After Cameron left, Stanley could hardly contain his excitement. The Boss had opened a door, and he wanted to leap through. How could he do it?
He refused an invitation to dine with a fellow club member and ate alone, stuffing down huge forkfuls of food, liquefied with great gulps of champagne. As the dessert course arrived — a whole quarter of a blueberry pie, with a creamy sauce — inspiration came, too. He saw a foolproof way to strike at Isabel behind her back, and insure her eventual downfall.
At the same time, the solution would remove him from a situation that, although profitable, bred great anxiety when he considered the possibility of exposure. He could continue collecting his profits for another year, perhaps two. Then, at a time entirely of his choosing —
"Magnificent," he said, and he didn't mean the champagne. Or the pie.
Before he left the Concourse Club, he set the plan in motion. He was astonished by its simplicity, and pleased by his own ingenuity in devising it. Perhaps he'd sold himself short for too long. Perhaps he wasn't the idiot that George and Billy and Virgilia and axe-faced Isabel thought he was.
He handed a sealed note to the elderly white man at the club's entrance desk. "Please put this in his pigeonhole so that he gets it next time he stops by."
"Is it urgent, Mr. Hazard?"
"Oh, no, not at all," Stanley said with an airy wave of his cane.
The doorkeeper read the envelope as Stanley went down the stairs whistling. Mr. J. Dills, Esq. He slipped it into the proper slot, thinking that for the last year or two, he had not seen Mr. Stanley Hazard so high-spirited or so sober in the middle of the day.
A curt letter from the Palmetto Bank. Leverett D. says his board will allow a late payment this once, but not again. In his salutation he addressed me as "Mrs. Main," rather than by my given name, as in the past. I am sure it is the school issue. We are indeed on the eve of winter ...
15
The sergeant from Fort Marcy left at midnight.
Ashton touched the mussed bed. Still warm. Disgust wrenched her face, then grief. She sat down and held her head while the sadness rolled over her.
She clenched her hands. You're a spineless ninny. Stop it.
No use. With each of tonight's customers — a greaser who lacked the manners of Don Alfredo; an oafish teamster from St. Louis; the soldier — she'd come closer and closer to screaming her frustration and outrage. Here it was November and she was ready to run, and never mind the risks of starvation in the wasteland or cruel punishment if the senora's brother-in-law caught her.
She cried for ten minutes. Then, after she blew out the candle, she spoke to Tillet Main, something she hadn't done since visiting his grave a long time ago.
"I wanted to make you proud of me, Papa. Because I'm a woman, it was harder, but I came close with Lamar Powell. Close isn't good enough, is it? I'm sorry, Papa. I'm truly sorry ..."
Tears again. And waves of hatred. Directed against herself, this place, everything.
That was Tuesday. On Friday, a man walked in and hired her for the entire night.
An old, old man. She'd hit the bottom.
"Close that blasted window, girl. Old wreck like me gets the chilblains this time of year."
He put down a battered sample case with brass corners. "Sure hope you're warmblooded. I want to snuggle up and enjoy a cozy night's sleep."
Lord, what a disgusting specimen, Ashton thought. Age sixty if he was a day. Bland blue eyes, gray hair hanging every which way over his ears and neck, not more than a hundred twenty pounds soaked. At least he looked clean — her only consolation.
Toss, pop, snap, the old man doffed his shabby frock coat, dragged down his galluses, removed pants and shoes. He opened the sample case, revealing a pile of printed sheets, each with an engraving of a fat woman seated at a grand piano. Rummaging among the handbills and items of soiled linen, he found a whiskey bottle.
"For my damn rheumatism." As he sat on the bed, his knee joints snapped like firecrackers. "I'm too old for this traveling all over hell." He swigged whiskey.
Putting on her best professional smile, Ashton said, "What's your name, lover?"
"Willard P. Fenway. Call me Will."
She dimpled. "That's cute. Are you all hot and bothered, Will?"
"No, and I'm not gonna be your lover, either. I hired you for some civilized conversation, a snuggle, and a good long snooze." He peered past the bottle lifted to his lips. "You're a stunner, though. Like that yella dress you got on."
"Will, do you really mean you don't want —?"
"Fucking? No. Don't go all blushy on me, that's a good straightforward word. People who rant and rave about impure speech usually do a lot worse things themselves, only secretly." He stretched out and guzzled some more, admiring her cleavage. "What's your, name?"
For some reason she couldn't explain, she didn't lie to him. "It's Ashton. Ashton Main."
"Southron, aren't you?"
"Yes, but don't you dare ask how I got in a place like this. I hear that twenty times a week."
"You do that much fucking? Damn. Wonderful to be young. Been so long for me, I nearly forget the particulars."
Ashton laughed, genuinely amused. She found the old codger likable. Maybe that was why she hadn't lied. Sitting down by him, she said, "I'll tell you this much. I was widowed unexpectedly here in Santa Fe. This hellhole was the only place I could find work."
"And you don't plan to stay forever, huh?"
"No, sir." She eyed the case. "You some kind of salesman?"
"The word's peddler. The kind I am is starving. There's engraved cards in my coat pocket. Willard P. Fenway, Western Territories Representative, Hochstein Piano Works, Chicago."
"Oh, that explains the picture of the fat lady. You sell a wonderful instrument. I saw Hochstein pianos in all the best homes in South Carolina. That's where I grew up. Say, do you mind if I get ready for bed?" He urged her to do it speedily. "Do you want me in a gown, or bare?"
"The latter, if you don't mind. Keeps a man warmer."
Ashton proceeded to undress, unexpectedly enjoying herself. Fenway waved the empty bottle. "Have to correct one of your remarks. I don't sell Hochsteins, I try to sell 'em. This trip I've only unloaded one Artiste — that's the grand model pictured on the sales sheet. Cattle rancher in El Paso bought it, the dumb, cluck. His wife couldn't read music, just wanted to put on airs. It's probably the only instrument I'll sell for months. The boss saddled me with a territory consisting of the entire damn nation west of the Mississippi, which means my potential customers consist of crooked gamblers, dead-broke miners, drunk soldiers, red Indians, poor sodbusters, Mexes, whores — no offense — and your occasional half-witted rancher's wife. Say, will you hurry up and lie down and keep me warm?"
She blew out the light and jumped under the coverlet and into the curve of his arm. Old and bony as he was, his flesh felt firm, his hand on her shoulder strong. Travel made him hardy, she supposed. His skin smelled lightly and pleasantly of winter-green oil.
"You could certainly sell a piano here," she said. "Maybe not a grand, but a spinet. The patrons are always yelling and screaming for music."
"Won't get it from Hochstein's."
"Why not?"
"Old man Hochstein's a Bible-thumper. Strict as sin in public, 'specially in the company of the old mule he married. On the side, a new chippy services him every week. But that's his only relationship with ladies of your profession. Believe me, if I was allowed, I could put a Hochstein in just half of the sporting houses in Illinois, and retire."