Heaven and Hell (23 page)

He handed a sealed note to the elderly white man at the club's entrance desk. "Please put this in his pigeonhole so that he gets it next time he stops by."

"Is it urgent, Mr. Hazard?"

"Oh, no, not at all," Stanley said with an airy wave of his cane.

The doorkeeper read the envelope as Stanley went down the stairs whistling. Mr. J. Dills, Esq. He slipped it into the proper slot, thinking that for the last year or two, he had not seen Mr. Stanley Hazard so high-spirited or so sober in the middle of the day.

A curt letter from the Palmetto Bank. Leverett D. says his board will allow a late payment this once, but not again. In his salutation he addressed me as "Mrs. Main," rather than by my given name, as in the past. I am sure it is the school issue. We are indeed on the eve of winter . . .

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15

Li

The sergeant from Fort Marcy left at midnight.

Ashtqn touched the mussed bed. Still warm. Disgust wrenched her face, then grief. She sat down and held her head while the sadness rolled over her.

She clenched her hands. You're a spineless ninny. Stop it.

No use. With each of tonight's customers--a greaser who lacked the manners of Don Alfredo; an oafish teamster from St. Louis; the soldier--she'd come closer and closer to screaming her frustration and outrage. Here it was November and she was ready to run, and never mind the risks of starvation in the wasteland or cruel punishment if the senora's brother-in-law caught her.

She cried for ten minutes. Then, after she blew out the candle, she spoke to Tillet Main, something she hadn't done since visiting his grave a long time ago.

"/ wanted to make you proud of me, Papa. Because I'm a woman, it was harder, but I came close with Lamar Powell. Close isn't good enough, is it? I'm sorry, Papa. I'm truly sorry ..."

Tears again. And waves of hatred. Directed against herself, this place, everything.

That was Tuesday. On Friday, a man walked in and hired her for the entire night.

An old, old man. She'd hit the bottom.

"Close that blasted window, girl. Old wreck like me gets the chilblains this time of year.''

He put down a battered sample case with brass corners. "Sure hope you're warmblooded. I want to snuggle up and enjoy a cozy night's sleep."

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144

HEAVEN AND HELL

Lord, what a disgusting specimen, Ashton thought. Age sixty if he was a day. Bland blue eyes, gray hair hanging every which way over his ears and neck, not more than a hundred twenty pounds soaked. At least he looked clean--her only consolation.

Toss, pop, snap, the old man doffed his shabby frock coat, dragged down his galluses, removed pants and shoes. He opened the sample case, revealing a pile of printed sheets, each with an engraving of a fat woman seated at a grand piano. Rummaging among the handbills and items of soiled linen, he found a whiskey bottle.

"For my damn rheumatism." As he sat on the bed, his knee joints snapped like firecrackers. "I'm too old for this traveling all over hell."

He swigged whiskey.

Putting on her best professional smile, Ashton said, "What's your name, lover?"

"Willard P. Fenway. Call me Will."

She dimpled. "That's cute. Are you all hot and bothered, Will?"

"No, and I'm not gonna be your lover, either. I hired you for some civilized conversation, a snuggle, and a good long snooze." He peered past the bottle lifted to his lips. "You're a stunner, though. Like that yella dress you got on."

"Will, do you really mean you don't want--?"

"Fucking? No. Don't go all blushy on me, that's a good straightforward word. People who rant and rave about impure speech usually do a lot worse things themselves, only secretly." He stretched out and guzzled some more, admiring her cleavage. "What's your name?"

For some reason she couldn't explain, she didn't lie to him. "It's Ashton. Ashton Main."

"Southron, aren't you?"

"Yes, but don't you dare ask how I got in a place like this. I hear that twenty times a week."

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"You do that much fucking? Damn. Wonderful to be young. Been so long for me, I nearly forget the particulars."

Ashton laughed, genuinely amused. She found the old codger likable.

Maybe that was why she hadn't lied. Sitting down by him, she said, "I'll tell you this much. I was widowed unexpectedly here in Santa Fe. This hellhole was the only place I could find work."

"And you don't plan to stay forever, huh?"

"No, sir." She eyed the case. "You some kind of salesman?"

"The word's peddler. The kind I am is starving. There's engraved cards in my coat pocket. Willard P. Fenway, Western Territories Representative, Hochstein Piano Works, Chicago."

