C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN
Rusty and me, we found ourselves in that little cubbyhole of an office Ralston had. Across from us was the show’s boss, Alphonse de Jardine, still wearing his stovepipe hat over his straight black hair.
“So we buried your man,” I said. “We don’t know who done it. I’ve got the saloon men listening. They hear things.”
“Doubtful seems a little inhospitable,” Jardine said. He had some funny accent and I had to listen hard. “Pinky Pearl was a gem. By the time we would roll into a town, he’d have the theater ready, the broadsides pasted on every barn and fence, the tickets printed, the rooms ready. He was the best in the business. I can’t replace him.”
“I feel real bad, sir,” I said. “We got some trouble here. There’s some folks, they don’t want a show in Doubtful. They got rid of me, and my deputy Rusty here, and they put in a man who don’t have no vices at all. He don’t even drink coffee. He’s got his county so locked down it’s like Sunday mornings all the time.”
“He’s the sheriff here now?”
“He’s wearing the star. And them supervisors, they told me I was done for.”
“What’ll happen tonight?”
“They’ll look for some reason to shut you down.”
“I offer many reasons, and take great pride in it. We’re avant garde.”
“Avant what?”
“Progressive.”
“That ain’t how that’s spelled, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“Will they wait for the show to end?”
“Beats me, Jardine.”
“It’s monsieur. Call me monsieur.”
“Well, you’re a friend no matter what you get called,” I said.
“We offer splendid
tableaux vivants
.”
“What are them? Draft horses?”
“No,
mon ami
, they are living art. We create in living flesh and blood the art of the Louvre, the Prado, and all the great art museums of Europe. You will see Rubens, Rembrandt, Goya, and a host of other splendid paintings brought to life with live models.”
“I reckon I don’t get the half of it, but my ma always used to say, wait and see.”
“You think these live paintings will get you into trouble?” Rusty asked.
Jardine smiled crookedly, revealing two silver teeth and one gold. “Monsieur, a man who will not sip wine, who will not puff a pipe, a man who makes the whole world a sepulcher, ah, my friend, the Follies puts a halt to all funerals, and this angel of death will not favor it.”
“You don’t say!”
“You will be my guests, and I have a small request. Keep order. Protect my company.”
“I don’t wear the badge any more, man-sewer.”
“Pretend that you do,” he said.
“I sure want to see one of them tables,” I said. “Even if my ma wouldn’t like them.”
Ralston ushered us out. The place was a dim madhouse, with sets being assembled, and costumes getting unpacked, and the footlights getting charged with fresh kerosene. I saw that redhead and smiled, and she smiled back.
“You in one of them tables?” I asked.
“Tables? Oh,
tableaux
. Why, yes. I play Lady Godiva in one. And I’m in three others.”
“I’ll be looking,” I said.
“Anytime, anyplace,” she said.
That was real friendly of her. In all my life, no woman ever said “anytime, anyplace” to me, and the more I chewed that around, the more I thought I might be falling in love. How many men ever met some gal who said that? I thought maybe I should pack up and move to wherever she was from, and try to find more of those. I sort of wonder if I was destined all my life to get hitched to a redhead.
Well, the biddies showed up with their signs when the box office opened and a lot of Doubtful people came flooding in. There was Delphinium, still in purple, or lavender, or whatever, waving a black and white poster that said K
EEP
D
OUBTFUL
P
URE
. And the rest of them ladies with posters talking about sin and death and evil and stuff like that. The crowd, they mostly just grinned and enjoyed the ladies and ignored them as they lined up to shell out their seventy-five cents for a good seat or fifty cents for one of the rear ones, or two-bits for standing room. They were off the ranches, most of them, and some had even scrubbed up a little and wiped the manure off their boots and put on a fresh shirt if they had one. They were wearing their usual slouch hats and that was going to cause a mess of trouble if they blocked views in there, especially of all them real pretty girls. And there sure were some, which I got a good look at with my own eyes. That Frenchie, he must have had a good hiring man to hire gals like that. These girls were young, too, not ones with leathery skin and varicose veins.
I watched Iceberg and his new deputy wander close, and eye all them lusty cowboys buying seats. He stood there, sort of starchy and skinny, looking like he didn’t approve of nothing. The other one, the deputy, he was a block of beef on legs, and looked like he wanted to punch anyone that got an inch too close to him. They both were armed. But it was Ike who interested me most. He’d been in town many days and I’d never seen him spend much time at a bar. He was running on dry, is how I figured it. If all the merchants and their ladies here wanted Doubtful to become another Medicine Bow, they’d hired the right man. The pair of them wandered inside, not bothering with tickets, and I waited to see if they’d come out. But they didn’t. There wouldn’t be any law looking out for Doubtful during the show. But maybe that wasn’t so bad. About half the nights I had De Graff on the night duty, he’d be gone somewhere, pants up or down.
I sort of thought they were in there for some purpose. Maybe they was looking for some excuse to shut down the show. I followed them in, and watched them sit in a couple of seats down front, but on the side aisle, and just stretch themselves waiting for the action. The place was filling, and those show people were lighting the footlights, which meant it would get hot in there pretty fast on a soft June night.
There wasn’t a whole lot of light in that dark opera house.
The orchestra came in, five fellers with some brass and fiddles and a gal with a harp, of all things. Then, about five after seven according to my timepiece, that music outfit lit up a tune, and the audience quieted. The Follies would crank up now.
That dwarf with the silk topper, he came out waving a black walking stick, and addressed the crowd. All them cowboys and locals were sitting real still.
