beginning to get the picture.”
“I hope you are,” Paddy said. “Because you see, once again I pulled up stakes in the middle of the night, only this time I didn’t leave alone. This time I took the woman I loved away from a bad situation.
“Mary and I wound up here, working in the Golden Calf. I was the bartender and she was the cook. Then, six months after we arrived in Salcedo, Gib Crabtree, then the owner of the Golden Calf, was hit by a stray bullet when a couple members of the Dawson gang got drunk and started shooting up the town. Gib hung on for a few more days, then he died.”
Paddy paused for a moment, then crossed himself.
“After that, I bought the saloon from his widow, Marge Crabtree, who went back to Mobile, and now Mary—who is still the cook—runs the place with me.”
As twilight came on, Paddy lowered the wagon-wheel chandelier to light the flickering kerosene lanterns. The dim, golden light combined with the tobacco smoke that hovered just under the ceiling like a cloud, creating an environment that was surreal, as if time and place existed only there.
It was a particularly good night. The saloon was full without being overcrowded, and Hawke was at the piano, playing light and bouncy tunes that would encourage drinking and congeniality. It had the desired effect, and the Golden Calf was ringing with laughter, conversation, and the clink of glasses.
During the last few years, such surroundings had somehow become Hawke’s heritage. He was redefined by the saloons, cowtowns, stables, dusty streets, and open prairies he encountered during his wanderings. He could not deny these things without denying his own existence, and now he wasn’t sure that he even wanted to. He was here, in a foul-smelling saloon, in a West Texas town whose name he had never even heard until a few days ago. And at that moment he knew that he didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Although Hawke would play any requested song without charge, it was a general practice for the customer to give a tip. From time to time Darci would bring a coin over and drop it into Hawke’s tip bowl, along with the song request she was delivering from the customer.
Darci had a sweet naiveté about her that belied her occupation. And it didn’t take Hawke long to learn that she was as good for his business as she was for Paddy’s, because she would often coax one of the customers into requesting a song, just for her. In fact, she was so good for his business that Hawke entered into a business arrangement with her, with Darci getting ten percent of all his tips. The agreement was working very well for both of them.
Darci had dark hair and dark brown eyes. Her skin was smooth and olive-complexioned, and her provocative clothing and flirtatious nature cajoled the customers into buying more drinks.
It was also no secret that, after hours, Darci entertained men in her crib, which was a small one-room house across the alley behind the saloon. Whoring was an established and wholly accepted occupation, and nobody thought the less of her for it.
“I’m twenty-two years old,” Darci said. “My mama was a whore in a fancy house down in New Orleans, and I was born there. Mama was half colored, which means I’m what they call a quadroon. I started into whorin’ when I was fifteen. I never had plans to do anything but whore, and ain’t never done anything else.
“But I figured that just ’cause I was whorin’ didn’t mean I’d have to stay in New Orleans for the rest of my life. So I come west to see what it’s like out here.”
Chapter 6
FLAIRE’S SLEEP WAS FITFUL. SHE WAS LYING NOT IN bed, but on the cold, hard ground. She was aware of the golden, flickering light of the burning barn, and she felt as if she should do something about it, but she didn’t quite know what to do.
Her mother was lying on the ground beside her, and her face was turned toward Flaire. Flaire stared at her mother. Her mother’s open but sightless
“I hope you are,” Paddy said. “Because you see, once again I pulled up stakes in the middle of the night, only this time I didn’t leave alone. This time I took the woman I loved away from a bad situation.
“Mary and I wound up here, working in the Golden Calf. I was the bartender and she was the cook. Then, six months after we arrived in Salcedo, Gib Crabtree, then the owner of the Golden Calf, was hit by a stray bullet when a couple members of the Dawson gang got drunk and started shooting up the town. Gib hung on for a few more days, then he died.”
Paddy paused for a moment, then crossed himself.
“After that, I bought the saloon from his widow, Marge Crabtree, who went back to Mobile, and now Mary—who is still the cook—runs the place with me.”
As twilight came on, Paddy lowered the wagon-wheel chandelier to light the flickering kerosene lanterns. The dim, golden light combined with the tobacco smoke that hovered just under the ceiling like a cloud, creating an environment that was surreal, as if time and place existed only there.
It was a particularly good night. The saloon was full without being overcrowded, and Hawke was at the piano, playing light and bouncy tunes that would encourage drinking and congeniality. It had the desired effect, and the Golden Calf was ringing with laughter, conversation, and the clink of glasses.
During the last few years, such surroundings had somehow become Hawke’s heritage. He was redefined by the saloons, cowtowns, stables, dusty streets, and open prairies he encountered during his wanderings. He could not deny these things without denying his own existence, and now he wasn’t sure that he even wanted to. He was here, in a foul-smelling saloon, in a West Texas town whose name he had never even heard until a few days ago. And at that moment he knew that he didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Although Hawke would play any requested song without charge, it was a general practice for the customer to give a tip. From time to time Darci would bring a coin over and drop it into Hawke’s tip bowl, along with the song request she was delivering from the customer.
Darci had a sweet naiveté about her that belied her occupation. And it didn’t take Hawke long to learn that she was as good for his business as she was for Paddy’s, because she would often coax one of the customers into requesting a song, just for her. In fact, she was so good for his business that Hawke entered into a business arrangement with her, with Darci getting ten percent of all his tips. The agreement was working very well for both of them.
Darci had dark hair and dark brown eyes. Her skin was smooth and olive-complexioned, and her provocative clothing and flirtatious nature cajoled the customers into buying more drinks.
It was also no secret that, after hours, Darci entertained men in her crib, which was a small one-room house across the alley behind the saloon. Whoring was an established and wholly accepted occupation, and nobody thought the less of her for it.
“I’m twenty-two years old,” Darci said. “My mama was a whore in a fancy house down in New Orleans, and I was born there. Mama was half colored, which means I’m what they call a quadroon. I started into whorin’ when I was fifteen. I never had plans to do anything but whore, and ain’t never done anything else.
“But I figured that just ’cause I was whorin’ didn’t mean I’d have to stay in New Orleans for the rest of my life. So I come west to see what it’s like out here.”
Chapter 6
FLAIRE’S SLEEP WAS FITFUL. SHE WAS LYING NOT IN bed, but on the cold, hard ground. She was aware of the golden, flickering light of the burning barn, and she felt as if she should do something about it, but she didn’t quite know what to do.
Her mother was lying on the ground beside her, and her face was turned toward Flaire. Flaire stared at her mother. Her mother’s open but sightless
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