gone down the stairs, he exhaled heavily.
What a mess! He knew he had made a stew of things—of his life. While he didn’t like to be lectured, in some ways he agreed with his father. Chess had succeeded in living frivolously, wasting money, and in general making a mess of things. That was why he had had to keep moving about Europe. To escape from the messes he had created.
Now he didn’t even want to polish off the bottle of absinthe. His debauch had come to an end. He would face his father tomorrow soberly and like a man, and then he would set things right with Fidelia and Spenser.
Chapter Six
Spenser’s biceps were throbbing, holding this damned sword.
He had developed an acute sense of time, pretending to be Hercules in the Morning Star Gallery. Of course he could not move to look at a watch, and he was almost literally dying to know how much longer he had to stand here with this damned sword raised over his head. Maybe next time he would pretend to be The Drunken Hercules by that painter Rubens. That would be a much easier pose.
But they had a good crowd this afternoon, and Spenser estimated only another ten minutes until that slave driver Sackett would let them take a break. There were the usual poseurs and boulevardiers in the audience, but since there weren’t many of those to begin with in Laramie, now there were mostly rowdies and loafers come to sample the unusual absinthe and ogle the nearly naked women.
That theater manager, Bullet Bob, who Spenser had mistaken for Chess, had entered around noon wearing his usual top hat. Spenser had been going over and over in his mind how to approach Bullet Bob about auditioning for his Hamlet production. Spenser could now see that Bullet Bob looked nothing like the masculine and well-built Chess. Bullet Bob was a good ten years older, for one thing. Bullet Bob couldn’t hold a candle to Chess, being not nearly as dashing or masterful.
Having plenty of time to ponder on things while he stood stock-still in the loincloth, Spenser’s mind wandered to Chess. What a changeable bastard Chess was! One minute grabbing him lustily to plant an ardent kiss on him. The next moment, making a big stink over how badly he wanted to court a barmaid he had only spoken two sentences to.
Spenser was convinced Chess was just a competitive brute, that he didn’t really have any interest in a lowly barmaid. Chess was the domineering sort of son of a bitch who would suddenly pretend interest just because another fellow wanted something. Then beat him to the gates of hell to obtain the thing, only to toss the thing away once he’d obtained it. Spenser had a suspicion this was the source of Chess’s fake interest in Fidelia, so he was also now eager to begin his courtship of the vivacious barmaid.
For Boswell had just given him the bounce from the ranch this morning. He had returned to the Wavy Stick around three in the morning a few too many times for the upright rancher’s liking, especially seeing as how hands were supposed to rise at five. Spenser didn’t blame Boswell. He would have given himself the boot, too. Spenser’s heart just wasn’t in the Wavy Stick. He wanted to live the exciting theater life for a while.
Who was playing the guitar? Maybe Sackett had hired an accompanist to give patrons something to listen to. Whoever it was, down the hallway that led to the bathhouse, he was extremely adept. Like one of those Spanish gypsy fellows who sounded as though they were strumming twenty strings at once. Get two or three of those fellows together at a fandango, and dancers beat their heels against the floor till the entire house rattled.
Fidelia, serving Bullet Bob some absinthe, perked up when the first guitar chords floated over. She practically dropped her tray on Bullet Bob’s table with a clatter to scurry off down the hallway. Spenser heard her conversing, most likely with the guitarist.
He didn’t hear the fellow answer her, so soon his mind drifted
What a mess! He knew he had made a stew of things—of his life. While he didn’t like to be lectured, in some ways he agreed with his father. Chess had succeeded in living frivolously, wasting money, and in general making a mess of things. That was why he had had to keep moving about Europe. To escape from the messes he had created.
Now he didn’t even want to polish off the bottle of absinthe. His debauch had come to an end. He would face his father tomorrow soberly and like a man, and then he would set things right with Fidelia and Spenser.
Chapter Six
Spenser’s biceps were throbbing, holding this damned sword.
He had developed an acute sense of time, pretending to be Hercules in the Morning Star Gallery. Of course he could not move to look at a watch, and he was almost literally dying to know how much longer he had to stand here with this damned sword raised over his head. Maybe next time he would pretend to be The Drunken Hercules by that painter Rubens. That would be a much easier pose.
But they had a good crowd this afternoon, and Spenser estimated only another ten minutes until that slave driver Sackett would let them take a break. There were the usual poseurs and boulevardiers in the audience, but since there weren’t many of those to begin with in Laramie, now there were mostly rowdies and loafers come to sample the unusual absinthe and ogle the nearly naked women.
That theater manager, Bullet Bob, who Spenser had mistaken for Chess, had entered around noon wearing his usual top hat. Spenser had been going over and over in his mind how to approach Bullet Bob about auditioning for his Hamlet production. Spenser could now see that Bullet Bob looked nothing like the masculine and well-built Chess. Bullet Bob was a good ten years older, for one thing. Bullet Bob couldn’t hold a candle to Chess, being not nearly as dashing or masterful.
Having plenty of time to ponder on things while he stood stock-still in the loincloth, Spenser’s mind wandered to Chess. What a changeable bastard Chess was! One minute grabbing him lustily to plant an ardent kiss on him. The next moment, making a big stink over how badly he wanted to court a barmaid he had only spoken two sentences to.
Spenser was convinced Chess was just a competitive brute, that he didn’t really have any interest in a lowly barmaid. Chess was the domineering sort of son of a bitch who would suddenly pretend interest just because another fellow wanted something. Then beat him to the gates of hell to obtain the thing, only to toss the thing away once he’d obtained it. Spenser had a suspicion this was the source of Chess’s fake interest in Fidelia, so he was also now eager to begin his courtship of the vivacious barmaid.
For Boswell had just given him the bounce from the ranch this morning. He had returned to the Wavy Stick around three in the morning a few too many times for the upright rancher’s liking, especially seeing as how hands were supposed to rise at five. Spenser didn’t blame Boswell. He would have given himself the boot, too. Spenser’s heart just wasn’t in the Wavy Stick. He wanted to live the exciting theater life for a while.
Who was playing the guitar? Maybe Sackett had hired an accompanist to give patrons something to listen to. Whoever it was, down the hallway that led to the bathhouse, he was extremely adept. Like one of those Spanish gypsy fellows who sounded as though they were strumming twenty strings at once. Get two or three of those fellows together at a fandango, and dancers beat their heels against the floor till the entire house rattled.
Fidelia, serving Bullet Bob some absinthe, perked up when the first guitar chords floated over. She practically dropped her tray on Bullet Bob’s table with a clatter to scurry off down the hallway. Spenser heard her conversing, most likely with the guitarist.
He didn’t hear the fellow answer her, so soon his mind drifted
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