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 said nothing.
The women were plain-faced and sturdy, dressed in shapeless, well-worn work dresses. A few had tried to add some cheer to their drab surroundings, and even drabber lives, by threading colourful ribbons through their hair or putting a touch of sequins on their belt or a scrap of fur or lace on the collar. Their hands and faces were red and chapped from hard living in a hostile climate, and many had missing teeth. The road to the Klondike wasn’t for delicate women.
A woman stood on the boardwalk on the other side of the street, watching them. “Lovely day, ain’t it, Constable?” she called.
“Lovely.”
“Nice lad you’ve got ’ere. Looks like a perfect angel. Your favourite?”
“Watch your mouth, Joey.”
She was tiny, the size of an undernourished child; the bones of her wrists as delicate as a bird’s. Angus knew who she was: everyone knew who she was. Madame Josephine LeGrand owned many of the cribs that lined Paradise Alley. And, even though the law didn’t approve, she owned the women who worked in those cribs as well. Midwest farm and eastern factory girls looking for adventure, abandoned wives trying to make a living, seasoned prostitutes from Montreal, Chicago, St. Louis or San Francisco, Joey LeGrand had paid their way to the Klondike, where they now worked, day and, mostly, night to pay for their passage.
Angus stared at her open-mouthed; his mother had warned him to have nothing to do with the small woman with the Quebec accent.
Joey stared back. The smile on her thin lips didn’t touch her eyes. She placed her child-sized feet on the duckboards and crossed the road. Her dress was of plain homespun, her brown hair streaked with grey and pulled back into a severe bun, her only jewellery a plain gold band on the third finger of her left hand.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Angus stuttered. “I’m…”
“Never mind,” Sterling interrupted.
She folded her petite white hands in front of her and smiled up at Angus. “No matter,” she shrugged. “I can guess the lad’s name.” The smile fell away and her attention shifted. “Any reason you’re in the neighbour-hood, Constable?”
“Checking that the law is being upheld, Madame LeGrand. Even in Paradise Alley.”
“Oh, yes. The Law. Me, I never forget about the importance and the power of The Law.”
“See you keep it that way.” “Certainement, monsieur. Bon soir.” She grinned at him like a cat at play with a particularly stupid mouse.
Sterling didn’t say goodbye. He continued on his rounds, an unusually silent Angus following.
“Anyone ever show you how to box, Angus?” The constable said, apparently out of nowhere.
“No, sir. But I’d like to learn.”
“You’re growing into a big lad, Angus. Be not much longer before some men in this town try to take you on, not caring how young you are. Sergeant Lancaster was the boxing champion of Manitoba in his youth, I hear.”
Angus’s initial flush of excitement was quickly replaced by disappointment. He looked at his shuffling feet. “My mother won’t allow it, sir. She doesn’t want to hear about me fighting.”
“You mother doesn’t have to know.”
Angus lifted his head. “Would he charge for lessons? Ma won’t pay.”
“He loves to teach boys. He’ll probably do it for free.”
“When can I start? Tomorrow?”
Sterling laughed. “Let me talk to Lancaster first. We’ll work something out, and I’ll let you know.”
They walked down Front Street. It was almost eight o’clock, but the northern sun was warm on their faces. Outside the Savoy, Helen Saunderson was standing on the boardwalk, her eyes red from weeping, holding a welllaundered and heavily mended handkerchief to her nose. Jack Ireland, the American newspaperman, stood beside her, writing in a small notebook.
“Evening, Mrs. Saunderson,” Sterling said. “Everything all right here?”
“Fine, thank you, Constable. Evenin’ Angus.” Air whistled through the woman’s missing teeth. She blew her nose, the sound like a Prairie tornado. “I’m only telling Mr. Ireland here ’bout what happened to my man, Jim.”
Ireland patted Mrs. Saunderson’s shoulder. “There, there, my dear. You cry all you want. Such a tragic story.”
She burst into another round of sobs and buried her face in her handkerchief. Her shoulders shook. Passersby tossed her curious stares and gave them a wide berth.
“Are you sure you want to be talking to a reporter, Helen?” Sterling said.
“I