“I went everywhere. ‘Every man for himself,’ they said. Others told me to take Soapy’s offer and be grateful.” Her lip curls. “Most of them couldn’t even look me in the eye.”
“You think he bribed them to say that?”
“He doesn’t need to; they’re terrified of him. Madame Robillard says he’s got spies all over town, fingers in every pie. The neighbors are just grateful he’s after us, not them.”
“What did they say at Clancy’s?” The Clancy brothers own the second-most-popular saloon in Skaguay. They have always resented our success.
“Pat Clancy laughed and said girls had no business running a saloon anyway.”
I hesitate. “Soapy’s offering us ten percent of the profits. That’s only twenty dollars a night. Maybe forty if he doubles our takings, like he said.” That’s a lot more than pocket change anywhere else in America, but Alaska is different. Sometimes an egg costs a dollar.
Clara nods. “And what happens when Soapy reneges on his offer and kicks us out? That’s just a matter of time.” Her eyes are dazzling with unshed tears. “We’ve already lost, Lil. The saloon is gone.”
When confronted with an abstract threat, it’s easy to roar, Over my dead body. But this threat is real. It’s the realest thing I’ve ever faced — more real than frostbite in January, more real than the stink of hops and tree sap as I brew beer, more real than the transcendent glory of the northern lights. And I can’t think of a single argument in our favor.
I fill a pot with water and set it on the woodstove. I carefully grind the last of our coffee beans. Normally, I’m stingy with the coffee, trying to eke it out until the next boatload of supplies comes to town. But tonight we’ll enjoy it while we can. We sit at a small table, side by side, steaming mugs in our hands.
“What are you thinking?” asks Clara quietly.
“All kinds of things.” My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear her. My brain is equally frantic.
“I love you, Lily Garrett,” she says, her voice tight. “And I love being alive. I want us to stay this way.”
I grip her in a fierce hug. “I love you too. And we will live. If Lu were here, she’d make a new rule: we don’t buckle under to cheechakos named Soapy.”
Clara makes a sound that is half laugh, half sob. “Promise?”
“I promise.” We hug for a long time, and then we straighten up. We sip our coffee. “I think you’re right: we’re going to lose the saloon. But we’re going to leave it on our terms.”
Finding Soapy is easy. Next day — or rather, later the same day — I walk down Broadway to Skaguay’s least-squalid hotel and ask for Mr. Smith. The hotel’s owner, Mrs. Braun, doesn’t blink, but I know the gossip will be halfway around town almost before I finish my sentence. “Mr. Smith, yes,” she clucks. “You sit in the breakfast room, dear. I’ll fetch him for you.”
The “breakfast room” is a medium-sized tent pegged to the main building, furnished with a few rickety tables and stools. Its kerosene stove is no match for the piercing breeze that leaks in under its canvas hem, and hungry guests shiver in their overcoats as they gobble congealing bacon and stiff toast. Not me: I have my nerves to keep me warm.
In a few minutes, Soapy materializes. “A good morning to you, Miss Lily. I hope you slept well; I know I certainly did.”
I don’t bother with a greeting. “I have a counterproposal for you, Mr. Smith.”
He glances around before sitting down. I notice two hoods place themselves at the next table, their attention clearly fixed on us. “May I offer you some refreshment?” Soapy asks. “The coffee’s never hot, but it’s better than the tea.”
“No, thanks. This is purely a business call.” I’m pleased to find that my voice barely shakes.
“I’m keen to hear it.”
“I’d like to propose a short-term partnership. My sister and I will offer you a fifty-fifty share of the saloon’s nightly profits for the next month.” I take a deep breath. This next sentence will hurt. “After that, we will turn over the business to you — and leave town.”
Soapy smiles flirtatiously. “Just like that? Why a month?”
If I try to smile back, I’ll cry. “We don’t have any savings. A month will allow us to build up a cash reserve. It’ll pay for our tickets out of town and help us set up a new business in our next home.”
“Where do you plan to go?”
“That’s not your concern, Mr. Smith. I promise we’ll leave Skaguay.”
He thinks about that. “How much does the saloon take each night?”
“About two hundred dollars, on average.”
He whistles low. “And you want an extra month? At fifty-fifty, that’s three thousand dollars in your greedy little purses.”
I don’t point out the utter hypocrisy of his lecturing me about greed. “Like I said, that’s our journey out and capital for the future.”