Den of Stars. Christopher Byford

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СКАЧАТЬ of his tribute with one large, quick mouthful. Since he had arrived he had taken a bottle of white wine for himself and emptied its contents, first by a glass before forgoing this step completely. He slowly assessed every face around him, the collected showgirls of the Gambler’s Den, now performers without a stage, comfortable in their new home. And what a home it was! Such extravagance! What incredible generosity from the locals! How fortunate that they should land on their feet.

      Then there was talk about the restaurant. It was Kitty’s idea really, what with her vested interest in the practice since a considerably young age. Being raised on a farm had its perks of becoming creative with food. Being that the Den was no more, not only could the restaurant be a source of income but it would also ensure the girls remained together.

      She had tossed the thought around with one of her drinking sessions with the landlord, who excitedly proclaimed he knew someone who would happily front the money as a partner. Corinne had intervened when word got out, to ensure everything was being done on the level; but all this talk made Jacques uncomfortable. Plans were being made. Futures were being decided. All without him.

      A half-hearted suggestion was made that he could work there too, but doing what exactly? Carrying plates? Scrubbing dishes? That wasn’t his forte. There would be little need for decent muscle, the only requirement being the possibility of shaking down those who hadn’t paid their bill.

      It was laughable.

      Good for them. They’d made a life. They’d become comfortable. They were moving on.

      Good for bloody them.

      It wouldn’t have occurred to them that one of their number hadn’t enjoyed such good fortune. They never had to settle for barn floors or dark alleys to sleep the drink off. It didn’t matter to them that good-natured smiles never followed warm welcomes when he made his presence known. Reminiscence bore into him like a drill, pulling and churning his temperament into frustration.

      While they were spending the coin of others, what did he have to contend with? Dock work? Working in the mills or the mines? He may as well find his fortune as a singing vagabond. Sadly a man of his status, or a man in general, was not so fortunate to enjoy the generosity of strangers. His reputation had ensured anybody who was worth anything in this city would distance themselves. Associating themselves with Jacques was suicide of both status and possibly of the mortal variety too.

      While the girls comfortably avoided peril, Jacques was a marked man. Franco Del Monaire had asked him to do what was necessary to protect the girls of the Gambler’s Den no matter the personal cost. To ensure this, Jacques took it upon himself to testify against Wilheim Fort, a cruel individual who riddled the great city of Windberg with his wrongdoings.

      The chain reaction this caused was momentous. Once respected individuals were discovered to be in cahoots with Wilheim, arrests were made by the dozen. Powerful people fell from grace. That power had to be directed somewhere so repercussions became inevitable.

      The first time it happened, a couple of goons tried to jump him at a bar, giving a quick warning and a knife to the gut. He was lucky and the resulting tussle left him with just a few cuts but the message had been delivered sternly. Jacques took to carrying iron every day after that in preparation for the inevitable reoccurrence.

      Despite catching a bullet in the thigh, the next assailants caught considerably more to the chest. The one after that was tossed down a cliff after an almighty struggle. Standing on the cusp of a windswept gully, Jacques had grimly realized these attempts weren’t going to stop. He had no concerns about killing a man. He had done so plenty of times and for plenty of reasons, a handful considerably rotten, but this? The relentlessness of it was painfully apparent.

      The cost of this bargain was uncomfortably high. Inconveniences he could deal with, hell it was expected, but forfeiting his life, his entire life? Nobody else was dodging bullets. Nobody else had to toss unscrupulous folks down into ravines for a dirt nap.

      And here the girls were, speaking as if Franco and Misu were heroes, monuments to the people they once entertained, worthy of praise that stopped just shy of worship.

      ‘This is stifling,’ he finally said, striking his bottle on a table with a thump, narrowly missing the handle of his revolver that had been placed there for convenience.

      ‘Jacques?’

      ‘It makes no real difference, does it? They’re both dead and we’re sitting around talking about what could have been. We’re left behind contemplating the future. It’s selfish, is what it is. No two ways about it.’

      Everyone fell quiet, the more timid among them avoiding eye contact and fiddling with their drinks.

      * * *

      ‘We’re all hurting, Jacques. You’re not unique on that front.’ Corinne scrunched up her features in disgust. She had grown tired of this spectacle some time ago. His constant moaning and alcoholism was a bore and, frankly, she expected better of him than to drink himself stupid. They needed solidarity between them, not this.

      ‘Oh, work it out why don’t you. Sitting about here moping, mumbling little treasures about how the good times were. Let me tell you a fact and take it any way you desire. We weren’t saved by that pair. We were cast aside. We were left behind! They took the easy way out, dying a death out in the Sand Sea like martyrs. We got the bum end of the deal. You can be all red and puffy-cheeked in outrage but that doesn’t sway the fact that I’m right. You were all taking too long to work it out so I figured I would accelerate maters. Let it sink in. Think it over.’

      His eyes locked defiantly with Corinne’s. She waited for this little outburst to be done, though he spoke with considerable malice and smiled like a predator would smile, then he took a hearty swig of poison.

      ‘Stings like a bitch, don’t it?’

      Corinne retaliated flatly. ‘You’re drunk. Again, may I add, and it’s not even midday. Did you wash in scotch when you woke this morning? On today of all days?’

      ‘What can I say? Sobriety has lost its sparkling appeal.’

      ‘Has compassion too?’ Corinne snarled in challenge. She had tolerated this tirade for far too long. For a handful of weeks now, she had endured Jacques being stinking drunk whenever he rolled himself out of whatever bordello he had talked himself into.

      ‘You don’t get to say that to me. Nobody does. You have no idea how much I’ve put myself on the line for you, for all of you! You can doll yourselves up and pretend to move on, be in tears for the papers when they take nice photographs to further your agendas, but some people, better people, just don’t have the stomach for that. Sick as it is to admit, you have to respect Wilheim Fort. He has one over each and every one of you. For all his terrors, at least he never put on a charade to hide what he did. He never faked his intentions. Can you all say the same?’

      There was a pregnant pause. Nobody moved.

      ‘You want to turn around and go out that door. Right now,’ Corinne threatened, though what she said was not a suggestion but a demand. He wasn’t welcome here any more, not if he was going to behave so undignified.

      ‘You’re damn right I do,’ Jacques agreed. He swung his jacket from the seat arm in a rush and made his way outside, slamming the door in frustration. The connected bell danced on its bracket, almost detaching itself in shock. Nothing was said inside for a while, as the only noise was the slowing rattle of glass СКАЧАТЬ