Gypsy - Lesley Pearse [176]
She barely slept for the remainder of the night, for each and every creak in the building made her think the man was coming up the stairs. She gave up trying to sleep at nine, and got up.
Going first into the saloon, she found all the men sprawled out cold on the floor. One Eye was still clutching a whisky bottle, his mouth wide open and snoring loudly. The stink in there made her gag; it wasn’t just the vomit on the floor, but something even more disgusting.
Closing the door on them, she put on her coat and fur hat, then left through the back door.
She had made a point of trying never to think about Theo, yet she couldn’t help but imagine his horror at what she’d just seen. He’d been scrupulous about refusing to serve any more drink to men once they didn’t know what they were doing. If a man looked about to collapse, he ordered the man’s friends to take him home to sleep it off. No one would have got away with lying drunk on his floor.
It was too early for the saloons to be open, so she went into a cafe´ in King Street and ordered breakfast.
At eleven, she walked through the door of the Monte Carlo. ‘I’d like to see Mr Fallon,’ she said to a young man who was sweeping the floor. ‘Tell him it’s Gypsy.’
The Monte Carlo had changed hands several times since the previous June when she played there, and with every new owner it had been made grander with mirrors, chandeliers, oil paintings and carpets. The current owner, John Fallon, was said to be a Southern gentleman, with even bigger plans for the place. She hadn’t ever met him but she was banking on his having heard of her.
‘He’s still in bed,’ the young man said.
‘Well, get him up then,’ she said crisply. ‘I have other people to see this morning.’
He disappeared out the back and she heard his feet clonking up the stairs. A few minutes later she heard them coming down, and her heart sank because she assumed Fallon had told him to say he wasn’t getting up for anyone.
But to her surprise it wasn’t the young man, but a man in his late thirties. His fair hair was tousled, and he was wearing a satin smoking jacket over a rather grubby collarless shirt.
‘John Fallon at your service, mam,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it. ‘Please excuse my appearance. Had I known the Klondike Gypsy Queen would come a-calling, I would have been spruced up, ready to meet you.’
Beth was delighted that the gossip she’d heard was true, and he really was a Southern gentleman.
‘It is I who should apologize for calling so early,’ she said.
‘It is an honour to make your acquaintance, mam.’ He smiled. ‘I am a great admirer of your music. I’ve often lingered outside the Golden Nugget to listen to you play. Back in Virginia we have many great fiddle players, but I don’t think I ever heard any better than you.’
Beth’s heart began to beat a little faster. ‘Why, thank you, sir,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Then perhaps I’ve come to the right place.’
His wide smile and interested pale blue eyes were reassurance enough for her to keep her nerve. ‘You see, I’m looking for a new establishment to play in. And the Monte Carlo would suit me just fine, providing you would be happy with my terms.’
‘Suppose you tell me what they are?’ he said, his smile fading into a foxy smirk.
‘Fifty dollars a night, plus whatever your customers put in the hat. And a room too.’
He sucked in his breath. ‘Fifty dollars a night is too much. I could only run to twenty-five.’
The figure in Beth’s head to settle on had been just fifteen, but to be offered more made her confidence rise.
‘Then I’m sorry, Mr Fallon, I can’t play for you,’ she said, and turned to walk out the door.
She was just about to push it open when he coughed. ‘Maybe I could run to thirty-five,’ he said.
Beth turned. ‘Come now, Mr Fallon. You don’t want me playing at the Criterion, do you? Agree on forty-five and I won’t call on them. Providing the room you give me is a good one.’
He wavered for just a second. ‘It’s a deal,’ he said, coming forward