Gold Digger. Vicki Delany

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СКАЧАТЬ once you have calmed down. And had a shave and a haircut and changed into clean clothes.”

      Held firm in Ray’s grip, Graham still managed a stiff bow. “For you, the raven-haired beauty of the Klondike, I’ll even have a bath.”

      How could I not smile?

      The onlookers cheered lustily at Graham’s chivalrous words. They were a long way from home, all these men trying to be so tough. A great many of them had left cherished mothers, wives and children behind in the depression-plagued cities to the south. They were the most sentimental bunch I had ever encountered. Which sometimes made it difficult to wring every last copper or fleck of gold dust out of them.

      Difficult, but not impossible.

      Graham Donohue looked at Ray. “You can unhand me, sir. Mrs. MacGillivray has asked me to leave. I never refuse a lady.”

      The crowd cheered. Someone shouted, “Come on, Fee, let the boy stay.” They took up the chant. “Let the boy stay!”

      Ireland was forgotten, which he didn’t appear to be at all happy about. Judging by the way he looked at me, he, the righteous victim of an unprovoked attack, blamed me for the loss of the crowd’s attention.

      Tough.

      I jerked my head towards the door; once an order was given, it had to be upheld, no matter what. Ray and I had both served our time on the bottom of life’s ladder, the one with half the rungs kicked out. We knew better than to show a hint of weakness. Graham bowed, and although he was still held in Ray’s powerful grip, he managed to be as gracious as the great ship on which I’d left Southampton harbour, heading for the New World. Several men pounded him on the back as he passed.

      Ireland swallowed his drink, elbowed the man beside him out of the way and went into the gambling room. His face resembled one of the thunderclouds that would hover over Toronto on a hot summer’s day.

      “Close one,” I said to Ray, once he’d seen Graham out the door.

      “What was all that about? Never seen Donohue fly off the handle like that before. Cool as they come, he usually is.” At least that’s what I think Ray said. His Glaswegian accent is so thick when he’s angry or confused or, on a very rare occasion emotional, that even I, born and raised on the Isle of Skye until the age of ten, can’t always understand him.

      I shook my head: who knows what comes over men at times? The customers, disappointed that the fight had fizzled into nothing, went back to their drink.

      All I’d have to do, I’d thought naïvely, was to keep Graham Donohue and Jack Ireland apart, and everything would be well.

      Chapter Five

      Angus MacGillivray had never enjoyed himself so much in all of his life as he followed Constable Sterling on his rounds.

      Wherever they went, men nodded at Sterling; the few women smiled and occasionally blushed, and everyone grinned at the sight of the gangly boy tagging along at the constable’s side.

      It was early evening when they made their way down Front Street. The street was filling with men headed for the bars and the gambling tables. The dance halls didn’t open until eight, but the crowd would find ways to entertain themselves in the time remaining.

      In front of the Savoy a drunk straightened up from a muddy puddle of his own vomit, clutching his stomach and emitting a low moan, sounding much like a cow in labour. Ray Walker stood in the doorway, disgust filling his battered face. He shook his head, caught Sterling’s eye, nodded, called a greeting to Angus and went back inside. The drunk turned and tripped. He waved his arms in the air like an outof-control windmill, but to no avail, and pitched forward into the street, collapsing face first into the mud.

      Several men were lounging outside the bars; they laughed. A plainly dressed, no-nonsense woman with a bosom like the bow of an ocean liner threw the drunk a look that would curdle milk and gave him wide berth. Sterling walked over to the moaning pile of mud. “Get up, man. Horse ’n wagon’ll be coming down this road any minute, and then you’ll be done for.”

      The man groaned.

      “Get up.” Sterling kicked at the fellow’s ribs, barely making contact.

      The drunk staggered to his feet as the onlookers cheered. Many wore suits that were once of high quality, but that they no longer had the money—or the energy—to maintain. They were young, with the frightened, vacant look of privileged young men who’d set out seeking thrilling adventure and found only hardship and toil.

      “Don’t you fellows have any place to be getting to?” Sterling snarled at them. “If you don’t, wood needs chopping down at the Fort.”

      They scattered, looking for another place to drink and to pass the time until they could find passage out of this God-forsaken place.

      “Many thanks, Cons’ble,” the drunk mumbled, touching the brim of his hat, which miraculously hadn’t come off in the fall. He staggered down the street, trying to keep some semblance of dignity whilst coated in reeking, gluttonous muck from head to toe.

      Sterling turned to Angus. “Before the dance halls open, I’m going into Paradise Alley. You can’t come with me.”

      Angus’s heart sank—he’d been looking forward to the chance to have a good long look around the infamous Paradise Alley, while appearing authoritative and responsible, not like a boy who’d snuck out after his mother’d gone to bed. “I know what sort of things happen there,” he said, hoping to sound mature and responsible.

      “Do you, now?” Sterling didn’t sound impressed at Angus’s maturity, so the boy hurried to add, “My ma told me.”

      “What did she tell you?”

      “To stay well away from there and not to talk to any of the ladies, even if they talk to me first, except to say hello which is only polite, of course.”

      “Of course.” “But it’ll be fine with her as long as you’re with me.”

      The edges of Sterling’s mouth turned up.

      “Let’s go>then. But if there’s any trouble, you get yourself out of there. Understand?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      They left Front Street and walked east on Queen to the section of road below Second Avenue known to everyone as Paradise Alley.

      The street was narrow, lined on either side with a wooden boardwalk and the occasional plank, or duckboard, stretched across the road. The cribs, where the women conducted their trade, were tiny, some of them no more than three or four feet across, and packed together, wall touching wall, with pointed roofs and a single tiny window inset beside the door. A name was painted over most of the doorways. Some of the women smiled at Angus and Sterling, a few seductive and inviting, but most merely extending greetings to a friendly face. Some turned their heads away and hurried past.

      “My father’s a preacher,” the constable said, as much to himself as to Angus. “When I was growing up, he talked a lot about heaven and hell. I don’t think he’d be able to imagine a place further from paradise than this wretched, mud-streaked patch of humanity.”

      Angus СКАЧАТЬ