Posted March 16, 2021
Mature Content: Probably not!
With: Ben Simons, Bridget Monahan, any stray rubes.
Location: Outside the Milliner.
Time of Day: 11am.
The better she became at speaking out loud, the more annoying, hot-headed and hard to ignore Bridget Monahan became. “Wanna go stores!” she insisted for the fortieth time that morning, until Crabbe threw down his copy of the Kalispell Union in a fit of impotent rage. He’d just been enjoying an hilarious account of some meeting of the Ladies Society that had become a drunken rout at the hotel some days back. “This is your fault!” he pointed a finger at the surprised Mr. Fa, who had been helping the ginger haired girl with a sort of speech therapy of his own inscrutable invention.
“She was a damn sight better when she could only whisper!” he grumbled, slapping a derby on his head and reaching for his cane.
“Wanna go stores!” repeated Bridget, stomping the boot of her wooden leg on the floor with a hollow knocking sound.
“All right, we’re going, we’re going!” Crabbe yelled back.
It is beyond the powers of this author to accurately convey the mind numbing tedium that seizes hold of a member of the male gender when forced to sit for an hour in a milliner’s store, watching a member of the female gender try on every single hat and bonnet in the place. Let us just say that when Lorenzo Crabbe finally stepped out of the store, and back onto the boardwalk, a newly bonneted Bridget by his side, he felt like a man who had just been released from a twenty-year stretch in the State Penitentiary.
To add to his delight, he saw an old acquaintance headed their way.
“Jesus, first Mundee turns up here and now Bent St. Clair!” he yelped loud enough for the smartly dressed gambling man to hear his words and alert him that he’d been recognised. “Quick Bridg’ – run back home and hide the family silver!”
The joke was spoilt somewhat when Bridget turned on her heel and actually started to obey him, at which her guardian had to pull her back and explain it was just a jest.
“Well, what you doin’ here, Bent?” Crabbe peered at the slick, handsome card shuffler. “If you’re looking for business, you couldn’t have picked a more drearysome, dead and alive hole than Kallispell.”
"Work is fine for killin' time, but it's a shaky way to make a living."
Ben frowned as he heard someone say the name he was known as outside of Kalispell. He had chosen the Bent as it was a shortened form of his own name, Bentley and it sounded more like a gambler's name than Ben. Ben was what his family and those he had grown up with had called him. As soon as he left home to live the life of a professional gambler, Ben Simons was gone and Bent St. Clair had been born.
Turning to see who it was, he squinted a little and then a look of surprise came on his face. Kalispell was the last place he would have expected to see the likes of Lorenzo Crabbe. Then again, Kalispell was the last place he would have been in himself, if it weren't for that unfortunate incident.
Standing next to Crabbe, was girl of about 17 or 18 and definitely not the type that he had been with the last time they had seen each other. Crabbe was more of a business acquaintance than a friend, hence the statement about Kalispell, which Ben had no problem agreeing with to a degree. In his opinion, any dreary town could be made more livelier with a bit of work and imagination. Kalispell had possibilities and maybe Crabbe might have some insight into what some of them could be.
Walking up to the man, he smiled, "Well, Crabbe it's been a while, not since that time in Denver a while back. By the way the name's Ben here. Bent has sadly been retired for the foreseeable future."
Walking up to the man, he smiled, "Well, Crabbe it's been a while, not since that time in Denver a while back. By the way the name's Ben here. Bent has sadly been retired for the foreseeable future."
Crabbe chuckled knowingly “Ohhhh. That name get a little hot for you did it?” he smiled “What was she a Blonde or a Brunette?”
There was no mention of redheads, but Bridget represented the breed by giving Crabbe a nudge and he, rolling his eyes, did the necessary. “Oh, this is Bridget.” He introduced her grudgingly, not even bothering with her surname.
As she had been schooled by Arabella, who had been the biggest expert in etiquette in the whole of Virginia, apparently, Bridget held out her hand palm downward for this nice looking gentleman to kiss, atop her brand new lace gloves. She was also supposed to do a low curtsy as the man kissed her hand, according to the Mudd girl, but in practice this had usually resulted in a spectacular tumble and a tangle of limbs, so she just made do with a little bob on her good leg.
“Say, best count that those rings on your fingers are still all there when you get that hand back, Bridg’!” joked Crabbe “IF you get your hand back!”
The real jest was that of all the professional gamblers that Lorenzo had ever met on the circuit, and he’d met a few, St. Clair, as he knew him, was the only one who didn’t habitually lie, cheat, steal and generally encourage Lady Luck to favour him by fair means or foul. Always said he had ‘Scientific’ methods, and that ‘Pure Mathematics’ was his ace up the sleeve. Not that Crabbe always cheated; he’d run Faro and Monte banks in more respectable gambling casinos where the odds were just always in the house's favor, and if some lucky son-of-a-gun was on a massive winning streak, why you’d just declare the house bankrupt and end the game: you never made a loss.
