THE ENGINEER set the brakes with a racketing squeal. A moment later the train rocked to a halt before the Denver stationhouse. Towering skyward, the Rockies rose majestically under a noonday sun, the snowcapped spires touching the clouds. Lillian thought it was a scene of unimaginable grandeur.
Passengers began deboarding the train. Fontaine signaled one of the porters who waited outside the stationhouse. When the baggage car was unloaded, the porter muscled their steamer trunks onto a cart and led them across the platform. In front of the depot, Fontaine engaged a carriage and told the cabbie to take them to the Brown Palace Hotel. From all he’d heard, the hotel was an institution, the finest in Denver. He planned to establish residence in proper style.
On the way uptown Lillian noted that the streets were cobbled and many of the buildings were constructed of brick masonry. She recalled Libbie Custer telling her that a town founded on a gold strike had become a center of finance and commerce. Over the years, the mining camp reproduced itself a hundredfold, until finally a modern metropolis rose along the banks of Cherry Creek and the South Platte River. Denver was transformed into a cosmopolitan beehive, with opera and a stock exchange and a population approaching 20,000. The city was unrivaled on the Western plains.
The Brown Palace was all they’d been led to expect. Thick carpets covered the marble floor of the lobby, and a central seating area was furnished with leather chairs and sofas. The whole of the lobby ceiling glittered with an ornate mural, and a wide, sweeping staircase ascended to the upper floors. The place had the look and smell of wealth, home away from home for the upper class. At the reception desk, Fontaine noted a calendar with the date May 25, and he marked it as an auspicious day. Their journey had at last brought them to Denver.
“Good afternoon,” he said, nodding to the clerk. “You have a suite reserved for Alistair Fontaine.”
“Yes, sir,” the clerk replied. “How long will you be staying with us, Mr. Fontaine?”
“Indefinitely.”
“Welcome to the Brown Palace.”
“Thank you so much.”
Fontaine signed the register with a flourish. Upstairs, led by a bellman, they were shown into a lavish suite. A lush Persian carpet covered the sitting room floor, and grouped before a marble fireplace were several chairs and a chesterfield divan. There were connecting doors to the bedrooms, both of which were appointed in Victorian style and equipped with a private lavatory. A series of handsomely draped windows overlooked the city.
Lillian whirled around the sitting room. “I can hardly believe we’re here. It’s like a dream come true.”
“Indeed, my dear,” Fontaine said. “Far more civilized than anything we’ve seen in our travels, hmmm?”
“And running water,” Chester added, returning from the bedroom. “I think I’m going to like Denver.”
“I’m going to love it!” Lillian said gaily. “Papa, when will we see the theater? Could we go this afternoon?”
“Tonight, I believe,” Fontaine said. “We’ll take in the show and get a feel for the crowd. No need to rush.”
“I’m just so anxious, that’s all. I wish we were opening tonight.”
“What is one night more or less? We will have a long run in Denver, my dear. You may depend on it.”
Fontaine exuded confidence. By telegraph, he’d spent the last week negotiating with Burt Tully, owner of the Alcazar Variety Theater. Their notices from Pueblo, just as he’d predicted, had made Tully eager to offer them headliner billing. Though Tully’s principal interest was in Lillian, Fontaine had nonetheless struck a lucrative deal for the entire act. Their salary was $300 a week, with a four-week guarantee.
Early that evening, they took a stroll through the sporting district. For reasons lost to time, the district was known locally as the Tenderloin. There, within a few square blocks of Blake Street, gaming dives and variety theaters provided a circus of nightlife. Saloons and gambling, mixed with top-drawer entertainment, presented an enticing lure. Sporting men were attracted from all across the West.
One block over was Denver’s infamous red-light district. Known simply as the Row, Holladay Street was a lusty fleshpot, with a veritable crush of dollar cribs. Yet while hook shops dominated the row, there was no scarcity of high-class bordellos. The parlor houses offered exotic tarts, usually younger and prettier, all at steeper prices. Something over a thousand soiled doves plied their trade on Holladay Street.
Hop Alley satisfied the more bizarre tastes. A narrow passageway off Holladay, it was Denver’s version of Lotus Land. Chinese fan-tan parlors vied with the faint sweet odor of opium dens, and those addicted to the Orient’s heady delights beat a steady path to this backstreet world of pipe dreams. To a select clientele, dainty China dolls were available day or night. Vice in every form was available at a price.
Fontaine cut short their tour of Holladay Street. He realized within a block that they had strayed from the more respectable section of the sporting district. Lillian kept her gaze averted, though she felt shamelessly intrigued by the sight of so much sin for sale. Chester, on the other hand, oogled the girls and mentally marked a few bordellos that looked worthy of a visit. They quickly found themselves back on Blake Street.
The Alcazar Variety Theater was the liveliest spot in town. A two-story structure with leaded-glass windows, if offered diverse forms of entertainment for the sporting crowd. On the first floor was the bar and, through an arched doorway at the rear, the theater. The stage was centered on the room, with seating for 400, and a gallery of private booths circled the mezzanine. The upper floor of the club was devoted exclusively to gambling.
