Shortly after four o’clock, Irene had slipped outside for a bit of fresh air. I followed her and told her I was disappointed with Chloe’s performance that evening. I suggested Irene have a friendly word with her. Irene told me, biting off every word, that she would never again have a “friendly word” with Chloe.
Oh, goodie, I thought. Outside my office window, Dawson was warming up to the day’s commerce. Men shouted, women chattered, horses and donkeys stepped through the ever-present mud, and loaded carts rattled down the street. The loud whistle of a steamboat announced its arrival. Ever since break-up in May, the waterfront had been clogged with boats beyond count, everything from luxury steamboats to musclepowered rafts made out of green wood, pulling into the makeshift harbour on the mud flats. All were full to bursting with men and women in pursuit of a dream that would more often than not bring nothing but frustration and disappointment. A steady stream of people was already leaving the Yukon, their dreams shattered by the reality of life in a northern mining town thrown up out of trees, mud and muskeg, and mines that were staked and claimed before word of the strike reached the outside.
Chloe placed a handful of disks on my desk.
I pulled a thin envelope out of my drawer.
She peered at me through red-streaked eyes and a badly cut fringe of greasy brown hair.
“I’m sorry, Chloe, but you are dismissed.” I held out the envelope. “You were drunk when you got on stage. If I’d been here when you arrived, I wouldn’t have let you get that far. These are your wages, and I’ll count out the money owing for your disks.”
“What?” she asked, blinking as if trying to make out my face through a fog.
“I said you are dismissed.”
“You can’t fire me. Ma’am.”
The girls who were on their way out the door, or who had remained behind to chat for a few moments, stopped dead. You could almost hear the ears pricking up.
“Sobriety is a condition of your employment, which was explained to you.”
“I need this job.”
“You should have thought of that before taking a drink. Good day.”
“Please, ma’am. Gi’me another chance. I’ve the toothache, you see. I needed a sip to dull the pain. That’s all.” She rubbed the side of her face with her fingers.
The girls were watching me. A few more drifted back down the hall and stood outside the door listening, Irene among them. I shoved the envelope towards Chloe again. “Your employment is terminated. Please leave.”
She snatched the money out of my hand. Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth drew into a flat line. Most unattractive. She spat at my outstretched hand. My reflexes are still good, and I managed to pull back in time. The onlookers gasped.
Chloe clutched her pay envelope to her chest. “They say you’re the hardest woman in the Yukon. Nothing but a blackhearted bitch under that fake Lady-Muck-Muck accent.”
“I’ve been called worse by better people than you.” I gathered up the remaining coins as if to slip them into the drawer where I kept a good solid billy club. “It would be better if I don’t have to call Mr. Walker to have you thrown out.”
“Bitch,” she repeated. She turned and walked away. The dancers parted and watched her pass.
The blob of spittle was beginning to sink into my desk blotter. I scooped it up with my handkerchief and dropped the mess into the waste basket. The silent crowd of watching girls scattered at a look from me.
“I can assure you there is nothing at all fake about my Lady-Muck-Muck accent,” I said to no one in particular.
Ray came into my office lugging a bag brimming with our take for the evening. I was happy to see that he was struggling with the weight. Like every business in Dawson, we accepted gold dust as legal currency. “Trouble?” he growled as the last of the girls slipped away.
“No,” I said as he dropped the bag in the desk drawer, which he’d reinforced with a cage of steel bars. I’d never lived in a more law-abiding town, but we didn’t take any chances. I locked the drawer and slipped the key into my reticule. Time to go home and sleep. I’d do the books and banking later.
“Young Murray might work out as head bartender,” Ray said, standing back while I locked the office door.
“I hope so. That’ll take some of the pressure off you.” Our previous head bartender had left town abruptly. We needed a new man to put in charge, but Ray was having trouble finding someone he could trust with not only the earnings but also the liquor.
The male employees, the bartenders and croupiers, were Ray’s responsibility. I managed the percentage girls—who came in at midnight when the stage show ended to dance with the men—and the performers. I also kept the books.
Mary came out of her room as we walked down the hall. Her black eyes glanced down to avoid looking at Ray.
“Good morning, Mary,” I said. “I won’t ask how you slept, as I’m sure the racket kept you up all night. I hope you were comfortable.”
“I slept fine, Mrs. MacGillivray,” she whispered. “I can ignore the noise.”
“A useful talent. Mary, this is Mr. Walker, my business partner. Ray, Mary is beginning employment in Mrs. Mann’s laundry today, and I offered her a room until she finds something more permanent. And a good deal quieter.”
“Pleased to meet ye, Mary,” Ray said, with a surprised look at me.
Mary blinked.
“He said he’s pleased to meet you,” I told her. Ray hailed from the teeming tenements and shipyards of Glasgow, and his accent could be almost indecipherable to the uninitiated. He was a tough little Scotsman with a nose mashed flat enough to spread out in several different directions and a mouthful of broken or rotting teeth. He stood barely five foot six and didn’t carry an ounce of perceptible fat or muscle on him—the visible heritage of a hard Glaswegian childhood.
“If you’re ready, I’ll walk with you to Mrs. Mann’s, Mary. You can get something for breakfast there.”
“I have no money,” she said.
“I’m sure your meals will be included as part of your wages.”
The downstairs rooms were empty, save for Irene sitting primly at a big round table by the far wall under a not-veryprim portrait of a lush nude with somewhat unrealistic bosoms. It would never hang in the National Portrait Gallery, but the customers liked it. She—Irene, not the painted nude—stood up as we approached.
I looked from her to Ray and raised one eyebrow. He blushed. “I’ve invited Irene for a wee breakfast, Fiona. Do ye want ta join us?”
I almost said “yes” just to see the expression on his face. I resisted the temptation.
Irene looked Mary up and down and turned up her nose. “Heard you had trouble upstairs, Mrs. MacGillivray,” she said with an unnecessary amount of relish.
“It was nothing I can’t handle. Enjoy your breakfast. Come, Mary, mustn’t keep Mrs. Mann waiting.”
I was half-afraid a bitter Chloe would be waiting for me outside. But fortunately—for her—she had taken her leave. I doubted I’d see her again. There were plenty of dance halls in Dawson, and she’d find employment in another one soon enough. If she kept on drinking, which it was almost certain she would, she would be fired from each one, gradually