But Bent … Ben, sorry … was a poker man first and foremost; and as far as Lorenzo was concerned, there was no way to guarantee a win in that game without a marked deck or a healthy provision of extra royalty hidden about your person. For that reason, he’d always watched the man play with a certain amount of interest; admiration, even.
“Well, your best bet around these parts for a game is that Stardust Saloon yonder. Might find a few rubes in there. I’d treat you to a drink in there, but I’m barred.”
Suddenly, interrupting this conversation, Bridget poked Ben in the arm and pointed to her head.
“Got a hat!” she barked. To be fair, she had got a hat.
"Work is fine for killin' time, but it's a shaky way to make a living."
“Ohhhh. That name get a little hot for you did it?” he smiled “What was she a Blonde or a Brunette?”
Ben smiled, "It was a blonde. Remind me to tell you about it sometime when we're not in the company of a lady."
“Oh, this is Bridget.”
Taking Bridget's hand, Ben bowed as he smiled, "It's a pleasure ma'am."
He wasn't about to kiss the girl's hand as he didn't know how impressionable the girl was. The last thing he wanted was to have some young girl fawning over him.
“Say, best count that those rings on your fingers are still all there when you get that hand back, Bridg’!” joked Crabbe “IF you get your hand back!”
Ben just raised an eyebrow at this remark and let her hand go gently. He turned to Crabbe, "You've been here longer than I have, is there any place you recommend that I take a look at for some excitement?"
“Well, your best bet around these parts for a game is that Stardust Saloon yonder. Might find a few rubes in there. I’d treat you to a drink in there, but I’m barred.”
"Barred? From the only saloon in town?" For Crabbe to get himself locked out of the only place in town where he could make money must have taken some doing. Ben hoped that he would fare better. At least it was probable that he would since he wasn't into the solicitation of women. To him, women, no matter how low they were on the social rung, we're to be treated respectfully and not sold to the highest bidder. That was one thing he didn't like about Crabbe but the man could be useful in other ways.
Before Crabbe could answer Bridget said something about a hat and Ben turned to her, "Yes, you have and might a say it is very becoming."
Looking at Crabbe, he asked, "I'm guessing that since you can't get into the Stardust, you've got no chance of getting into my cousin's establishment at the hotel?"
"Barred? From the only saloon in town?"
Crabbe chuckled at his own folly. “Yeah, I asked if they’d got any whores going spare before I tried to take their little girl piano player off their hands. They kinda got the wrong idea.” He held up his hands “Rube mistake, I own it!”
Before Crabbe could answer Bridget said something about a hat and Ben turned to her, "Yes, you have and might a say it is very becoming."
Bridget beamed and touched the flowery bonnet. “I look nice!” she said.
Looking at Crabbe, he asked, "I'm guessing that since you can't get into the Stardust, you've got no chance of getting into my cousin's establishment at the hotel?"
“I ain’t tried; tell the truth. See, I’ve got a few other irons in the fire besides the old Hearts, Spades and Clubs. Sold a whole store full of gimcrack mining equipment to a bunch of prospectors heading through from Canada, and now I’m in the photography biz. And do you know what the biggest money maker is? Dead folk, plain old dead folk. Why I can get five times as much per plate for a dead relative than I can for a picture of an annoying live one.” He confided to Ben, sotto voce. “And say, you know if you happen to shoot anyone while you’re in town, can you try and get ‘em in the chest, not between the eyes? Makes my job a whole lot easier.”
Talking of this gave him an idea, and he glanced from Ben to Bridget and back again.
“Say, Ben old pal, I don’t suppose you’d do a good old rounder a favor and take Bridget here off my hands for half an hour, if you're headed to the saloon or hotel? I got to step into the funeral parlor to organise a little job around that sort of thing, and I can’t drag Bridg’ here into that place!”
The strange redheaded girl stared Simons dead in the eye with a dead-pan expression on her face.
“See people there.” She murmured.
“Yeah, she’s sees God damn ghosts all over the place.” he glanced at her as if to confirm what he already well knew. “She ain’t quite right, y’ see.” He said, scratching his neck sort of nervously.
“See the people.” She repeated at Ben.
"Work is fine for killin' time, but it's a shaky way to make a living."
Ben looked at Bridget. In a way he felt sorry for the girl but then again he wasn't prepared to be stuck her while Crabbe went off to conduct some business. Still he didn't want to seem unwilling to help as he may need Crabbe's assistance some in the future. It was always a policy of his to foster good relations. He thought about it for moment when he suddenly remembered something or in particular someone who would gladly help out.
