Death in Saratoga Springs by Charles O'Brien Page A

popular American songs, as well as her native Italian. She dreamed that one day she’d sing in concert halls and become rich and famous. Her friends on Mulberry Bend used to say that wouldn’t happen, but Francesca believed in miracles. One might happen to her. A rich gentleman like Captain Crake might like her songs enough to promote her.
    She finished her chores and called out, “Cleaning’s done, Captain. It’s time for a song.”
    He came out of his room, dressed in fine clothes for the evening. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, big-chested man and rough in his ways. They said he was a hero in the war and a successful businessman afterward. Now he was rich but couldn’t enjoy life. She sometimes felt sorry for him.
    â€œWhat do you have to offer tonight?” he asked, settling into a chair. “Cheer me up.”
    â€œThen I’ll sing ‘Funiculì, Funiculà,’ a popular song from Naples about the cable cars that go up and down Mount Vesuvius, filled with sightseers in a holiday spirit.” She cleared her throat and launched into a verse of the Italian original, waving her arms and dancing to the lively rhythm. Without missing a beat she switched to the English version, then closed with the refrain:
    â€œListen, listen, music sounds a-far!
Listen, listen, music sounds a-far!
Funiculì, funiculà, funiculì, funiculà!”
    Crake chuckled. “I like your spirit, girl. You sound like Italians in my meatpacking plants. They sing a lot. I hire them right off the boat. They work hard, don’t complain about the low pay or hard conditions in the plants.”
    She resented his attitude toward her people, but she didn’t complain. She sang a couple of his favorite sentimental songs, then bowed. She could sense when it was time for her to leave. Music seemed to soften his hard heart. He would soon want a woman’s comfort.
    He thanked her, then pulled from his pocket a simple gold bracelet and handed it to her.
    â€œHere, this is for pleasing an old man. A month ago, I gave the bracelet to my wife, but she doesn’t enjoy wearing it—says it looks cheap. She wants fancy jewelry.”
    â€œThank you so much, but I couldn’t accept it. I sing simply to please you.”
    His voice filled with menace. “But I insist.”
    Fear welled up in her. She couldn’t bring herself to say no. She took the bracelet, murmured her gratitude, and hurried from the room.
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    Crake rose from his chair, took a deep breath, and shuffled to the liquor cabinet. Alcohol was bad for his kidneys, said his doctor. Crake nonetheless poured a shot of whiskey and drank it in one gulp. That girl left just in time, he said to himself. In another minute, I’d have been on top of her.
    He put away the bottle. He was getting hungry. His wife would linger in the dining room with friends. Meanwhile he would go to the barroom for roast beef on rye with horseradish and a pint of beer. That would put him in a good mood for the dance tonight. Virtually a cripple, he would have to sit for hours and watch his wife turn her charm on lusty young men. A dozen or more would line up to dance with her. Brazen whore!

    Tonight’s dance was held in the hotel ballroom and was called a “hop,” from the typical step of the popular German schottische. The dress code was simpler than for the more formal balls. Crake entered the ballroom in a tan summer suit with a brown tie. Rachel was at his side in a light blue silk gown, a string of pearls around her neck, and a small diamond tiara on her blond head. She looked like a queen—a spoiled one, he thought.
    They walked about the room, nodding to familiar faces and chatting with acquaintances. As the musicians mounted the podium and prepared their instruments, Crake took a seat among the spectators, most of them elderly and decrepit like him. At the far end of the room, one of the largest in the country, an enormous