“Ah, my friends, we are pleased to be in Doubtful, Wyoming. It is the most beautiful city we have ever been in. It is filled with good people. It is surrounded by a natural world unsurpassed. It moves our hearts to be here, and to present our little entertainment to you,” he said. “And now, our national anthem.”
“What’s that?” I asked Rusty.
“The country’s song.”
“How come no one ever played it before?”
The orchestra sawed away, and them cowboys stood up.
“How come they’re all standing up?” I asked Rusty.
“It’s what everyone does.”
That sure was an awful song, squeaking and sawing away, and hardly a cowboy sang. But then about halfway through, there was a regular parade up there, all them young pretties in gauzy white dresses, marching in a row, carrying little flags, smiling with painted lips, and then they all lined up either side of Jardine, and sang away. They sure were pretty. I spotted the redhead down at one end, and she had ruby lips and orange hair, and she choked me up, and I wished the anthem would never end so I could just watch her sing away.
But finally it ended, and the ringleader, or whatever you call him, peered out from beyond the lights, and said that now we’d see the Ballet de Monte Carlo, direct from the Riviera, wherever that was. And next I knew, just as all the cowboys and shopkeepers were getting seated again, the harpist starts in on that thing, fingering them strings like she wanted to kill them, and the fiddlers and one feller on a clarinet, and they play a lot of goopy loopy stuff, and pretty soon a bunch of actors came leaping and stomping out on stage. I’d never seen the like. There were a couple of men dressed in white underwear and they must have stuffed rags in their crotch; either that or they were very peculiarly made. And then the ladies came out and they were showing a lot of leg beneath itty-bitty pink skirts that looked like frosted doughnuts, and the rest of the pink outfits sort of fit real tight from waist to neck. And then they were leaping and whirling, and them two males in the underwear were tossing the gals around, while the harp and clarinet sawed away.
The fellers would lift the gals and toss them, and the gals would leap at the fellers and get caught, and it sure looked pretty familiar to me. I wondered if those ladies and gents were as familiar offstage as they were right in front of everyone. I wasn’t against familiarity, but maybe they should have done this out in their summer kitchen or some place, and not in an opera house in front of half of Doubtful.
Then the ladies did a twirl on one toe. I don’t know how they done that. They had little slippers and they’d get up on their toes and stay that way a while and then run like deer. They sure had nice legs. I hadn’t seen so much leg before and it made me glow. Them fellers in the long underwear didn’t seem to notice, and I wondered what was wrong with them, not admiring all that leg. I looked around for the redhead, but she wasn’t in this number, so it wasn’t as interesting to me. But pretty soon all the leaping and twirling stopped, and them people were out of breath but pretending not to be, and they all stood in a line and bowed, even though no one was clapping. The cowboys, they didn’t know what to make of it either. With all those half-naked people up there, you’d think they would put a bed in the middle of the stage. Then them people run off into the wings, and the music flared up again, and the little gent with the black silk hat paraded out again.
“
Magnifique!
” the little guy says, and claps his hands, and all them people in their underwear came out again and bowed and scraped and blew kisses to the cowboys, who whistled.
“And now, friends, the finest tenor in the Republic, direct from Brooklyn, New York, Sanfred Stolp.”
Some guy in a tuxedo came out, flapping his tails around, and nodded at the cowboys a few times, and then began singing “Little Miss Sunshine.” Then he sang “My Beloved Mother’s Passing Away.” Then he started in on “Roaming in the Gloaming.” I’d heard that one once. The crime is usually laid on the Scots.
“What’s a gloaming?” I asked Rusty.
“Beats me,” he said.
That lasted too long and we were all mighty glad to get him off the stage so we could see the ladies again. But he stayed on, and the music struck up again and this time he sang while all the gals in the company, each with a big fan made of ostrich feathers, came swooping out. You couldn’t hardly see the gals for the feathers. Them fans were so big all you saw was a face or a hand or a few dancing feet. But it sure was pretty, all them fans swaying and whirling around together, while that feller sang away up there like someone was paying attention to him.
About the second chorus, it got more interesting up there, as the gals sort of brushed the fans a little farther down so we could see their tops some. They were all in powder-blue outfits, but there was a little shoulder and arm and neck showing, and I liked that and wished I could grab those damned fans and toss them out of there. I didn’t want to see the fans; I wanted to see the girls. If I wanted to see ostrich feathers, I’d buy an ostrich. But at least them fans kept whirling and dipping, and by the third chorus, they were sliding past a little womanly hip. I finally found my redhead gal, and she was edging her fan past her legs real slow, and I almost ran up there so I could catch that fan and toss it away. And all the rest of the fans, too.
They was wearing real short skirts that almost came up to their knees, and the fans were showing lots of ankle and leg, and it was a real pretty sight. I’d never fallen for ankles before but now I was crazy for ankles. I think I’ll hate ostriches the rest of my life for blocking the view.
Then when that feller was on the final chorus, the gals, they pretty much were pushing the fans over their heads, and wiggling them up there, and it sure was nice to see the gals at last, but it took them about ten minutes to get there. I sure liked this show, and all them gals in their little blue dresses. The Grand Luxemburg Follies were the best thing that ever came to Doubtful.
The little guy in the big black top hat came out and said there’d be an intermission, so all them cowboys and people could go smoke. They piled out of there into the June twilight, and lit up, and the older ones headed for the two outhouses back behind the opera house, but the young ones just slid over to the alley and cut loose.
Pretty soon some lady with a cowbell came around ringing, and that was how they corralled all the citizens of Doubtful for the second act.