Beginner's Luck (13 page)

The voice of the bartender came from inside the saloon. “He's daid!”

A man can die in a second, Duane realized, as he followed Boggs across the courtyard. Duane recalled Brother Paolo warning him about the secular world, and now he understood his spiritual advisor's urgency. He found himself yearning for monastic tranquillity, where a man's dreams and prayers couldn't be eliminated by the pull of somebody's trigger.

They came to Main Street, ablaze with lights from saloons. The competing melodies of pianos, fiddles, and accordions could be heard from a variety of directions, and all the hitching rails were occupied by long rows of horses. It was Saturday night in Titusville, and the roof was about to blow off the town.

“We got any money left?” Boggs asked, narrowing his eyes on Duane's pocket.

“I think we should turn in, and look for jobs first thing in the morning.”

Boggs leaned from side to side, thumbs hooked in his belt, knees pointed outward. “Tomorrow's Sunday. Cain't we have one last slug afore we goes to bed?”

This man wants to corrupt me, and maybe the devil has sent him for that purpose. Duane prepared to say no, when he heard a lilting voice emanate from the Round-Up Saloon.

“You all right, boy?” Boggs asked.

“Let's have a drink at the Round-Up,” Duane replied.

A crowd gathered in front of the saloon, pushing and elbowing through the door. Vanessa's voice floated over their heads, and Duane felt enchanted by the dancing melodies.

“We're filled up!” hollered a voice inside. “You cowboys come back some other time, hear?” He wondered how to get in.

Duane dropped to his knees, then crawled among men's legs, trying to reach the door.

“What the hell's goin' on down there?”

Somebody kicked him in the ass, but he continued to scurry along like a lovesick hound dog, and then dove through the opening at the bottom of the bat-wing doors, nearly colliding with the leg of a table.

He arose behind the table, and saw
her
standing in the lamplight, singing about a wounded Confederate soldier dying amid cannon fire on the banks of Bull Run. Duane was struck by the sorrow in her voice, but that didn't stop him from undressing her shamelessly in his imagination. If I could place my hands on that
woman, it would be the pinnacle of my life, he thought wickedly.

His mind filled with salacious images of himself and Vanessa Fontaine in a big feather bed. He imagined himself kissing her most secret places, and having her wrap her long, sinuous legs around him. Temperature rose inside his clothing, and he loosened his bandanna. Why should I sleep in the Sagebrush Hotel, when I can spend another night in her guest room, and maybe . . .

The best seats at the Round-Up were occupied by local notables, and among them perched Edgar Petigru, attired in a black suit with black bow tie, as if attending the Academy of Music in Manhattan. He even carried a black cane concealing a sword, designed to protect gentlemen against New York street urchins, but also useful against the Titusville variety.

Edgar was accustomed to the world's foremost singers, dancers, and musicians, all of whom traveled to New York City in the course of their illustrious careers. He'd seen Lester Wallack in
She Stoops to Conquer,
Edwin Booth, King of the Tragic Actors, as
Hamlet,
and the celebrated Carlotta Carozzi-Zucchi as Leonora in
Il Trovatore.
He prided himself an expert on the performing arts, and it was from that lofty height that he considered Vanessa's performance at the Round-Up Saloon.

The stage was ludicrously small, compared to the Academy of Music, but the standard Titusville audience didn't require an extravaganza by Verdi or Donizetti. All they wanted was a beautiful woman to
drool over, and didn't care how or what she sang. It could be the Portuguese national anthem, for all they cared.

Edgar barely heard the music, he was so concerned about investment prospects. It didn't occur to him that most of the men in the audience were former Confederate Army veterans, and they loved to hear Vanessa sing great songs of their youth. It carried them back to halcyon days before the war, when they were younger, richer, and more idealistic. Edgar couldn't comprehend the subtle interaction and mutual respect between Southern women and Southern men. Indeed, he thought the spectacle a tawdry, tasteless show.

How can such people appreciate music? he wondered. They barely live above the level of animals, and sensitivity is alien to their natures. They grovel and fill their bellies like pigs. If the great Carlotta Carozzi-Zucchi walked into this room right now, one of these cowboys would pinch her ass, he thought disgustedly.

