confusion. “What’re you talkin’ ’bout, Mrs. Stannert? Why, I think it’s great ya hired Angel t’ be a waiter gal here at your place. I always said Angel was the purtiest little thing that ever laid on her back an’—”
“Not any more,” Inez said coldly. “She’s a decent married woman now. And if that doesn’t make any difference to you, remember this. The next time you touch her, she says she’ll take off your thumb.” Inez glanced at Angel to see if she’d interpreted correctly. Angel nodded once, furious. She slapped the table again, then extended her middle finger to Chet and set her knife against the lower knuckle. Inez winced, thinking translation was probably not necessary, but continued, “Furthermore, Mrs. Jackson says, the second time you try anything, she’ll cut off your—”
“Won’t be no need for that.” Abe appeared, and his hands settled on Angel’s shoulders. “Next time he touches my wife, this man’s a dead man.”
Onlookers hastily melted away to the bar. Chet’s drinking buddies abandoned their chairs, leaving the prospector alone at the table, pink mouth forming a little “o” through his tangled gray beard. Inez thought that comprehension was, at last, dawning.
Inez said, “I think an apology’s in order.”
Angel glared at Chet, arms crossed above her swollen belly, foot tapping.
Chet stammered, “No harm meant. Just lookin’ for a little fun.”
Inez retrieved the empty bottles in front of him. “Time to be on your way, Chet. You know our rules: No drunks served a drink, no married men playing cards. You may not be married, but you surely are drunk. Frisco Flo is running the cathouse on the corner now. If you’ve got an itch in your trousers and money burning a hole in your pocket, go look for your ‘fun’ there or any of the other joints up and down State. But not here. Not in my saloon.”
Chapter Eight
After Chet staggered out, Inez joined Sol behind the bar. Sol, pale and apologetic, clutched the shotgun in one hand and a bottle in the other as if torn between defending the business and selling a drink. “I’m sorry I didn’t get the gun out faster, Mrs. Stannert. Couldn’t remember which end of the bar it was under.”
“That’s all right. Angel can take care of herself. I was more worried that she’d carve up Chet right then and there.”
Inez watched Abe and Angel exit through the new door to Harrison Avenue. Satisfaction percolated through her every time she contemplated the entrance. She and Abe had managed to complete the doorway and replace the floor and ceiling before the miners’ strike and the subsequent closing of saloons had called a halt to their renovations. With two entrances, clientele had the option of strolling in from Leadville’s up-and-coming new business district on Harrison or entering from State Street and the red-light district. Just one of the advantages, she reflected, of a corner property.
The new entrance seemed to draw a better class of men than those coming in from State Street. Even so, those entering from Harrison, once their thirst for liquor was slaked, still tended to exit on State. Not State, but Second, she corrected herself. Leadville’s city council had renamed the streets in January, banishing many of the street names reminiscent of Philadelphia—State, Lafayette, Park—and substituting a simple numbering system. Most townsfolk shrugged. The general consensus was that the council could tinker with street names all it wanted, but the red-light district would remain State Street until razed to the ground.
Inez returned her attention to Sol. “You’re new to town, so I wouldn’t expect you to know this. But just so you’re better prepared next time: Chet Donnelly’s a wild card, especially when he’s tight. Generally, he’s more trouble than he’s worth, unless he hits the big time with a silver strike. When that happens, he sells his claim to the highest buyer, goes on a spree, and
“Not any more,” Inez said coldly. “She’s a decent married woman now. And if that doesn’t make any difference to you, remember this. The next time you touch her, she says she’ll take off your thumb.” Inez glanced at Angel to see if she’d interpreted correctly. Angel nodded once, furious. She slapped the table again, then extended her middle finger to Chet and set her knife against the lower knuckle. Inez winced, thinking translation was probably not necessary, but continued, “Furthermore, Mrs. Jackson says, the second time you try anything, she’ll cut off your—”
“Won’t be no need for that.” Abe appeared, and his hands settled on Angel’s shoulders. “Next time he touches my wife, this man’s a dead man.”
Onlookers hastily melted away to the bar. Chet’s drinking buddies abandoned their chairs, leaving the prospector alone at the table, pink mouth forming a little “o” through his tangled gray beard. Inez thought that comprehension was, at last, dawning.
Inez said, “I think an apology’s in order.”
Angel glared at Chet, arms crossed above her swollen belly, foot tapping.
Chet stammered, “No harm meant. Just lookin’ for a little fun.”
Inez retrieved the empty bottles in front of him. “Time to be on your way, Chet. You know our rules: No drunks served a drink, no married men playing cards. You may not be married, but you surely are drunk. Frisco Flo is running the cathouse on the corner now. If you’ve got an itch in your trousers and money burning a hole in your pocket, go look for your ‘fun’ there or any of the other joints up and down State. But not here. Not in my saloon.”
Chapter Eight
After Chet staggered out, Inez joined Sol behind the bar. Sol, pale and apologetic, clutched the shotgun in one hand and a bottle in the other as if torn between defending the business and selling a drink. “I’m sorry I didn’t get the gun out faster, Mrs. Stannert. Couldn’t remember which end of the bar it was under.”
“That’s all right. Angel can take care of herself. I was more worried that she’d carve up Chet right then and there.”
Inez watched Abe and Angel exit through the new door to Harrison Avenue. Satisfaction percolated through her every time she contemplated the entrance. She and Abe had managed to complete the doorway and replace the floor and ceiling before the miners’ strike and the subsequent closing of saloons had called a halt to their renovations. With two entrances, clientele had the option of strolling in from Leadville’s up-and-coming new business district on Harrison or entering from State Street and the red-light district. Just one of the advantages, she reflected, of a corner property.
The new entrance seemed to draw a better class of men than those coming in from State Street. Even so, those entering from Harrison, once their thirst for liquor was slaked, still tended to exit on State. Not State, but Second, she corrected herself. Leadville’s city council had renamed the streets in January, banishing many of the street names reminiscent of Philadelphia—State, Lafayette, Park—and substituting a simple numbering system. Most townsfolk shrugged. The general consensus was that the council could tinker with street names all it wanted, but the red-light district would remain State Street until razed to the ground.
Inez returned her attention to Sol. “You’re new to town, so I wouldn’t expect you to know this. But just so you’re better prepared next time: Chet Donnelly’s a wild card, especially when he’s tight. Generally, he’s more trouble than he’s worth, unless he hits the big time with a silver strike. When that happens, he sells his claim to the highest buyer, goes on a spree, and
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