bartenders called it in the El Doradoâhad shelves for pyramids of brightly labeled liquor bottles and the knickknacks forming his saloonâs âmuseum.â He displayed a cracked in half geodeâtwo pieces of split rock with pale lavender prisms of quartz insideâon 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. Heâd 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. Heâd be turning thirty in less than two months, and he could celebrate in the Moon Rockâthe closest thing to a home heâd 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 âHot Time in the Old Townâ in a crescendo of finale chords, Pap chuckled. âGoes to show I can still twiddle the ivories and make âem cry. What do you want next?â
âGirls.â
Tilting his head, Pap snorted, âGirls? Youâve got every female in this sleepy-eyed town tripping over you.â
âI donât mean the batting-eyelash and wave-of-the-handkerchief women. Their giggles and blushes wear on my nerves. Iâm talking girls âas in decadent,white-fleshed girls who can run around the place showing off real skin so pearly it would put an oysterâs work to shame. The kind of girls who sing and dance and make a man feel like a man even if heâs short on guts and not strong on brains. You know what I meanâdancing girls.â
âYeah, I know what you mean. Do-si-do girls. Girls who charge for a look, a feel, and a do.â Pap shrugged. âTown ladies wonât go for dancing girls.â
âWhat about Iza Ogilvie down at the Palace? She sings and dances.â
The drone of crickets chirped with Papâs laughter. âIza Ogilvie is a dried-up British flower whose skin isnât pearly. Iâd say her flesh is more along the lines of a lizardâs belly, and so stretched out, it hangs off her like a dress thatâs too big. Oh, she can sing passable, but when I fantasize about a woman, I surely donât fantasize about a washed-out, middle-aged crumpet named Iza.â Pap stood and put his music away. âNow, I did hear tell, this place used to have a fine looker named Silver Starlight when Charley was here.â
âYeah, Charley mentioned she was his dancing girl. Stole his cash and ran off.â
Pap nodded. âAnd took a Bible salesman with her. Caused quite a scandal, too.â
âIâm disappointed in you, Pap. Youâve been hunting down gossip like that gaggle of matrons who honk in the churchyard after Sunday services.â
âA manâs got to learn all there is to know about a woman before he makes his move in the flock.â
Frank narrowed his eyes skeptically. âWho are you fixing to make a move on?â
âIâve had my eyes on someone.â Pap unfolded the fall board on the piano keys to keep the dust off them. âIn fact, sheâs part of the disgrace with the book and Bible salesman.â
âHow so? Silver Starlight ran off,â Frank noted, notparticularly getting caught up in the hearsay, but went along for lack of anything else to talk about.
âShe did. With the salesmanâJonas Pray.â 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. âIt was the salesman who left Miss Marshall high and