Vanessa came to the end of her song, the saloon became silent for a few moments, then applause broke out like thunderclaps, accompanied by shouts and mad whistles. Cowboys rose to their feet, pounding their hands loudly. Coins rained onto the stage, and Vanessa bowed low, a fifty-cent piece bouncing off her head. She's no diva, Edgar thought cynically, but she's wearing a dress, and that's all they care about.

Coins continued to fall upon the stage, as Vanessa bowed again. Slowly, she arose and held her arms out as if to hug all her cowboy admirers. They, too, had
lost everything at the Appomattox Courthouse, and in her estimation, they were kin.

She turned her eyes toward the table where Edgar Petigru sat, and blew him a kiss. He smiled broadly, applauding politely, but she knew what he thought of her singing. She didn't hate Edgar, but neither did she love him. She appreciated what he'd done for her, regardless of his ulterior motives.

She turned toward the door, where the largest and surliest segment of the crowd usually congregated—robust, sunburned faces shouting her praises. She was about to accord them a special bow, when her eyes fell on a former youthful guest in a fantastical cowboy hat.

He appeared older in the murky saloon light, squeezed among other cowboys, beating his hands together eagerly, silver conchos throwing sprays of sparkles at the ceiling. There was something wrong with his face, as if he'd been in a fight.

She wanted to bask in adulation all night, but her essential self never forgot that she was an entertainer, and if you gave them too much, they'd get tired of you. Smiling, blowing kisses, she backed toward the wings, as they chanted: “More—more—more—more . . .”

She slipped into the backstage corridor, where Annabelle draped a shawl over Vanessa's bare shoulders, then escorted the perspiring singer down the narrow, crooked corridor to her dressing room. Vanessa dropped onto the couch, and felt as if she'd given an essential part of her substance away.

“Have a cup of coffee, Miss Vanessa,” Annabelle said, fussing at the small wood stove in the corner.

“Pour some brandy in it, would you, dear?”

“It used to be a bottle a month—now it's a bottle every week.”

“There's something I'd like you to do for me,” Vanessa replied, ignoring common sense yet again. “In the saloon, near the door, you'll see Duane Braddock. Tell him that I want to speak with him, would you?”

Annabelle raised her eyebrows. “You know that Mister Edgar is in the audience, and he don't like it when you talks to
any
man, never mind a
young
man like Mister Duane.”

“I have a right to friends, regardless of what Mister Petigru thinks. Get going.”

Annabelle departed. Vanessa waited until she could hear no more footsteps, then bounded up, washed perspiration and cosmetics from her face, patted her skin dry, and sat before the mirror. She applied a new layer of coloring with a practiced hand. A woman wants to look her best, especially when she greets a
young
man.

The door continued to engorge more cowboys into the saloon, and a sea of bodies stretched to the back. Duane tried to move, as other cowboys searched for drinking and cigarette-smoking room. Duane received a shoulder in the back, pitched forward, and crashed into a short, bow-legged cowboy with his hat low over his eyes. “Watch yer step,” the cowboy growled.

“Sorry,” mumbled Duane, trying to catch his balance. His eye fell on a lamp hanging from the wall, flame flickering mischievously. What if there's a fire? Duane wondered. He imagined sheets of flame covering the walls, as men battled each other to escape. This
place would go up like a pile of straw, Duane realized.

He was startled to see Vanessa's Negro maid pushing her way through the throngs. She drew close to Duane, and said: “Miss Vanessa wants to palaver with you. Foller me.”

She plowed into the crowd, and cowboys made way for the plump, determined woman. Duane followed her toward the stage, and heard a voice nearby: “Ain't that the kid what got beat up in the cribs?”

On the other side of the room, through wreaths of smoke, Edgar Petigru had observed Annabelle appear from the wings, exchange a few words with a cowboy, and then escort him backstage. What the hell's going on here? he questioned.

Mayor Lonsdale turned toward Edgar. “That's the feller what spent the night with Miss Vanessa, and now he's a-headin' backstage? What's goin' on there, Mister New Yorker?”

Edgar's face grew sternly judgmental. “Her guests are none of your business, and please keep your snide remarks to yourself, you goddamned buffoon!”

