me when first we met, his speech turning coarser and rougher when he talked with the men around the bar.

      “Mrs,” I said. “Mrs…” I bit my tongue, remembering, just in time, what I was talking to. A newspaper reporter.

      “Mrs. what?” He snapped, reading layers of meaning into my hesitation, a skill he would have honed to perfection in order to succeed in his business.

      There was no point in not telling him my name. Everyone in town knew it. Besides, it was unlikely that anyone in London read North American newspapers, and in Toronto I’d used another name.

      “Mrs. Fiona MacGillivray, at your service, sir. Please allow me to escort you into the gambling room.”

      “MacGillivray. I’ll remember that.” He turned on his heels, and the bar hangers-on parted to let him through.

      Ireland slapped his money down on the counter. But this time no one rushed to serve Mr. Ireland of the San Francisco Standard. The new bartender, so new I didn’t know his name, had returned and was busy at the far end. There was no sign of Ray, and Sam was dusting off the whisky bottles behind the bar as if we didn’t have a customer in the place. The man wasn’t deaf or blind, surely he could see the anxious faces of rows of would-be-drinkers reflected in the glass protecting her Majesty’s visage, which hung directly in front of his face.

      “Bartender!” Ireland shouted, his face turning redder, the too-ample flesh around his tight collar bulging at the insult of being ignored when he had a full bar watching him. Sam turned and asked a short, fat man with a full glass in front of him if he’d like another. Our head bartender was very pale.

      “What the hell does it take to get a drink around here?” The new bartender heard the shouting, and with a questioning glance at Sam’s back, abandoned his end of the bar and rushed to serve the reporter with the deep pockets and the pack of new-found friends. Sam halfturned to check what was going on behind his back.

      A man pushed up to the counter and bellowed for a drink. Sam poured him a whisky, his hand shaking so badly that almost as much liquor splashed on the counter as landed in the glass.

      “I can tell you some stories, city fellow.” A rough hand slapped Ireland’s back, and the reporter’s attention СКАЧАТЬ