Franco could finally rest easy.
‘The bar is done, though I’m not convinced some sticky-fingered Bluecoat didn’t lift a couple of bottles of Honey Fae.’ Katerina pouted and slanted her hips. A flare of flame-red hair, still in perfect curled ringlets, draped around her shoulders, framed features that usually gave warm smiles. Now, however, all she could do was scowl as she went about her business. Dainty freckles that decorated her cheeks scrunched closer to one another in disapproval. ‘It’s bad enough that they can do this, but helping themselves to liquor? That’s unacceptable. Can’t you do something?’
Franco put his weight against the newly polished bar, minding to not to undo Katerina’s good work. ‘I think we should consider ourselves lucky,’ he said.
From behind him, one of the older girls, Corinne – tall and slender – carried a pile of folded towels to place behind the bar. When done, she chipped in, reaffirming herself as an elder sister of sorts, though not by blood. ‘Of course, you weren’t with us when we passed through the Western lines. This was nothing in comparison. Lawmen, they claimed. They wanted bribes, they tried to pilfer goods, and some tried to use us girls. One peculiar bunch demanded a couple of girls as permanent payment of passage.’
‘They what?’ Katerina squeaked in alarm.
‘No word of a lie. Wanted wives. When refusing, Franco had to talk his way out of handing us over – along with a week’s takings – with a barrel at his temple.’
‘And?’
‘I’m still here, aren’t I?’ Franco sighed. ‘Quick-tongued wizardry only gets you so far. It’s why we have security with us. Muscle fares better when words fail in negotiation. He sorted things.’ Jacques was quietly sat at one table and puffed himself out in pride at the comment, remembering the encounter fondly.
‘He sorted things?’ Katerina queried.
‘I showed them the error of their ways.’ Jacques grinned. Franco patted him heavily on the shoulder.
‘You showed them the soles of your boots, is what you did.’
‘It’s why you pay me the big bucks, boss.’
A slip of a girl – petite with an almost nauseating purr to her voice – skipped up to Franco, scowling with such determination that it was impossible to take the effort seriously. Kitty had finished in the dining car, tidying her sanctuary of the kitchen space and was moving some of the equipment to storage, holding the contents in a worn cardboard box. She dropped it onto the polished bar surface, pulled a spatula from the contents, and jabbed Franco over and over.
‘You best not consider giving any of us up. I, especially, will be unhappy with you,’ Kitty taunted, every word punctuated with a thrust of her wrist.
‘Easy there, firecracker, that would never be the case!’ Franco laughed.
‘Good, because I am warning you.’
‘You’re warning me?’ he cooed.
‘With words and all.’ Kitty grinned, cheeky and rambunctious. The flat of the utensil bit a line into his waistcoat. ‘And also with this.’
‘You have my word I will never use you as currency,’ Franco agreed, patting her blonde hair in reassurance.
‘Any more,’ she added.
‘When have I done so previously? How is that even a thing?’
Corinne slipped the box back to its owner and shooed her along the carriage to the next task at hand.
‘Back to work with you. Less talking if you please,’ she insisted. All objections were ignored as Kitty went on her way.
The carriage was organized, every decoration in perfect placement, as if it had never been disturbed.
‘She still has a smart mouth, that one,’ he mumbled as Corinne strolled back towards him. He straightened a glass-shaded lamp before him, turning it this way and that until it looked right.
‘Isn’t that why we picked Kitty up? I think the exact word you used at the time to introduce her was pluck.’
‘Suppose so.’
‘Then take the rough with the smooth. We can’t be entertaining all the time. Little country girls like her take a while to refine.’
‘You make it sound like I’m whoring you all out.’
Corinne’s gaze hardened. They both knew that should Misu have heard him use that word – that despicable, horrid word – she would have administered a slap across his face. There were comparisons at times that the showgirls who worked at the Gambler’s Den were for hire, mostly by patrons far too drunk to keep their sensibilities. That was not the service they performed and Misu would enforce this to those who thought differently, defending their reputation. Working girls had no qualms about being touched if the price was right, but placing your hands on the girls at the Den could result in Jacques’s intervention.
‘Sorry. Poor choice of words, but you get my meaning.’ Franco exhaled.
‘There’s a difference between entertaining and warming beds. That’s not our business.’
‘I apologize.’
‘You have no reason to.’ Corinne passed him to find a new endeavour. ‘The sheriff was out of line. Don’t dwell so much; it’s not what we do. You’re no pimp. Let people lie to the eye. If one cannot think for themselves then their opinion is worthless.’
While the Gambler’s Den was still technically impounded, the embargo was lifted for any shows, though they required a mandatory Bluecoat presence. How much of one was not elaborated on. The papers served on its owner used very open terms such as requirement and discretion. Soon, decorated flyers appeared on message boards announcing that, finally, Windberg would get the show that it deserved – though its announcement was sadly subdued. The newswire echoed the statements, causing a brief frenzy of excitement in the populace. If the show could not utilize surprise, then they would capitalize on rumour and excitement.
Come sunset, Windberg Central Station was exposed to the fading sky and packed with excited crowds. Platform 4 was barricaded off behind velvet rope. Tables were all laid out for patrons with flickering candles on each. They all buzzed and jostled as, from behind the rope, Franco gave the introduction, with the utmost bravado.
Music thundered triumphantly, as he played to the crowd, prompting cheers and claps, striding back and forth like a peacock. He even managed a slight jab at Sheriff Juniper in his welcoming speech, causing an uproar of laughter. These were not shared by the Bluecoats who separated the masses and the entertainment. They instead wore disapproving looks.
The sky burst with a cavalcade of colours as Franco pulled the barricades away. With the showgirls welcoming all to indulge, the revelries began.
The people of Windberg drank and gambled and danced the hours away. There were no disturbances, no arguments or accusations of cheating. The only situation of note was Jacques having to escort a few individuals who had drunk too much off the train – and even they took their exit jovially. The showgirls put on their performances, coaxing awe and applause. The Gambler’s Den cemented itself in local