"Oh, that explains the picture of the fat lady. You sell a wonderful instrument. I saw Hochstein pianos in all the best homes in South Caro A Winter Count 145

lina. That's where I grew up. Say, do you mind if I get ready for bed?"

He urged her to do it speedily. "Do you want me in a gown, or bare?"

"The latter, if you don't mind. Keeps a man warmer."

Ashton proceeded to undress, unexpectedly enjoying herself. Fenway waved the empty bottle. "Have to correct one of your remarks. I don't sell Hochsteins, I try to sell 'em. This trip I've only unloaded one Artiste--that's the grand model pictured on the sales sheet. Cattle rancher in El Paso bought it, the dumb cluck. His wife couldn't read music, 1

just wanted to put on

airs. It's probably the only instrument I'll sell for months. The boss saddled me with a territory consisting of the entire damn nation west of the Mississippi, which means my potential cusI tomers

consist of crooked gamblers, dead-broke miners, drunk soldiers, red Indians, poor sodbusters, Mexes, whores--no offense--and your occasional half-witted rancher's wife. Say, will you hurry up and lie down and keep me warm?"

She blew out the light and jumped under the coverlet and into the curve of his arm. Old and bony as he was, his flesh felt firm, his hand on her shoulder strong. Travel made him hardy, she supposed. His skin smelled lightly and pleasantly of wintergreen oil.

I

"You could certainly sell a piano here," she said. "Maybe not a grand, but a spinet. The patrons are always yelling and screaming for
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music."

"Won't get it from Hochstein's."

"Why not?"

I

"Old man Hochstein's a Bible-thumper. Strict as sin in public,

'specially in the company of the old mule he married. On the side, a new chippy services him every week. But that's his only relationship with ladies of your profession. Believe me, if I was allowed, I could put a Hochstein in just half of the sporting houses in Illinois, and retire."

"The

market's that rich?"

"Throw in Indiana and Iowa, I could live like a damn earl or I duke. Hochstein won't touch

the cathouse market, though. Competition

won't eith--whoa! Where you going?"

"We need some light. We need a discussion."

I

A match scraped; a flame brightened the room. She grabbed her blue silk robe with peacocks embroidered on it, a present from the senora.

It was part of a batch of clothes the senora had taken from a girl she threw out.

Fenway fussed about being cold. Ashton tucked the worn coverlet under his chin, making soothing sounds, then sat down again. "Willatd--"

"Will, goddamn it, Will. I hate Willard."

u

146

HEAVEN AND HELL

"Excuse me, Will. You just had a wonderful idea and you don't know it. Wouldn't you like to give that old Mr. Hochstein a kick in the seat? And make a lot of money in the bargain?"

"You bet I would. I been his slave twenty-two years now. But--"

"Would you stand some risk to do it?"

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He thought about that. "I suppose. Depends on how much risk, for how much reward."

"Well, you just said you could live like a nobleman by selling pianos to parlor houses in three states. What if you sold them all over the West?"

Fenway looked bludgeoned, barely managing to croak, "My God, girl. You're talking about El Dorado."

She clapped her hands. "Thought so. Will, we're going to be partners."

"Partners?

I've not been here ten minutes--"

"Yes, you have, and we're partners," she said, giving an emphatic toss of her head. "We're going into the piano business. You do know how pianos are made?"

"Sure. The work I don't know how to do myself, I could hire out.

But just where would two piano-makers find the forty or fifty thousand dollars it would take to start up? You tell me that."

"We'll find it in Virginia City. Once you help me escape from this damn place."

Ashton leaned forward, the breast of an embroidered peacock bulged by the breast behind it. She smelled Fenway's breath for the first time.

Not the usual sewer smell of most customers. He'd sweetened it up by chewing a clove. The clove mingled nicely with the wintergreen. She really liked the old fellow.

"Y'see, Will, my late husband had property in Virginia City. A mine. It belongs to me. All we have to do is get there."

"Why, yes, nothing to it," he said. "It's just a little old hop and a skip to Virginia City. Am I really hearing all this?"

"You surely are. Oh, wait. Have you got any strings on you?"

"You mean wives? Nope. I wore out three, or they wore me out, not sure which." He grinned. Below, someone broke a piece of furniture.

