Town Tamers (14 page)

N
oona seldom had someone as handsome as James Tharber show an interest in her. It was flattering. It also made her suspicious. “I
am
looking for a job,” she mentioned, adding, “I mainly do saloon work.”

“Saloons? You?” Tharber acted genuinely surprised.

“What do you have against saloons?”

“Not a thing,” Tharber said. “But with your looks you could do much better. That hair, your face, you’re positively sultry.”

“If I am, it’s not on purpose.”

Tharber laughed. “Before you get the wrong idea, no, I don’t mean you should ply your beauty at establishments of ill repute.”

“Establishments? My, how you talk,” Noona said. “In Texas we call them whorehouses.”

Tharber did more laughing. “God, you’d be a natural at it.”

“You still haven’t said what ‘it’ is.”

“An escort service.”

“You’ve lost me,” Noona admitted.

“You’re a delightful babe in the woods,” Tharber said.

“This baby kicks,” Noona told him.
And shoots folks
, she thought in her head.

“It’s about money,” Tharber said. “Not how much you’ll earn but how much other people make. Take saloons. The people who go there are mostly laborers and clerks and the like. Common people, you might call them.”

“Is anyone ever common?” Noona asked.

“Now, see? A question like that would please them to no end.”

“Please who?”

“I’m getting to that,” Tharber said, and continued. “Now take those establishments I was talking about. Some are shabby affairs that draw the dregs. Higher-priced bordellos lure in businessmen and the like with more money to spend. Follow me so far?”

“I’ve never been accused of being stupid,” Noona said.

“Now let’s consider the very rich. Normally you wouldn’t catch a wealthy gentleman at a saloon or a house of ill repute.”

“Perish the notion,” Noona said.

“There are quite a number of wealthy men in Ordville, and they prefer to be discreet. More selective, if you will. Which is why they use an escort service.”

“A what?”

“Escorts. Women and men who hire themselves out for a night on the town with the well-to-do. Escorts wear the best clothes and are taken to the best restaurants and the theater and the like. And they’re paid handsomely for their time.”

“Are they expected to go to bed with whoever takes them out?” was the first question that popped into Noona’s head.

“I won’t lie to you,” Tharber said. “Sometimes that happens. But it’s completely up to the escort. If they want to, fine. If not, they are dropped off and thanked for a fine evening and that’s that.”

“You know an awful lot about this escort business.”

Tharber’s smile was positively dazzling. “I should.” He paused. “I run one. Well, sort of.”

“I’m plumb shocked,” Noona said. “And what do you mean by sort of?”

“The man who owns the escort service is Arthur Studevant. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? He runs saloons, whorehouses, you name it.”

“Sounds like he doesn’t miss much.”

“If you only knew.”

“Would I get to escort him?”

“Mr. Studevant?” Tharber acted surprised by the question. “Don’t be ridiculous. He never has to pay for the company of a woman. They fall over themselves to be with him.” He lowered his voice. “Besides, it might not be in your best interests.”

“Why not?”

“Let’s just say he likes it rough and let it go at that.”

“By ‘it’ you mean . . .”

“I do,” Tharber said. He sat back. “I’d like to offer you a job. Trust me when I say I don’t do this with just any woman. Only special ones.”

“You could flatter a skunk out of its stink,” Noona said.

Tharber laughed. “Yes, you’re absolutely precious. So what do you say?”

“This is sort of sudden.”

“I imagine you’d like time to think it over. That’s fine. Here.” Tharber reached into his jacket and brought out a wallet embossed with silver curlicues. He flipped it open and held out a small card with a flourish. “So you can find me again.”

It read T
HARBER
E
SCORT
S
ERVICE
in gold letters and had an address under it.

“I’ll think about it,” Noona said. By that she meant she’d talk it over with her pa.

“Please do.” Tharber boldly reached across to place his hand on hers. “I trust my instincts, and they tell me you could be one of the best in my stable.”

Noona whinnied like a horse.

For a few moments Tharber appeared shocked, then he laughed harder than ever. “Oh my. Yes, you would entertain their socks off.”

“So long as it’s not their britches,” Noona said.

T
he Preston place was on the crest of a foothill. It stood apart from the rest, surrounded by a high fence with iron bars. Asa glimpsed it through the trees as he came up the street.

The gate was open, and he went along a curved gravel carriageway and around some pines, and stopped.

It wasn’t a house. It was a mansion. An older structure, a rarity in Ordville. All the other buildings were new. This one showed signs of neglect. The paint was chipping. Pine needles and leaves were everywhere on the portico. Two of the shutters were at a cant, the windows in need of washing.

A large brass knocker squeaked when Asa lifted it. He pounded hard, releasing some of his anger. When a long time passed and no one came, he pounded again, even harder.

More minutes elapsed and Asa had about concluded that no one was home when a female voice that crackled with age called out from the other side.

“Who is it? What do you want?”

“My name is Asa Delaware. I’m here to see Cecilia Preston.”

A bolt rasped, locks were thrown, and the heavy door opened a couple of inches. A brown eye rimmed by wrinkles peered out. “How do I know you’re him and not someone pretending to be?”

“Why would anyone pretend to be me?” Asa asked.

“I wouldn’t put anything past him,” the woman said.

“Past who?”

Instead of answering, her brown eye roved from his derby to his boots. “You do look like how I read Asa Delaware is supposed to look. It’s plain as the nose on your face that you have Injun blood.”

“Don’t remind me,” Asa said.

“You don’t like having Injun blood?”

“I’m not here to talk about me,” Asa said. “Are you her? Are you the one who sent me a letter claiming it was from the mayor?”

“The mayor?”

“I’ve just come from him.”

“You sound mad.”

