“Well, on my way up to Skaguay, I heard the rumors about a pair of heartbreakingly beautiful sisters running the most elegant drinking establishment in Alaska. But I confess, the story sounded too good to be true.” The beard stretches sideways, and I realize that he is smiling. “And yet here I am, pinching myself repeatedly to wake from this dazzling dream, and it all seems just as true as true. I’ll bet you can pick up gold nuggets the size of walnuts along the side of the road, too.”
He’s laying it on way too thick. For one thing, Garrett’s Saloon is far from “elegant.” It’s nice for Skaguay, but that’s only because it’s built of wood, while most of the town is still a row of canvas tents. Furthermore, while Clara is indeed “heartbreakingly beautiful,” I am not. Honey and vinegar, etc.
Soapy must see the glint in my eye, because he hurries on. “It’s a real pleasure to meet young ladies with so much courage and business sense. Why, neither of you can be a day over eighteen, and here you are, running a thriving saloon, in the wildest frontier on earth.”
“What brings you to Skaguay, Mr. Smith?” Clara’s arm vibrates against mine and I can feel her thinking at me: Honey, not vinegar.
The beard ripples again. “Why, business, of course. Just like you two little ladies.”
I despise coyness in both women and men. “And what kind of business is that?”
“Well, I have very diverse interests, but certainly one of them is drinking saloons, dance halls, and such.”
Clara’s lips curve, but her smile stops short of her eyes. “There’s plenty of room in town for another bar or three. And we won’t be competing with any dance halls. My sister and I sell beer and spirits, and nothing else.”
Soapy smirks at that. “And you’re doing a roaring trade. I believe that’s all down to you as the main attraction, Miss Clara.” His gaze flickers to me. “Not forgetting you, of course, Miss Lily.”
I forget all about honey. “I’d rather you were honest than polite, Mr. Smith.”
He grins even wider. “A girl after my own heart.”
“No, thanks. I’d rather have your wallet.”
Clara elbows me, hard, but Soapy only chuckles. “In that case, Miss Lily, I’ll put my proposition to you. You and your lovely sister already know it’s a dog’s life, running a saloon in a lawless town like Skaguay. Uncle Sam’s two hundred miles away in Sitka; might as well be two thousand miles, for all practical purposes. Sometime soon, you and Miss Clara’ll need a business partner who can really crack the whip.” His gaze falls to the bullwhip coiled at my waist. “You can keep order among a handful of harmless drunks, I’m sure, but what about the nasty ones? The ones whose pistols are loaded and who aren’t scared to use them?
“No,” he continues, “you need me. I’ve owned a string of successful saloons and dance halls all through Colorado, and I’m real good friends with the marshal. With me as your business partner, there’ll be no delays in shipments of liquor, no fuss over paperwork, no hassle with the law. I’ll take care of it all.”
I start to object, but he barrels on. “You’re also not making as much money as you should, with this sturdy wood building. Bet it cost thousands to build, what with the price of lumber and labor up here. And how much are you taking in every night?”
We stay silent.
After a moment, he shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll double your bar takings and triple your overall profits. I’ll knock out this back wall and build a stage for dancers and musicians, and add a cook shack outside. No customer will ever need to leave . . . till he runs out of money, anyway. Garrett’s Saloon’ll be the finest entertainment emporium in . . .” He gestures widely, made breathless by his own vision.
“Skaguay?” suggests Clara. “It already is, Mr. Smith. Now, my sister and I appreciate your creativity and willingness to lend a hand, but we like our business the way it is. I’m sure your saloon will be a booming success too. Once you’ve built it.” There’s a faint hardness to her tone that tells me how riled she is, but her expression is as smooth as ever. “Now, would you like another round of drinks, or will you be on your way?”
I scan the room. It is silent, with all attention on us. When I glance back at Soapy, I almost choke on my own breath.
His eyes are hard and beady, his neck flushed red. The charming facade is gone, like someone smashed out a window. “Miss Clara, I don’t believe you girls understand me properly. I meant what I said.”
I curl my fingers around the handle of my bullwhip, although he’s too close for me to use it on him. “So do we, Mr. Smith.”
He bares his teeth in a grimace that is technically a smile and puts his hand to his hip. There, half visible inside his coat, I see the curve of a handle, the gleam of a polished steel barrel. My stomach rolls and I glance toward Soapy’s friends. They face us, arms akimbo, the better to give us a glimpse of their own pistols. I swallow hard and think of the threats embedded in Soapy’s previous speech: the marshal snug in his pocket, the government hundreds of miles away, nasty drunks with loaded guns.