GOLD FEVER Part Two. Ken SalterЧитать онлайн книгу.
as if to whisper in my ear and gave a hard tug on my ear with her teeth to let me know worse would come if I stepped out of line.
Thomas Hawthorne arrived next. He carried a bouquet of summer flowers as he walked up the gangway. He was dressed in a well-tailored summer suit unsuitable for the cold, ocean breeze that chilled the city despite a lingering, veiled sun that had lost its warmth. He looked quite out of place alongside Gino, Teri, and Manon. Giselle greeted him with a welcoming smile and graciously accepted the bouquet and helped him fasten a corsage on her wrist. She was dressed in a flowing mauve, high-topped, linen gown that molded her mature figure and flared with petticoats to allow her to move freely on the dance floor. She wore her reddish-auburn hair up in an attractive chignon held in place by a tiara of small, sparkling diamonds. Hawthorne blushed as she demurely held out her hand for him to shake or kiss.
I had chilled a bottle of champagne in our frigid bay waters which Manon opened and served to loosen everyone up before we set off for the gala. Manon chatted up Thomas Hawthorne and Giselle in an effort to reduce their shyness with each other. I puffed up Gino’s importance as my assistant to ease Teri’s concerns about his intentions. The bottle finished, we donned our winter cloaks, chained the gangway and set off on foot for the Cairo Saloon, which was a ten minute walk from our wharf and near the French Consulate.
The doorman checked our invitations carefully and informed us that no weapons were allowed inside and must be checked with our cloaks. As we were all unarmed, we were invited to serve ourselves to wine and hors d’oeuvres set out on the spacious bar. A throng of inquisitive merrymakers appraised each new arrival. I ushered our group to a table for six at the far corner of the saloon away from the small group of musicians on a raised balcony who were practicing arpeggios and tuning their instruments. It would give us a good view of the entire dance floor and afford a bit more privacy than other tables aligned against the walls to allow maximum room for dancing. I asked Gino to bring us tray of drinks and hors d’oeuvres and order us a bottle of champagne while we waited for the musicians to play.
The saloon was decorated in red, white and blue bunting in honor of the French tricolor flag and party favors in the same colors adorned each table. The paintings of nude, immodestly posed women hanging on the wall behind the bar had not been covered and appeared to set the tone for the evening as I surveyed the men and women present. Hatless card sharks and dandies in their striped trousers, ruffled shirts with ostentatious cravats held in place by gold stick pins and pomaded hair nursed their drinks at the bar and ogled the women as they arrived.
Most of the unmarried younger women wore their hair loose down their backs like Teri and all were stuffed into dresses with tight fitting bodices or daring necklines, billowing petticoats and bloomers which allowed one to assess well-turned ankles and shapely feet. Each dress sought to emphasize the woman’s appas, her feminine charms to advantage. A few wore Venetian carnival masks to add intrigue to their identities and to attract attention. The few married matrons present wore turbaned hats and clung to the arms of their husbands as if their lives depended upon it.
“So Chérie, Manon was right, yes? Papa-to-be enjoys ogling all the pouffiasses on the make, yes?” She said pinching my cheek hard.
“Mais oui, madame. C’est du spectacle! Where else can one see so many sharks circling their prey and each other. Look at the one in the green velvet vest. He’s making his move on his target.” We watched as he made a beeline for a fulsome young woman with dark, curly locks and a daring décolletage.
“Ha, that one is going to cost him a bundle. She probably has her hours and rates tacked on her door,” Manon whispered while giving me a good poke in the ribs.
Fortunately for me, the orchestra announced an opening waltz and began to play. I guided Manon on to the dance floor and took her in my arms to dance. Other couples joined us, while most of the dandies at the bar watched to size up the most vulnerable and available women. As we glided around the floor, I noticed Teri and Gino moving gracefully together and she appeared to be enjoying herself as she laughed at something Gino said. Giselle and Thomas Hawthorne were still seated stiffly at our table eyeing the swirling couples.
“I think we need to break the ice before one of the sharks moves in. You dance with Giselle while I talk to Thomas,” Manon said as she dragged me back to the table.
I took Giselle for a spin while Manon took charge of Hawthorne. Giselle was light on her feet and followed my every lead as the waltz was followed by a rousing polka. We were both gasping for breath and Giselle was giggling as I delivered her back our table. Hawthorne rose stiffly and offered his hand to Giselle, who masked her surprise and accepted to be led back to the dance floor.
“So, your scheming is working, eh?”
“Manon knows more about shy men than you do. Look at them dancing and you understand the problem,” she said pointing to Hawthorne, who was struggling to lead Giselle in a fast-paced waltz. “He was embarrassed to ask Giselle to dance because he’s how they say it, ‘all left feet, yes?’”
I chuckled. Hawthorne was looking at his feet rather than at Giselle as he struggled to lead and Giselle strived to keep him from stepping on her toes. “So he was embarrassed because he’s a poor dancer, huh?”
“Yes, once he saw us dancing, he became very nervous and self-conscious. He was afraid Giselle would be unhappy with him and he’d spoil her evening once she saw he danced poorly. I told him if he really liked Giselle, he needed to dance with her before some audacious male tried to steal her away.”
“So, he must really like her if he was afraid to lose her, eh? I hope he’s not so shy when he has to argue our cases in court.”
Manon gave me a sly look and pointed. Giselle was now leading Hawthorne and he was dutifully following as the waltz gave way to a fast-paced polka. “See the goose now leads the gander. Some men just need to follow a woman’s advice for a change, yes? Maybe that should be the way of the New World, eh?”
I laughed. “Hah! Just because you can wrap Hawthorne around your little finger, is no reason to change the order of things. How about we settle for equality between the sexes rather than one sex lording it over the other?”
“Hah. Men still run the show here and you know it. Look at all those fickle parasites lounging at the bar and scheming to get nice girls in their beds to get what they want and then it’s bye-bye baby and on to seduce the next poor girl, yes? Try to tell me it’s not true,” she said wagging her finger at me.
I was saved from replying to the argument I was losing badly by the chef d’orchestre’s announcement that the noted singer, Frank Ball, would favor us with some special songs from his repertoire. We all watched as Ball, who was comically dressed in costume for the occasion, mounted the steps to the balcony and waved to us. He wore a knee length skirt and bloomers and his face was blackened like the minstrel singers who performed at various comic theatres and clubs. All the dancers returned to their tables including our Teri and Giselle to view Ball’s antics. No sooner had we a full glass of champagne in hand than he started singing minstrel songs in a high falsetto. We gave him a rousing hand of applause when he finished, waved and bowed to his appreciative audience, then descended to the dance floor as the orchestra retuned their instruments to resume playing.
Ball was halfway across the dance floor when suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks at a commotion at the door to the saloon. A huge, hulk of a man lumbered onto the floor to confront Hall. I overheard a woman in the next table cry out, “My God, it’s Dutch Charlie!”
He had been in the news frequently and was known as a brute, a bully and the “enforcer” for the democratic political machine. He towered over Frank Ball, put his fist in Ball’s face and said in a drunken slur, “I want to kill you.”
Ball looked him square in the eyes and replied, “Easily done, I am unarmed.” Ball turned to leave and Dutch Charlie sucker punched him with a tremendous open-handed stroke to the head. As Ball struggled to get up, Dutch Charlie kicked him hard in the chest near the heart. Ball collapsed back to the floor unconscious. Everyone in the saloon was stunned by the violence of the unprovoked attack. I came to my senses