intentional. I count on these clothes to help me blend into the crowd. I wasn’t expecting a State Street hooker to get friendly."
"Flo’s no hooker, Inez. The women in that house don’t come cheap."
"Oh? You’ve priced them?"
He started sorting again. "Fact is, no one gets in without a card and a pocketful of cash. You could probably sell that card for a hefty sum."
"Think I’ll hang onto it. I’ve always wondered what Cat’s house looks like inside. Maybe someday, I’ll pull Mark’s evening clothes from the wardrobe upstairs and find out."
"You go lookin’ without buyin’, Mrs. DuBois won’t like it."
Inez sniffed. "If I buy enough champagne she probably won’t care one way or the other. Speaking of buying," she hefted the crate onto one hip, "you heard she’s trying to buy
Slim McKay’s place?"
"Yep. Offered him plenty, to hear him talk."
"He’s next to her saloon. Maybe she’s thinking of expanding." Inez frowned, an unwelcome memory intruding. "Remember that time she showed up here. After Mark left."
"Not likely to forget," Abe said shortly. "Thought you two’d kill each other. She damn near scratched my eyes out when I showed her the door."
Inez looked down into the crate of broken bottles. Their jagged edges reminded her of Cat DuBois’ cutting words, delivered five days after Mark’s disappearance. Cat had marched into the Silver Queen early in the afternoon, heading straight for Inez. All chatter had ceased. State Street’s leading madam had slammed her closed parasol on the bar, sweeping glasses and bottles to the floor. "Where’s that smooth-talking man of yours?" she’d hissed. "He took my deposit and the contract. I bought this damn business. You honor the fucking deal or give me back my eight hundred dollars. Else there’ll be the devil to pay and you, Mrs. Stannert, will pay in spades!"
For a reply, Inez dashed a glass of whiskey in her face.
Abe interrupted her thoughts. "You, Mark, me, we own the Silver Queen, thirds all around. He wouldn’t of sold without talkin’ to us first."
"Well, she hasn’t mentioned it since, so I suppose you’re right. She was probably just trying to hoodwink us." Still, whenever she thought of it, Cat’s claim raised painful questions. Would Mark light out and leave us—me, William, Abe— for eight hundred dollars?
Carrying her secret doubts and the glass-filled crate, Inez hurried through the kitchen and dumped the trash in the alley. She returned to find Abe, hands folded over the broom handle, staring reflectively at the backbar.
"How ’bout a painting, Inez?"
Inez followed his gaze to the empty planks framed by the backbar’s mahogany pillars. "A painting of what?"
"Battle scene. Mountains. Don’t suppose you’d cotton to nymphs."
Inez set the crate on the floor by Abe. "I’m not interested in having a painting of scantily clad women behind me as I’m working the bar." She tapped her lower lip as she examined the blank wall. Then smiled.
"What?" said Abe. "I’ve seen that look before. I’m not sure I like it."
" Paradise Lost! I was rereading it last night."
"Most of my readin’ is from the papers or the Bible."
"Well, you’ll feel right at home, then. John Milton’s epic speaks to the ultimate battle between Heaven and Hell, good and evil."
"Inez," Abe moved in front of her. "I think we’re safer with scenery. Or dancin’ girls. Sinners don’t want to be reminded that they’re gamblin’ their souls as they toss their money on the bar. Religion and liquor don’t mix."
"No, listen." Inez grabbed his arm. "You yourself suggested a battle scene. So, make it a battle between God’s heavenly host and Satan’s legions. If the painter’s a fair portraitist, he could include some of Leadville’s citizenry in the fray! Come to think on it, we could sell spots on the wall!"
"I don’t know. When you start talkin’ about real faces up there—"
"I’m certain there’s more than a few that might enjoy seeing
"Flo’s no hooker, Inez. The women in that house don’t come cheap."
"Oh? You’ve priced them?"
He started sorting again. "Fact is, no one gets in without a card and a pocketful of cash. You could probably sell that card for a hefty sum."
"Think I’ll hang onto it. I’ve always wondered what Cat’s house looks like inside. Maybe someday, I’ll pull Mark’s evening clothes from the wardrobe upstairs and find out."
"You go lookin’ without buyin’, Mrs. DuBois won’t like it."
Inez sniffed. "If I buy enough champagne she probably won’t care one way or the other. Speaking of buying," she hefted the crate onto one hip, "you heard she’s trying to buy
Slim McKay’s place?"
"Yep. Offered him plenty, to hear him talk."
"He’s next to her saloon. Maybe she’s thinking of expanding." Inez frowned, an unwelcome memory intruding. "Remember that time she showed up here. After Mark left."
"Not likely to forget," Abe said shortly. "Thought you two’d kill each other. She damn near scratched my eyes out when I showed her the door."
Inez looked down into the crate of broken bottles. Their jagged edges reminded her of Cat DuBois’ cutting words, delivered five days after Mark’s disappearance. Cat had marched into the Silver Queen early in the afternoon, heading straight for Inez. All chatter had ceased. State Street’s leading madam had slammed her closed parasol on the bar, sweeping glasses and bottles to the floor. "Where’s that smooth-talking man of yours?" she’d hissed. "He took my deposit and the contract. I bought this damn business. You honor the fucking deal or give me back my eight hundred dollars. Else there’ll be the devil to pay and you, Mrs. Stannert, will pay in spades!"
For a reply, Inez dashed a glass of whiskey in her face.
Abe interrupted her thoughts. "You, Mark, me, we own the Silver Queen, thirds all around. He wouldn’t of sold without talkin’ to us first."
"Well, she hasn’t mentioned it since, so I suppose you’re right. She was probably just trying to hoodwink us." Still, whenever she thought of it, Cat’s claim raised painful questions. Would Mark light out and leave us—me, William, Abe— for eight hundred dollars?
Carrying her secret doubts and the glass-filled crate, Inez hurried through the kitchen and dumped the trash in the alley. She returned to find Abe, hands folded over the broom handle, staring reflectively at the backbar.
"How ’bout a painting, Inez?"
Inez followed his gaze to the empty planks framed by the backbar’s mahogany pillars. "A painting of what?"
"Battle scene. Mountains. Don’t suppose you’d cotton to nymphs."
Inez set the crate on the floor by Abe. "I’m not interested in having a painting of scantily clad women behind me as I’m working the bar." She tapped her lower lip as she examined the blank wall. Then smiled.
"What?" said Abe. "I’ve seen that look before. I’m not sure I like it."
" Paradise Lost! I was rereading it last night."
"Most of my readin’ is from the papers or the Bible."
"Well, you’ll feel right at home, then. John Milton’s epic speaks to the ultimate battle between Heaven and Hell, good and evil."
"Inez," Abe moved in front of her. "I think we’re safer with scenery. Or dancin’ girls. Sinners don’t want to be reminded that they’re gamblin’ their souls as they toss their money on the bar. Religion and liquor don’t mix."
"No, listen." Inez grabbed his arm. "You yourself suggested a battle scene. So, make it a battle between God’s heavenly host and Satan’s legions. If the painter’s a fair portraitist, he could include some of Leadville’s citizenry in the fray! Come to think on it, we could sell spots on the wall!"
"I don’t know. When you start talkin’ about real faces up there—"
"I’m certain there’s more than a few that might enjoy seeing
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