his.
Chapter Eight
Whooping it Up
The booming voice of the newly-anointed Klondike Kate, Angela Rinaldi, was calling upon the crowd to observe a moment of silence for Lee-Ann Nordquist when Al and I walked into the cabaret. The room fell quiet, and after an appropriate interval Angela broke the spell by observing that, as a faithful and fun-loving Kate, Lee-Ann would want the celebration to go on. Therefore, the bar was declared open and the ensemble that accompanied the singers was ordered to commence playing the “Beer Barrel Polka.”
Angela was joined immediately by the two Kates who had visited me that morning, Toni Erickson and Esperanza de LaTrille, and they began to sing with as little gusto as you’d expect from three women who’d just lost a good friend. But they were troupers, and after a couple of listless verses they began to loosen up, whereupon the atmosphere in the cabaret improved from funereal to banal.
We seated ourselves at a table, and when an angular, blue-eyed blonde who introduced herself as Britney appeared and said she would be our server, we ordered a tap beer for Al and a ginger ale for Mitch the recovering alcoholic. After Britney delivered the drinks, we sipped them slowly, listening to the music and wondering when the Vulcans were going to come storming in.
Our glasses were almost empty, and Britney was looking our way, hoping to be summoned for a refill, when Al said, “Our frost-bitten buddies must have a lot to talk about over in the Crowne Plaza.”
“Maybe Brownie called them downtown to ask some more questions,” I said.
“Oops! Speak of the devil, or in this case, devils,” Al said as the door swung open and eight scarlet-cloaked, black-booted men stomped in, waving their arms and shouting, “Hail, Vulcan!” They spread through the crowd like legs on a spider, repeating the salutation and applying a greasy V to the cheek of every woman they encountered. Nobody rejected the markings and some turned the other cheek for a duplicate decoration.
The energy level in the room soared, the trio of Kates onstage sang louder and lustier, and I was reminded of the Robert Service poem that began with, “A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon.” The only thing missing was Dangerous Dan McGrew, and for all I knew one of the whooping Vulcans could be his evil equal.
“Well, the Fire King sure warmed things up,” Al said as Britney approached our table with an expectant smile.
“I’d like to put a little heat on him,” I said.
“Another round, gentlemen?” Britney asked.
“Why not?” Al replied. “We might as well join the party.”
“Nothing worse than a party pooper,” I said. “Bring me another one of those exotic ginger ales.”
Britney hustled away and Al slipped the palm-sized camera out of his pocket. “Might as well take a few shots of the festivities,” he said. “If nothing else, it’ll justify these beers on my expense account.” He moved away to a corner where he could get a better view of the crowd.
I was thinking about the Prince of Soot’s offer to talk with me and I looked around the room hoping to spot him. My search was unsuccessful because even in the dim light of Klondike Kate’s Cabaret the Vulcans were wearing their dark goggles, so they all looked alike. I remembered the Prince of Soot being shorter than I was, but the same could be said for four other members of the Krewe.
“Can you pick out the Prince of Soot?” I asked when Al returned.
“Are you kidding?” Al replied. “I can’t tell Soot from Ashes anymore than you can tell your ash from a hole in the ground.”
Britney was setting the drinks on the table, and she gave him a look that would have shriveled a grape into a raisin before she walked away.
“Soot is older than the rest of them, but with those damn goggles on they all look like Satan,” I said.
“The devil, you say.”
“Yes, and I also say that this is turning into one
Chapter Eight
Whooping it Up
The booming voice of the newly-anointed Klondike Kate, Angela Rinaldi, was calling upon the crowd to observe a moment of silence for Lee-Ann Nordquist when Al and I walked into the cabaret. The room fell quiet, and after an appropriate interval Angela broke the spell by observing that, as a faithful and fun-loving Kate, Lee-Ann would want the celebration to go on. Therefore, the bar was declared open and the ensemble that accompanied the singers was ordered to commence playing the “Beer Barrel Polka.”
Angela was joined immediately by the two Kates who had visited me that morning, Toni Erickson and Esperanza de LaTrille, and they began to sing with as little gusto as you’d expect from three women who’d just lost a good friend. But they were troupers, and after a couple of listless verses they began to loosen up, whereupon the atmosphere in the cabaret improved from funereal to banal.
We seated ourselves at a table, and when an angular, blue-eyed blonde who introduced herself as Britney appeared and said she would be our server, we ordered a tap beer for Al and a ginger ale for Mitch the recovering alcoholic. After Britney delivered the drinks, we sipped them slowly, listening to the music and wondering when the Vulcans were going to come storming in.
Our glasses were almost empty, and Britney was looking our way, hoping to be summoned for a refill, when Al said, “Our frost-bitten buddies must have a lot to talk about over in the Crowne Plaza.”
“Maybe Brownie called them downtown to ask some more questions,” I said.
“Oops! Speak of the devil, or in this case, devils,” Al said as the door swung open and eight scarlet-cloaked, black-booted men stomped in, waving their arms and shouting, “Hail, Vulcan!” They spread through the crowd like legs on a spider, repeating the salutation and applying a greasy V to the cheek of every woman they encountered. Nobody rejected the markings and some turned the other cheek for a duplicate decoration.
The energy level in the room soared, the trio of Kates onstage sang louder and lustier, and I was reminded of the Robert Service poem that began with, “A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon.” The only thing missing was Dangerous Dan McGrew, and for all I knew one of the whooping Vulcans could be his evil equal.
“Well, the Fire King sure warmed things up,” Al said as Britney approached our table with an expectant smile.
“I’d like to put a little heat on him,” I said.
“Another round, gentlemen?” Britney asked.
“Why not?” Al replied. “We might as well join the party.”
“Nothing worse than a party pooper,” I said. “Bring me another one of those exotic ginger ales.”
Britney hustled away and Al slipped the palm-sized camera out of his pocket. “Might as well take a few shots of the festivities,” he said. “If nothing else, it’ll justify these beers on my expense account.” He moved away to a corner where he could get a better view of the crowd.
I was thinking about the Prince of Soot’s offer to talk with me and I looked around the room hoping to spot him. My search was unsuccessful because even in the dim light of Klondike Kate’s Cabaret the Vulcans were wearing their dark goggles, so they all looked alike. I remembered the Prince of Soot being shorter than I was, but the same could be said for four other members of the Krewe.
“Can you pick out the Prince of Soot?” I asked when Al returned.
“Are you kidding?” Al replied. “I can’t tell Soot from Ashes anymore than you can tell your ash from a hole in the ground.”
Britney was setting the drinks on the table, and she gave him a look that would have shriveled a grape into a raisin before she walked away.
“Soot is older than the rest of them, but with those damn goggles on they all look like Satan,” I said.
“The devil, you say.”
“Yes, and I also say that this is turning into one
Similar Books