"I tell what, Crabbe, I may not be able to take of Bridget but I do know someone who can. My Aunt Rebecca will welcome the chance to meet some of the ladies who live here in town as she has just arrived. I had the job of escorting her to here to join my uncle. You've probably met him since he owns the bank."
Want... dolls!
"I tell what, Crabbe, I may not be able to take of Bridget but I do know someone who can. My Aunt Rebecca will welcome the chance to meet some of the ladies who live here in town as she has just arrived. I had the job of escorting her to here to join my uncle. You've probably met him since he owns the bank."
Crabbe just laughed gently at this. “Do you really think I’d trust my money in a bank, the blessed thing spends most of its time getting robbed!”
Bridget looked a little alarmed at this notion and Crabbe had to pat her hand to calm her down.
“Don’t worry, I think your three dollars and thirty two cents is safe.” He said and shook his head at Ben.
“No, this here’s the person in the family who has had the pleasure of meeting your esteemed uncle, Mr. Charles Wentworth Senior, and bless my soul, fancy you bein’ his nephew!” It was a small world indeed. He turned to the addlebrained Miss Monahan and explained what the Dickens they were talking about in terms that she could fully comprehend. He pointed to Ben.
“His Uncle is Mr Bank Owner, Mr Wentworth. You wanna go with him and meet his wife, Mrs Bank Owner? Mrs Wentworth?” having been abandoned as a child, the concepts of nieces and nephews quite eluded the pale crippled girl, but Crabbe often introduced himself as her uncle to avoid awkward questions, so she knew its meaning well.
At first, Bridget just goggled open mouthed to learn that this new friend was not just handsome and well dressed, but also connected to the nice Grandfatherly man she gave her filched and found pennies to, for she would never give her red cents to any clerk but always to the very owner of the bank, if she could help it.
Then she dropped Crabbe’s arm immediately, and like an army of turncoats changing sides in a battle, marched over to Ben and turning volte-face took his arm instead.
“See Granny Wentworth!” she decided out loud.
"Work is fine for killin' time, but it's a shaky way to make a living."
Ben had to laugh a little when Bridget grabbed his arm. It was awkward but a bit funny at the same time, "All right Miss Bridget, we'll go and see Granny...er Aunt Rebecca over at the hotel."
Turning to Crabbe, he smiled, "Nice seeing you again, Crabbe. I'll drop in sometime to check your photography business out or if I need your advice on something."
Tipping his hat, he said, "Good day."
Looking down at Bridget, he gave her a warm smile. "Off we go."
As they walked to the hotel, Ben wondered how Rebecca would feel with having a girl like Bridget left in her care. He had no doubt his Aunt would endeavour to find out all she could about the girl. Rebecca would no doubt take it upon herself to make sure the girl was well cared for and not in any physical or moral danger. Another grin appeared on his face...poor ol' Crabbe was going to need all the luck in the world for what he was soon to encounter.
"Everybody can feather their nest, but it's not just anybody that can lay an egg!"
Tipping his hat, he said, "Good day."
Looking down at Bridget, he gave her a warm smile. "Off we go."
The conversation, as Ben walked with the monosyllabic Bridget, was not of the most scintillating, and was anyway soon disturbed, as they got to the Hotel’s grand doorway, by a shouting behind them.
“Hey you! Yeah you! Mr. fancy Pants! Where you takin’ my friend!?” It was Arabella Mudd, and dressed in her usual ‘going out’ rig of an old fashioned poke bonnet, shawl and basket, she looked like a little old lady. Her dowdy garb was in sharp contrast to the modish and fancy outfit that draped Miss Monahan’s doll-like frame. Arabella caught up with them panting.
“What’s the idea, draggin’ a respectable girl like Bridget off to some hotel room? Ain’t you got no shame?!” she chided the well-dressed stranger. “Who’re you, anyway?”
Arabella’s mother, on her deathbed, had explained to her ‘all about men’. Apart from the more grisly physical details, there had been some good advice along the lines of “A moustache never grows on any good friend” and “Never trust a young man in a fancy suit”: Arabella was applying this last adage liberally to the beautifully turned out Mr Simons.
"Work is fine for killin' time, but it's a shaky way to make a living."
Ben stopped abruptly and stared down at the girl who had just come charging up to him and accusing him of planning something he wouldn't do even if he was paid. Bridget was not his type but it wasn't because of her faults or her personality, it was simply because she was a redhead. A few years ago, he had a bad experience with one redhead who would never stop pestering him and ever since then, he had been avoiding them like the plague. Besides, Bridget was far too young for him and he was pretty sure he was safe with her.
After giving Bridget a reassuring smile, he addressed the dark-headed brat in a controlled but light-hearted manner, "My dear, I can assure that I have no bad designs on your friend. In fact, I am escorting her, with her guardian's permission, to meet my Aunt in the hotel. If you wish you can join us. I'm sure my Aunt will be glad to be introduce you as well, Miss?"