Then Ashton heard the culprit yell--Luis. Fenway failed to understand the venomous look that flashed over her face. "You telling me the truth, Miss Ashton? Your husband owned a mine in Nevada?"

"The Mexican Mine."

"Why, I been there. I know that mine. It's a big one."

"I won't lie to you, Will. I don't have a paper to prove I own it.

And the marriage license saying I'm Mrs. Lamar Powell got left behind in Richmond."

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A Winter Count 147

"If we can reach Frisco, I know a gent who can fix up another paper." Ashton reveled in the way his eyes glowed. He'd begun to see the opportunity. "But that might not be enough--"

She laid his hand on the swelling peacock. "Oh, I've got ways to persuade anybody who's picky."

Fenway was beside himself, turning pink. "Keep talking, keep talking. You may be crazy, but I like it."

"The hardest part--seriously now, Will, no joke--the hardest part will be getting out of here, and out of Santa Fe. The senora, the woman you paid, she's a mean sort. Luis, her brother-in-law, he's worse. Do you have a horse?"

"No. I travel the overland coaches."

"Could you buy two horses over at Fort Marcy, maybe?"

"Yes. I've got enough for that, I think."

"And do you have a gun?"

The color in his face faded fast. "This gonna involve shooting?"

j

"I can't tell. It might. We need nerve, we need horses, and we need a loaded gun, just in case."

"Well--" A veined hand indicated the sample case. "Root around under those sales sheets. You'll find an Allen pepperbox. She's a good 1 twenty-five years old, but she's popular with traveling men." He cleared his throat. "Afraid mine's for show. No ammunition."

"Then you'll have to buy some."

While he was considering that, the altercation downstairs broke

; out again. A crashing sound suggested one person breaking furniture on the head of another. Ashton's mouth twisted up meanly when she heard Luis bellow, "Vete, hijo de la chingada. iGonsalvo, y donde estd el cuchillo? Te voy a cortar los huevos."

A ululating yell and hammering footfalls signaled the potential victim's
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retreat. Fenway's eyes bulged.

"Was that the brother-inlaw?"

"Never you mind. We can take care of him--if we have a loaded I gun." ,

"But I'm a peaceable man. I can't'handle a loaded gun."

Ashton's sweet smile distracted him from her malicious eyes. "I can." She stroked his cheek, stubbled white at day's end. "So I guess 1 it's up to you to decide, sweet. Would you rather keep dragging around the West, safe and poor, or take a little chance and maybe live rich forever?"

Fenway nibbled his lower lip. In the cantina Luis's rumbling, grumbling voice recapitulated his recent brave triumph over the man who'd fled. Fenway gazed at Ashton and thought, This is surely a piece of work. A remarkable piece of work.

148 * HEAVEN AND HELL

He had no illusions about the girl who was petting and cooing over him. Nor did she disguise what she was. Why, she practically wrote it out on a sign, and would bid anyone who didn't like it to kiss her foot.

He'd already taken a fancy to the honey-talking shewolf.

She planted a chaste kiss on his lips. Moist mouth close to his, warm excited breath bathing his face, she touched him with the little tip of her tongue while a finger fiddled in his ear. "Come on, Will, tell me. Poverty or pianos?"

His heart thumped at the prospect of her cleavage, the prospect of riches--and the prospect of losing his life.

"What the hell. Let's try pianos. Partner."

Two nights later, with an early winter storm deluging Santa Fe, Will Fenway returned with his sample case, just as he had the preceding evening, when they'd laid their plans. Slightly wild-eyed, he closed the door and leaned against it while the rain hammered the shutters. Ashton snatched the case from his hands and opened it on the bed. "Did you pay for the whole night?"

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"No. Couldn't afford it."

"Will--" she complained, cross and nervous.

"Listen, I'm beginning to think this is a damn-fool idea. I spent every cent I've got on ammunition and those two nags, and now the senora and her nasty-looking relative are playing cards downstairs without another soul in the place, 'cause of this rain. They'll hear every sound."

"We'll wait them out."

Ashton removed the Allen pepperbox from the otherwise empty case. She checked the revolving barrels to be sure they were all loaded, then laid her few meager pieces of clothing in the case. She had no rain cape; she'd have to get soaked.