Weeping Angel by Stef Ann Holm Read Free Book Online

bartenders called it in the El Dorado—had shelves for pyramids of brightly labeled liquor bottles and the knickknacks forming his saloon’s “museum.” He displayed a cracked in half geode—two pieces of split rock with pale lavender prisms of quartz inside—on the mantel. And to anyone who asked, he swore the rock fell out of the sky from the moon and hit him on the arm; he had the scar to prove it. He supplied towels at the edge of the counter so his customers could wipe the foam from their mustaches or beards. He offered men drinks out of crystal glasses. He’d scattered scarlet runners of carpet throughout the joint to add a touch of elegance, and he gave the patrons fancy brass cuspidors to spit in.
    Coming from his rebellious, empty-pocket beginnings, Frank had done well for himself. He should have been happy and downright content. He’d be turning thirty in less than two months, and he could celebrate in the Moon Rock—the closest thing to a home he’d ever had. He seemed to have been taking his life in recently, trying to make it add up to something, but he was coming up with a zero.
    Finishing “Hot Time in the Old Town” in a crescendo of finale chords, Pap chuckled. “Goes to show I can still twiddle the ivories and make ’em cry. What do you want next?”
    â€œGirls.”
    Tilting his head, Pap snorted, “Girls? You’ve got every female in this sleepy-eyed town tripping over you.”
    â€œI don’t mean the batting-eyelash and wave-of-the-handkerchief women. Their giggles and blushes wear on my nerves. I’m talking girls —as in decadent,white-fleshed girls who can run around the place showing off real skin so pearly it would put an oyster’s work to shame. The kind of girls who sing and dance and make a man feel like a man even if he’s short on guts and not strong on brains. You know what I mean—dancing girls.”
    â€œYeah, I know what you mean. Do-si-do girls. Girls who charge for a look, a feel, and a do.” Pap shrugged. “Town ladies won’t go for dancing girls.”
    â€œWhat about Iza Ogilvie down at the Palace? She sings and dances.”
    The drone of crickets chirped with Pap’s laughter. “Iza Ogilvie is a dried-up British flower whose skin isn’t pearly. I’d say her flesh is more along the lines of a lizard’s belly, and so stretched out, it hangs off her like a dress that’s too big. Oh, she can sing passable, but when I fantasize about a woman, I surely don’t fantasize about a washed-out, middle-aged crumpet named Iza.” Pap stood and put his music away. “Now, I did hear tell, this place used to have a fine looker named Silver Starlight when Charley was here.”
    â€œYeah, Charley mentioned she was his dancing girl. Stole his cash and ran off.”
    Pap nodded. “And took a Bible salesman with her. Caused quite a scandal, too.”
    â€œI’m disappointed in you, Pap. You’ve been hunting down gossip like that gaggle of matrons who honk in the churchyard after Sunday services.”
    â€œA man’s got to learn all there is to know about a woman before he makes his move in the flock.”
    Frank narrowed his eyes skeptically. “Who are you fixing to make a move on?”
    â€œI’ve had my eyes on someone.” Pap unfolded the fall board on the piano keys to keep the dust off them. “In fact, she’s part of the disgrace with the book and Bible salesman.”
    â€œHow so? Silver Starlight ran off,” Frank noted, notparticularly getting caught up in the hearsay, but went along for lack of anything else to talk about.
    â€œShe did. With the salesman—Jonas Pray.” Pap began to take down the fly traps one by one from the broad-beam rafters. He lifted the conical covers from wire cylinders and dumped the flies onto the floor. “It was the salesman who left Miss Marshall high and