“What was ‘at?” the mayor asked, whipping out his Colt, and pointing it toward Edgar, who suddenly found himself looking into the mouth of a gun barrel. He tried to say something, went pale, and everyone at the table erupted into laughter. Mayor Lonsdale stuffed his Colt back into his belt, and Judge Jenks slapped Edgar on the back. “Relax,” the judge advised, his face creased with glee. “Have another drink. You'll never put a bridle on that gal, so fergit it.”

Annabelle opened the door. “H'yar he is,” she said in a worried voice.

Vanessa lay resplendent on the couch, her wrist behind her golden curls. Duane was tempted to dive on top of her, but instead stepped politely to her side.

“Find something to do,” Vanessa said to Annabelle.

Annabelle mumbled something incomprehensible as she closed the door, leaving Duane alone with the most notorious woman in Titusville. He cleared his throat and said, “You don't look well, Vanessa. Can I get you something to drink?”

“I'm perfectly fine, Duane, but have you been in another fight?”

“I fell down,” he said in a low voice.

“I don't think you can get hurt that badly by simply falling down, but won't you have a seat? I've got good news.”

Duane lowered himself to the chair, noticing rows of tiny bottles and pots in front of the mirror, just like Sally Mae in the cribs. The fabric of her robe lay against her long legs, and Duane could perceive their flexuous outlines. He coughed, crossed his legs, uncrossed them, and wondered where to put his hands.

She noted his discomfort, as her pride soared through the ceiling. “Guess what, Duane? A friend of mine owns a ranch, and he said that he'd give you a job.”

“Did you tell him I don't know how to ride a horse?

“Somebody will teach you—it's all taken care of. Go to the Lazy Y first thing Monday morning, and report to the foreman. I'll hire a wagon to take you, and now that that's settled, you can tell me what you were fighting about.” She examined him more closely, because it appeared that his left eye was nearly closed. “Why do you fight so much? Is something bothering you?”

He looked glumly at his boots. “If I tell you, you'll get angry.”

“I promise that I won't.” She raised her right hand solemnly.

“Now you're making fun of me.”

She became exasperated. “I'm not making fun of you. You're so easily insulted, and I'll bet that's why you keep getting into fights. If we can't be honest with each other, I don't think we can be friends, Duane. You'll have to leave my dressing room, if you won't tell me.”

Duane didn't want to leave, but neither could he tell her the truth. He was afraid the sky would fall, if he exposed his heart to her. “Guess I'll have to leave,” he said. “Thanks for getting me the job.”

He arose from the chair, but she placed her hands on his shoulders and forced him back down. “What you're saying is you don't trust me. Well, I guess you don't understand me very well. I believe in friendship, and you can always rely on me, but if you don't trust me—what can I say?”

She reclined on the sofa, an expression of chagrin on her face, and Duane was immobilized by her feigned unhappiness. “It's not that I don't trust you, Vanessa. But it'll make a mess between us, and you'll
probably throw me out of your dressing room anyway.”

“I promise that I won't throw you out of my dressing room. What more do I have to say?”

“It's not easy to put into words.”

“I've never noticed any deficiencies in your speech before. You're a very articulate young man, but you're afraid of something, despite my assurances.”

“You want to know what's bothering me?” he blurted angrily. “All right—here it is. I'm in love with you, but you treat me as if I were a kid.”

The dressing room went silent. She'd expected a revelation of no great importance, but instead a declaration of love from an appealing
young
man prodded her conceit to even greater heights.

He raised his hand fearfully. “Don't get mad.”

She found her voice somewhere around her toes. “I'm not mad.” She coughed a few times. “If friends can't bare their hearts to each other, it's . . .” She had no idea of what to say.

“You asked me to be honest,” he told her, “and I was. What should we do now?”

“You're going to the Lazy Y on Monday, to start your new job.”

“What about us?”

“There is no
us
.”

“But you said yourself that we should be honest with each other, and tell the truth, but now you're clamming up. I know what you think of me—another young idiot.”

She examined him in his oversized cowboy clothes, and the black hat set off his ruddy features. “No, you're not a young idiot, but I'm engaged to Edgar
Petigru, and I'm afraid that's immutable.”