Sarah, from the back of the room, glanced at the rapt expressions on the johnnies’ faces. The ash on their cigars gave them away. Short ash, they were bored. Long ash, the cigars were forgotten in anticipation. Now all eyes were fixed on the roll of carpet, shaped as it was in a most female form.
Sarah slipped silently out and closed the door behind her as she entered the dining room. In the process, every male patron in the room strained to catch a peek. Callie and Ginnie, dressed to look like Egyptians, kohl dark around their eyes, were already waiting for the finale. Arms crossed to emphasize their busts, they’d been teasing the men at their suppers.
Sarah gave them a nod, looked at the men, and said, “Don’t be left out, gentlemen. There will be another show tomorrow night. Make your reservations with Mick, and you’ll get a thrill you won’t soon forget.”
“The only thrill I’d never forget is taking a roll with the Goddess!” one called jovially.
“I will anxiously await your increase in prosperity, Joshua,” Sarah shot back with a wink, and stepped into the bar. Another ten men were drinking at the tables, poker games forgotten, heads cocked in the attempt to overhear the “play.”
The bartender, washing glasses, gave her the “all’s well” nod, and went back to his duties. At that moment the musicians hit their cue—a dynamic crescendo as Agatha was unrolled from the carpet.
From here on, as Cleopatra, she would slowly seduce Caesar, thereby saving her kingdom. Meanwhile, Callie and Ginnie would attempt to distract Mark Antony, who, despite both women’s attentions, would look longingly and jealously at Cleopatra as she enticed Caesar onto the chaise.
Sarah glanced at the clock. The girls had another twenty minutes before the play was over and the johnnies would be desperate to get them upstairs.
Mick descended the stairs, dressed again in his usual fine silk vest, pressed trousers, and starched white shirt.
As he resumed his station below the stairs, Sarah stepped close and asked, “How are we doing?”
“Five hundred up from last night, ma’am. Frankie, Sally, and Ceylon should be finishing their johnnies.” He indicated the men at the bar, every one of them imagining what was happening in the show. “Reckon by the time the show’s over, there’ll be demand enough that we’ll have a full house.”
Keeping seven girls busy on show nights—in spite of the outrageous prices Sarah charged—was never an issue. Yet. Word was that after seeing one of the shows, Big Ed and some of his partners were working on two houses that would offer competition. As Aggie would have told her, “It’s short-term.”
The presence of the new houses would add to the struggle of finding male actors. It wasn’t the money, or male willingness, but duration—finding the ones who could keep wood in their peckers long enough to end the play.
A smart woman would seize the moment. She could almost imagine Aggie’s green eyes, her ironic smile. Practically hear her Irish-inflected voice saying, “Quote Big Ed a price. Worst he could do is say no, second worst is a low counteroffer, but then, he might just buy you out on the spot.”
But what should she ask? What was Angel’s Lair worth? With Aggie’s death, she owned it all free and clear. She not only had investments in lots in both Denver and Cheyenne that had started to pay off, but through the lawyer Bela Hughes she had also invested in the Denver Board of Trade—a committee of influential men desperate to bring either the Union Pacific, Kansas Pacific, or a third line of their own creation, the Denver Pacific, to the growing city.
The musicians hit another crescendo, the signal that Cleopatra had allowed the last of her garments to fall away.
Whistles and applause could be heard, the music softening sensually. Agatha was peeling away Caesar’s armor.
During the show, clientele were directed around to the back, entering through the kitchen so as not to distract from the action.
Sarah wasn’t surprised, therefore, to see George Nichols emerge from the kitchen. He carried his cane, was dressed in a magnificent sack coat with matching vest, his black wool trousers pressed and immaculate over glossy black leather shoes.
She needed only a glance at his face, however, to tell that this was trouble. George was drunk, his eyes glassy, the normally dark face ruddy. A wicked smile crossed his lips as he laid eyes on her. He wobbled on his beeline toward her.
From a pocket, he pulled a packed roll of coins, tossing it to Mick. His greeting to Sarah was “Upstairs. Now.”
She glanced sidelong as Mick poured out the golden coins. Sarah guessed it at a little over two hundred dollars.
“You know my price,” she told him.
His dangerous black eyes hardened, and he seemed to sway. “It’ll do. I want you now.”
She gave Mick the desist sign, nodding at George. “Let’s go discuss this, shall we?”
Yes, better this way.
He’d make a scene otherwise, and the last thing she wanted was a row with one of the most dangerous and powerful men in the territory. And, who knew, drunk as he was he might just step into her room and pass out if she could stall him long enough.
She reached the top of the stairs, led the way to her door, and closed it behind Nichols.
He was having trouble shedding his coat. Wavering on his feet.
“George, you’re drunk. You couldn’t put wood in your pecker if you tried.” She poured him a generous whiskey, handing him the glass. His black eyes burned, as if enraged. He chugged it down and ran his sleeve over his lips.
“I want you, bitch.” He gestured with the empty glass. “Tonight. Now. Every night. I want to fuck you like no man’s ever fucked you. Like I fucked you that first time. Remember that? Four days and nights!”
“Why don’t you sit down and let me—”
He tossed the glass over his shoulder. It