Their entrance was not altogether unnoticed. Lillian, though she was dressed in a simple gown, drew admiring stares from men at the bar. Fontaine purchased tickets to the theater and slipped the doorman a gold eagle, which resulted in a table near the orchestra. The audience was composed primarily of men, and waiters scurried back and forth serving drinks. As they were seated, Fontaine saw a man emerge from a door leading backstage. He nodded at Lillian.
“Unless I’m mistaken,” he said, “there goes our employer, Mr. Tully.”
Lillian followed his look. The man was stoutly built, with salt-and-pepper hair and a handlebar mustache, attired in a dark suit and a colorful brocade vest. He stopped here and there, greeting customers seated at tables, and slowly made his way to the rear of the theater. She glanced back at her father.
“Shouldn’t we introduce ourselves, Papa?”
“No need, my dear,” Fontaine said idly. “We aren’t expected until tomorrow. Time enough, then.”
“Yes, I suppose,” Lillian said. “He certainly has a nice theater.”
“Let us hope he’s a good showman as well.”
The orchestra thumped into a spirited dance number. As the curtain opened, a line of chorus girls went high-stepping across the stage. The lead dancer raised her skirts, revealing a shapely leg, and joined them in a prancing cakewalk. The dance routine was followed by a comic, a sword swallower and his pretty assistant, a contortionist who tied himself in knots, and a team of nimble acrobats dressed in tights. The audience applauded appreciatively after every act.
The headliner was billed as The Flying Nymph. A trapeze bar flew out of the stage loft with a woman hanging by her knees. She was identified on the program as Darlene LaRue, and she wore abbreviated tights covered by flowing veils. She performed daring flips and at one point hung by her heels, all the while divesting herself of a veil at a time. The orchestra built to a cresendo as she swung by one hand, tossing the last veil into the audience, her buxom figure revealed in the footlights. The curtain swished closed to applause and cheers.
“Good Lord!” Fontaine muttered. “I thought I’d seen everything. That is positively bizarre.”
Chester laughed. “Dad, it’s the show business. You have to admit she’s different.”
“So are dancing elephants,” Fontaine said. “That doesn’t mean it is art.” He turned to Lillian. “Don’t you agree, my dear?”
Lillian thought Denver was no different than Pueblo. Or for that matter, Abilene and Dodge City. Men were men, and they wanted to be entertained rather than enlightened. Opera would never play on a variety stage.
“Yes, Papa, I agree,” she said. “No dancing elephants.”
Fontaine gave her a strange look. “Pardon me?”
“I won’t sing from a trapeze, either.”
“I should think not!”
She decided to humor him. His art was his life and not a subject for jest. Alistair Fontaine was who he was.
She hoped Shakespeare would play in Denver.
Springtime was the best of times in the Rockies. The air was invigorating, and on the mountains green-leafed aspens fluttered on gentle breezes. The slopes sparkled below the timberline with a kaleidoscope of wildflowers.
A horse-drawn streetcar trundled past as the Fontaines emerged from the hotel. The sun was directly overhead, fixed like a copper ball in a cloudless sky. Fontaine, who was in a chipper mood, filled his lungs with air. He exhaled with gusto.
“I do believe I’m going to like it here. There’s something bracing about the mountain air.”
“Not to mention the streetcars,” Chester said. “Give me a city anytime, all the time.”
“I endorse the sentiment, my boy.”
Lillian shared their spirited manner. The sidewalks were crowded with smartly dressed men and women attired in the latest fashions. Everywhere she looked there were shops and stores, and the city seemed to pulse with an energy that was all but palpable. She thought she’d already fallen in love with Denver.
Fontaine set off briskly down the street. They were on their way to meet with Burt Tully, the owner of the Alcazar. Fontaine and Chester looked dapper in their three-piece suits, freshly pressed for the occasion. Lillian wore her dove gray taffeta gown, her hair upswept, a parasol over her shoulder. She had never felt so alive, or more eager to get on with anything. She was excited by their prospects.
“I’m looking forward to this,” Fontaine said, waiting for a streetcar to pass. “From what we saw last night, Tully’s establishment needs a touch of class. That is to say, The Fontaines.”
Lillian took his arm. “Papa, will you do something for me?”
“Why, of course, my dear. What is it?”
“Try not to lecture Mr. Tully.”
“Lecture?” Fontaine said in a bemused tone. “Why on earth would I lecture him?”
“You know,” Lillian gently reminded. “What we were talking about last night? Dancing elephants and trapeze ladies.”
“I see no reason to raise topics of an unpleasant nature. After all, we have Mr. Tully exactly where we want him.”
“We do?”
“Yes indeed,” Fontaine said confidently. “Three hundred a week speaks to the fact that we have the upper hand. His first offer, as you will recall, was rather niggardly.”
