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 wasn’t much—a long mahogany bar lined one side, a few tables were scattered around the floor. The wallpaper in the saloon was an ostentatious red that clashed 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