Sarah strode into a corner conference room dominated by a long and well-worn table. Serviceable chairs, most of them matching, lined the sides, and a double-hung window provided a view down both Lawrence and Fifteenth Streets. Beyond the clutter of buildings, she could see past the uplands where the distant mountains, still snowy, seemed to huddle beneath a bank of clouds.
The men in the room stood: Big Ed Chase, his tall body dressed in a fine charcoal-gray suit, his partner Francis Heatley, and Pat O’Reilly. Bela Hughes, Denver’s most prominent lawyer, stood at the head of the table, his back to the window.
Hughes was already in his fifties, with a thick white mustache, his gray hair combed over his receding forehead. He now studied Sarah through baggy brown eyes, his full body filling his suit.
“Gentlemen,” Sarah greeted them, “good of you to meet me. Mr. Hughes, I don’t think you’ve met my brother, Philip.”
“How do you do?” Hughes shook Philip’s hand.
“How do you do?” Philip responded.
“Can I get you anything?” Hughes asked.
“Coffee, if it wouldn’t be a bother,” Sarah said, and was pleased when Big Ed held her chair while she was seated.
Hughes nodded to the clerk who closed the door behind him.
Philip, still looking uncertain, seated himself beside her.
“Looks like rain’s coming,” Heatley said as he glanced out the window. “Heard the Smoky Hill Trail’s already been raided.”
“At least our noble red brothers haven’t figured out how to raid a train!” Hughes remarked. “Thank God for the iron horse. Those bastards in charge of the Union Pacific might be a bunch of lying skunks when it comes to getting a spur line to Denver, but at least we can get supplies to Cheyenne these days.”
“Kansas Pacific will get here eventually. Then the damn Indians can have Kansas.” Big Ed leaned back, his hard blue eyes thoughtful as they studied Sarah.
The clerk entered, handing Sarah a cup of coffee, black and steaming. “Thank you,” she told him.
After the clerk left, Hughes leaned back in his chair. “Now, Mrs. Anderson, shall we get down to business?”
She glanced back and forth among them. “Pat, thank you for coming today.”
“Aye, lass.” O’Reilly gave her a smile. “Ye’ve got me curiosity up.”
Sarah reached into her purse, removing the quit-claim deed that O’Reilly had signed over to her. “Pat, I really only need you to verify your signature on the deed to the Angel’s Lair. To vouch that I own it outright.”
He glanced at the paper, nodding. “’Tis indeed the deed.”
Sarah, folded it, returning it to her purse. “Mr. Chase, I’ve—”
“God, Sarah,” he said with a smile, “call me Ed. I get enough pomposity at the council meetings.”
“All right, Ed. You and Francis are in the process of starting two houses with…” She frowned. “Shall we call it carnal theater?”
“As good a name as any,” Heatley replied with a shrug. “If you’re thinking of stopping us, Sarah, I don’t think you’ve got a legal leg to stand on.”
“Indeed?”
“Well, why else would you call us to Bela’s?”
She gave Heatley an amused smirk. “Oh, Francis, you are a dear sometimes. I’ve no interest in stopping you. Quite the contrary, I’ve heard of the troubles you’re having finding talent and putting the houses together. If I’m right, you’re still months out from an opening.”
Heatley and Chase glanced knowingly at each other.
Sarah set her ledger on the table. This she slid across to Big Ed. “Those are the figures for Angel’s Lair. If you need confirmation, we can stroll down the street and have a little chat with Luther Kountze. I stopped by the bank on the way here. He’ll be in all afternoon.”
“Sarah?” Philip asked, “What are you…”
She silenced him with a gesture.
Chase and Heatley were bent over the ledger. O’Reilly leaned back, having withdrawn a flask from his coat to take a sip. He grinned at her, gave her a wink—cunning co-conspirator that he was.
Hughes sat thoughtfully, fingers laced over his chest, a frown on his face. He’d obviously been an attorney long enough to know that whatever the hand, the cards would be shown soon enough.
Big Ed was the first to look up. “If these figures are true, you’re not exactly dissuading us from horning our way in on the action, Sarah.”
“Then you agree that what we’ve put together at Angel’s Lair is a valuable business?”
“Which is why we’re going ahead with our own,” Ed told her. “If you want us to stop, not even begging will help. And if we don’t do it, someone else will.”
She cradled her coffee, sitting back, giving them a demure smile. “Why saturate the market? Angel’s Lair has an established clientele, a reputation that has spread far beyond Denver. We’re doing four shows a week now. If my projections are correct—despite the outrageous prices I’m charging—by the end of the year we can fill every seat, every night of the week. We’d have waiting lines if we could get the railroad here.”
Heatley slapped a hand to the table. “We agree.”
Now Sarah leaned forward. “So why should we fight over johnnies to fill the seats? Come on, Ed, you worked out the formula yourself when it comes to the gambling hells. You run honest games, and your tables are full because you offer the chuckleheads a square deal. Your theaters are packed because you provide superb productions and top actors. Why ruin a good thing like Angel’s Lair with cheap imitations?”
Heatley shrugged. “We’ll figure out how to do it ourselves, Sarah.”
“Sure. But why not have it all ready-made?” She shot Ed a smile. “Like I said, I’m not here to stop you. We’ve established that I own Angel’s Lair, lock, stock, barrel, and band. You can see that it’s making me a tidy profit. That could be your profit.”
She paused. “Gentlemen, I brought my brother today in case I need a family member to cosign any of the paperwork. There are things I’d like to do in Denver.” She
