strings. After all, as Franco would dictate, everyone was going to lose their money at some point. You may as well do so half drunk and at the mercy of a pretty smile. Any who were not hosting game tables were working front of house, gliding among their designated tables with trays of drinks. Each turn and sway was made with precision; every bat of the eyelashes and response a heady concoction that added to the ambience.
While Franco provided his presence and luck played the cards and rolled the dice, the women in his employment very much bound the show together with their hospitality. Inevitably, the occasional letch or more intoxicated reveller would make an inappropriate advance or comment but these were quickly retracted. It only took a nod of the head for the train’s security to stroll over and correct any social mistakes. Apologies were quickly administered. Tips rose sharply.
Come the strike of nine, three of the showgirls took to a makeshift stage and performed acts to rousing applause. One, freckled and adorned with a shock of red curls, demonstrated the mysterious art of hypnosis on the first individual who offered assistance. He himself loudly dismissed its effects until complying with the suggestion that he should forage around the platform like a chicken.
The second performer, taller and raven-haired, showed a particular aptitude for ventriloquism. The spectacle brought riots of laughter as she proceeded to manipulate the conversation between two volunteering sisters to reveal secret absurdities.
The final presentation in this extravaganza was reserved for the woman who differed from the others. She seemed to have an authority over the showgirls, seen at times to whisper suggestions into their ears. Instead of the uniformed dress that the others sported, she wore a variation with flair, extra lace here, a flow of ribbon there, punctuated with a slit up the skirt itself.
On her command, the lights of the carriages faded to a low warmth. The beat of drums began to emanate from an unseen player as the woman took a handful of cast-iron torches and set them alight with the stroke of a match. The flames streaked through the air, lingering, tracing shapes, which gained in speed and complexity as the drums followed suit. Swiping a bottle of liquor from the bar carriage, she took and held a mouthful before launching a ball of flame into the night sky.
The audience gasped and cooed as this was repeated. The air ignited violently, in each direction, with each spray from her lips. Some harbouring more nervous temperaments felt unnerved from the sudden rush of heat assaulting their faces but cautiously applauded when appropriate. As a finale, a torch was brought to her lips, then pulled away as the eruption started, launching the bellow skyward with frightening intensity.
The woman bowed when done and the drums fell silent. Silently, and under hundreds of watchful eyes, she stood in profile and arched her form backwards. Each of the torches was slowly lowered with the flickering flame that plagued them extinguished with a clap of her mouth. When each was done, she straightened her back and bowed once more. The carriage lights were restored to luminescence.
Expectedly the applause was deafening.
There was no formal closing ceremony, though warm words were informally given. Midnight was celebrated by the star-clad sky being painted with gaudy, but spectacular, explosions. The hours crept on, thinning out attendees. The numbers simply dwindled the longer the time went on. Some made their retreat due to empty pockets. A good many ventured home when they had clearly consumed too much drink. Others simply couldn’t tolerate the hour and found the solace of a bed far too alluring.
The night had been filled with good cheer, fine alcohol, and gracious company, ensuring that the Gambler’s Den legacy was secured for some time yet. When the last glass was emptied and the final cards played, the morning light had yet to begin breaking over the horizon.
Come the morning, Rustec was still. The normally busy desert docks were silent. Huge transport ships sat in sequence with no stirring. The daily market was nowhere to be seen. Most were suffering from the aftereffects from the night before. Many had overindulged in food and drink, hangovers were being nursed, and the clean-up had begrudgingly begun. The moon remained in the sky, as did the morning stars, which would retire under the veil of light within the hour.
The Gambler’s Den itself slowly began to show signs of life. Near the back of the train was the personnel carriage where the employees slept, a boxcar for storage, and a sweeping observation car at the end, outfitted as a lounge. Franco emerged from his personal carriage, half-dressed and scratching through his unkempt hair. The night had gone very well. As usual, small towns like this were full of those who needed entertainment and whilst money was difficult to earn, the philosophy of giving the people what they wanted, which Franco lived by, had paid dividends.
The showgirls had now arisen and were set into the routine of cleaning up under the lazy light. It didn’t take long for the dusty station to be devoid of litter and broken glass, defying the fact that the evening’s festivities had even taken place. A few stragglers who had lain out on the platform benches or fallen asleep in the chairs were gradually awoken and encouraged to attempt the journey home.
Surveying the scene, Franco sucked on his cigarette until taking the decision to bravely venture onward. He passed under the entranceway and covered his eyes as the sun set his vision awash with white. Finally, when his eyesight returned, he blinked in the sight of Rustec’s streets that remained perfectly quiet. It brought a measure of vanity – as, for Franco, it meant a job well done. Nothing signified a good time more than half of the locals comatose come the working day. Now all he had to do was tie up loose ends.
He turned back on himself and spied the invitation banner that fluttered in the breeze. Rather than be pleased he muttered an obscenity. How in the name of all of the worst things in the world was he supposed to get to it? It hung some twenty feet in the air, curled around – what was that?
Franco covered his eyes again.
A gas lamp? Someone had hung their grand invitation around a gas lamp of all things? Why not have it sit in the mud or have a horse urinate on it while we’re at it? The shocking lack of theatricality gnawed at him but what else was expected when you slipped money to nobodies to hang the announcement up? The more pressing matter was how he was going to get it down.
Seeing that the youth of the town didn’t get to participate in the drinking nor games, they ventured through the streets as usual. A street child clad in tatters sauntered past, stopping and taking stock of the local celebrity with open-mouthed awe.
‘You the train man?’ the child meekly probed.
‘Aye,’ he answered, still deliberating his conundrum.
There was a pause.
‘That yours then?’ the child asked, pointing at the material fluttering with licks of wind. The damn thing was taunting the pair of them.
‘Aye,’ Franco repeated himself, a touch more sour than before.
‘It’s pretty high up.’
‘That it is.’
In a glimmer of inspiration Franco took to his knee, producing a silver coin from a pocket, which mesmerized the child with its reflection.
‘How do you fancy earning this?’ he rasped, mouth still occupied with smoke. The child hadn’t seen so much money in a long while, and only spoke to ask how.
Five minutes later Franco carried the invitation banner over his shoulder whilst whistling a tune in contentment. Simple problems were solved with simple solutions, he deduced.
Sliding back the door to his private carriage, Franco tossed the banner
