Weeping Angel by Stef Ann Holm

Author:Stef Ann Holm
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Books

Chapter

13

There was something to be said about indoor plumbing: Frank didn’t have any.

When he wanted to take a good long soak in a hot bathtub, smoke an imported Havana cigar, and read, he had to go to Barent’s Bathhouse and Barbershop next to the men’s dormitory located on Gopher Road—the road pocked with holes dug by the nuisances. So many, the public works office was on the verge of giving up trying to maintain a level surface and let the gophers have their way, since the town had already foregone naming the avenue something pious—there being nothing remotely inspirational about gopher burrows.

Be that as it may, Frank could have cared less about the gophers and their holes. As long as he could navigate his way to the bathhouse, he didn’t care if they lived in the middle of the street.

Frank kept his stogie clamped between his teeth and his chin just above the soapy water level. His legs were too long to fit all the way inside the copper-lined tub, and he had to bend them at the knees. As he puffed, tiny clouds of smoke rose overhead. He lifted his gaze to the pine ceiling awash with an orange shellac varnish.

No cobwebs, spiders, or black ants.

Barent Bloodshine kept the place pretty clean. The Turkish towels were set aside to be laundered after every customer. You had to bring your own soap and shampoo paste, and a shower rinse was extra. Barent supplied poorly written pulp books and yellow-covereds—brochures of an obscene nature containing images of naked women and the stories of their exploits. Sometimes the gas burner heating the water would smoke and stink up the small, one-window cubicle, but other than that, the place wasn’t too bad.

Frank had bathed in worse.

As he enjoyed his cigar, he closed his eyes and let his mind drift. The dancing girls would be hitting Weeping Angel any day now. He’d had a response within a week of posting an open ad to Wyoming, Montana, and Nevada newspapers. A reply came in to the Wells Fargo office from four girls, all former employees of the same hop joint, the Nockum Stiff in Helena. They’d written to say they were out of jobs since the saloon burned down.

He’d made up his mind without even leaving the office to think on it and wait for any more answers. He’d paid Tindall extra to have Boise City wire Helena rather than rely on the mail. The matter of having girls in the Moon Rock had become an urgent one.

If Frank had to keep on the way he was going with Amelia, he wouldn’t have a clear mind left to run his business.

He hadn’t missed the way she’d done herself up yesterday, dousing herself with perfume, and playing the songs she thought he’d like. Emmaline was the one who went in for all that modern gaiety; he was satisfied enough to hear Pap’s versions of outhouse tunes. And though he didn’t really hate lemon verbena, he’d had to say something to the contrary.

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