“I traveled all the way from Texas to find out I was played for a fool. I’d like to know why, lady. I’d like to know what game you’re playing.”

“Simmer down, Mr. Delaware. In the first place, I never mentioned the mayor in my letter. You must have assumed he had me send it. In the second place, I can explain to your complete satisfaction.”

“I doubt that.”

She opened the door wider. “Yes, I’m Cecilia Preston. You can hit me if it will make you feel better.”

She had white hair and wasn’t much over five feet. Her dress was of a kind popular twenty years earlier, her shoes long out of fashion. She needed a cane to get around, and her shoulders were perpetually stooped.

But it was her face that mesmerized Asa. Her eyes were brown, with an uncommon burning intensity that was all the more remarkable for her wrinkles. It was a noble face, the kind you might see in a painting. And there was something else about it, something Asa couldn’t quite put his mental finger on, a shadow that came and went.

“So, you’re Mrs. Preston.”

“It’s ‘Miss’ now,” she said, moving aside. “Please come in. I promise everything will be made clear.”

The hall smelled of must. The floor hadn’t been polished or even swept in a coon’s age, and the walls were drab from neglect.

She noticed that he noticed. “I live alone, Mr. Delaware. No maid. No cook. No servants of any kind. Don’t mind the dust. It won’t kill you.”

“This place looks old.”

“It was here before Ordville.”

“How is that possible?”

“My grandfather made a small fortune in the fur trade. He preferred the wilds to human company, so he lived out here in the middle of nowhere. My father inherited it, and I inherited it from him. Then that prospector and his silly mule came along and discovered silver not two miles from here, and the next thing I knew, I was surrounded by the town.”

“I’m told you’re an eccentric.”

“Our good mayor said that, did he?” she replied with contempt.

“He gives the notion you’re a thorn in his side.”

“I’ve tried to be, to him and the rest of them who serve the demon.”

“The what?”

“You heard me correctly, Mr. Delaware,” Cecilia Preston said. “Ordville is under the sway of a demon from hell. His name is Arthur Studevant, and I’d very much like you to slay him.”

B
yron was taken aback when Olivia Rabineau glanced at a clock on the café wall and said, “Oh, my. I completely lost track of the time. We’ve been talking for two hours.”

“We have?” For Byron, they were two of the best hours of his life. Olivia admired Lord Byron as much as he did, and was as well read on his works. They’d sat in the sun and drunk coffee and talked about
Don Juan
and
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
and Lord Byron’s shorter poems and satires, and it was like drifting on clouds of pleasure. Then she brought him crashing down.

“I’m afraid I must go.”

“Oh.”

Olivia smiled. “Don’t look so glum. I’d very much like to see you again, if you’re willing.”

Byron had never been more willing about anything in his life.

“It’s so rare to meet a fellow worshipper of the one true poet.”

“I heard that,” Myron Hobbs said, coming up to their table. “And I trust you were referring to Shelley?”

Olivia had the most wonderful laugh. “Myron, I must thank you for introducing us.”

“My pleasure,” Myron said. “We poets must stick together.”

“Which reminds me,” Olivia said. “He tells me he’s looking for a job. Why don’t you hire him?”

“What?” Byron said. His pa expected him to get work at a saloon, as he always did.

“Why not?” Olivia rejoined. “You love poetry as much as we do. And Myron was saying just last week that between the café and the public readings, he’s kept so busy he rarely has time to read Shelley anymore. Didn’t you, Myron?”

“Indeed I did,” Myron said. “And you know, that’s not a bad idea. I wouldn’t want to hire just any clod off the street.”

“Clod?” Byron said.

“Anyone who doesn’t appreciate poetry like we do,” Olivia said.

“I’ll do it,” Myron declared, and pulled out the chair next to Byron and sat. “What do you say? You won’t get rich, but you’ll live, breathe, and eat poetry and poets, and what more is there in life?”

“That’s persuading him,” Olivia said.

Byron hesitated. His pa was counting on him to learn all he could about whomever they were up against. It could prove crucial.

“What’s wrong?” Olivia asked.

“My father . . . ,” Byron began.

“He wouldn’t approve?” Myron assumed. “I was in the same boat. My father despises poetry and doesn’t understand why I love it so much. When I opened the Poetry House, I did so against his express wishes. He’s been cold to me ever since.”

“Your father, too?” Byron said.

“I don’t have that problem,” Olivia said. “My father goes along with whatever my mother likes, and she likes poetry almost as much as I do.”

“I say stand on your own two legs,” Myron said to Byron. “Where else could you get to mingle with those who share your passion? San Francisco, without a doubt. New York City, I’d imagine. But hardly anywhere else.”

“Leap at the chance,” Olivia urged. “You might never have another like it.”

Maybe it was the fact that she wanted him to, or maybe it was his long-simmering resentment that his father placed so little value on the thing that mattered most in his life, or maybe it was just plain stubbornness that caused Byron to say, “You’ve almost persuaded me. What would you have me doing?”

“You’d help out here at the café, and on nights when we have readings, you can help set up the chairs and help me sweep out the place.” Myron laughed. “It doesn’t sound very exciting, I know. But hearing the poets and poetesses and getting to know people like Olivia will make it a real treat, I should think.”

“Please say yes,” Olivia said, and placed her hand on Byron’s.

“Yes,” Byron said.

Myron clapped him on the back. “You can start tomorrow, if that’s agreeable.”

“It is.” Byron liked that Olivia hadn’t removed her hand. The warm feel of her palm made him tingle.

“And if your father is like mine and gives you an earful over it,” Myron said, “you’re welcome to come stay here. I have some rooms at the back that I let the poets use when they come from out of town.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“How do you think your father will take the news?” Olivia asked.

“I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t shoot me,” Byron said.