“Papa, we mustn’t let him think we’re overbearing. Won’t you be tactful … for me?”
“I shall be the very soul of discretion. You may depend on it.”
Lillian exchanged a look with Chester. He tipped his head in an imperceptible nod. “Listen to her, Dad,” he urged. “Denver’s our big break and we don’t want to spoil it. We might end up in Pueblo again.”
Fontaine laughed it off. “Never fear, my boy, we have seen the last of Pueblo. Leave everything to me.”
Some ten minutes later they entered the Alcazar. A bartender told them that Tully’s office was on the second floor, at the rear of the gaming room. Upstairs, they found a plushly appointed room with faro layouts, twenty-one, chuck-a-luck, roulette, and several poker tables. Though it was scarcely past the noon hour, there were men gathered around the various gaming devices. The girls serving drinks wore peekaboo gowns that displayed their cleavage to maximum effect.
The office looked more suited to a railroad mogul. A lush carpet covered the floor, the furniture was oxblood leather, and the walls were paneled in dark hardwood. Burt Tully was seated at a massive walnut desk; a large painting of sunset over the Rockies hung behind his chair. He rose after they knocked and came through the door. His mouth lifted in a pleasant smile.
“Let me guess,” he said, extending his hand. “You’re the Fontaines.”
Fontaine accepted his handshake. “A distinct pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Tully. May I introduce my daughter, Lillian, and my son, Chester.”
“An honor, Miss Fontaine,” Tully said, gently taking her hand. “I’ve heard a good deal about the Colorado Nightingale. Welcome to the Alcazar.”
Lillian smiled winningly. “Thank you so much, Mr. Tully. We’re delighted to be here.”
“Please, won’t you folks have a seat?”
There were two wingback chairs before the desk. Fontaine took one and Chester stepped back, motioning Lillian to the other. He seated himself on a leather sofa against the wall, casually crossing his legs. Tully dropped into his chair behind the desk.
“Allow me to congratulate you,” Fontaine said. “You have a very impressive operation here.”
“I don’t mean to brag—” Tully spread his hands with a modest grin. “The Alcazar is the top spot in the Tenderloin. We pack them in seven nights a week.”
“And well you should, my dear fellow. You offer the finest in entertainment.”
“All the more reason you’re here. Darlene LaRue closes tonight and you open tomorrow night.”
“Indeed!” Fontaine said jovially. “I’m sure we will fill the house.”
“No doubt you will.” Tully paused, his gaze shifting to Lillian. “I have ads starting in all the papers tomorrow. Everyone in town will want to see the Colorado Nightingale.”
Lillian detected an unspoken message. There was no mention of The Fontaines but instead a rather subtle reference to the Colorado Nightingale. She returned his look.
“Are you familiar with the way we present our act?”
“Yes, of course he is,” Fontaine interrupted. “I covered all that in our telegrams. Didn’t I, dear fellow?”
“Let’s talk about that,” Tully said seriously. “You realize your daughter is the attraction? The real headliner?”
“I—” Fontaine seemed taken aback. “I would be the first to admit that Lillian draws the crowds. Was there some other point?”
Tully steepled his hands. “I have no objection to the melodrama. We haven’t held one in a while and it ought to play pretty well.” He hesitated, his features solemn. “I’d like you to consider dropping the Shakespeare.”
“Nate Varnum said the same thing in Pueblo. Shakespeare played well enough there.”
“No, Mr. Fontaine, it didn’t. I exchanged telegrams with Nate, and he told me—you’ll pardon my saying so—the crowd sat on their hands. The same thing will happen here.”
Fontaine reddened. “You signed The Fontaines to an engagement, and The Fontaines are here. I expect you to honor the terms of our agreement.”
“Think about it,” Tully suggested. “Your daughter has a great career ahead of her. She’s doing two songs a show, and she should be doing three or four. Without the Shakespeare, she could.”
“Mr. Tully.”
Their heads snapped around at the tone in Lillian’s voice. She shifted forward in her chair. “Father speaks for The Fontaines. You have to accept us as we are … or not at all.”
There was a moment of intense silence. Tully finally shook his head. “You’re doing yourself a disservice, Miss Fontaine. Your father knows it and I know it. And you know it, too, don’t you?”
“As I said, we are The Fontaines. Shakespeare is part of our act.”
“Just as you wish,” Tully said in a resigned voice. “I’ll go along only because I want the Colorado Nightingale at the Alcazar. For you, personally, I think it’s a big mistake.”
Lillian smiled. “You won’t think so tomorrow night. We’ll fill the house.”
“Yes, I’m sure you will, Miss Fontaine.”
Tully arranged a rehersal schedule for her the next morning. After a perfunctory round of handshakes, they left his office. Outside, walking along Blake Street, it was apparent that Fontaine’s chipper mood had vanished. He appeared somehow diminished, head bowed and shoulders hunched. Lillian knew he was crushed.
“Papa—”
“Later, my dear.”
“Are you all right?”
“I think I need a drink.”