The River Rose (5 page)

She blinked. "No."

"Oh. Well, I missed you, too, Gretchen."

She beamed again. "You need to eat, you're getting skinny, Clinton." She always pronounced his name Clin-TON, and she always told him he was getting skinny.

"Yeah, I am really hungry. What's cooking that smells so good? I want that."

"That's
gulasch
, with
spätzle
," she told him brightly.

He hesitated, and he heard Vince beside him quietly chortling. "I want that," Clint repeated kindly.

"It's so good,
spätzle
and
gulasch
," she told him happily as she started toward the hinged leaf opening of the bar.

"Yeah, I'll have some of that too," Clint said.

She stopped and looked back at him, her brow furrowed. Slowly her face lit up, and she shook her finger at him. "Ahh! You're joking again, Clinton! What a tease you are!" She flipped up the leaf and went through a brightly lit door into the kitchen. From there they heard Gretchen talking loudly in German, presumably to her
mütter
. They didn't understand anything she said except
"gulasch"
and
"spätzle"
and "Clin-TON." Then they heard both mother and daughter laughing. Mütter Krause rarely came out into the bar at night, preferring to stay in the kitchen and cook and let Gretchen and her two sisters handle the patrons. It was said that if Mütter Krause came out of the kitchen at night with her iron soup spoon, every man in the place had better take to his heels.

Vince was shaking his head. "Gretchen really is a pretty girl, but she's got
Wiener schnitzel
for brains."

"She's sharp enough to handle about a hundred rowdy men," Clint argued, turning around to lean back against the bar and look around the room. "And she's got the best teeth, doesn't she? So nice when ladies have really good, straight, white teeth."

"I've never seen anything like you, Clint. You'd find something nice to say about the cheapest whore in the Pinch."

Clint shrugged. "Whoever she is, I'm sure she didn't decide that's what she wanted to be when she grew up. As far as I'm concerned, any woman's a real lady, given the chance."

"Is that what it is about you?" Vince said curiously. "Is that why all the women fall in love with you? Because you think they're all real genteel ladies?"

"Aren't they?" Clint said. "And besides, they don't all fall in love with me. That's dumb, Vinnie. I just treat them with respect and they appreciate it, that's all. You should try it sometime."

Indignantly, Vince said, "I treat ladies with respect! My mama would pinch my head clean off if I didn't!"

"You slapped Suzette on the behind the other night," Clint argued. "That's not exactly what I was talking about."

Vince rubbed his jaw, remembering. "She clipped me a good one, too. I won't make that mistake again, that's for sure. She could spar with you, Flint."

"Do not call me that stupid name," Clint warned, "or
you'll
be sparring with me."

Vince held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, no need to get such a sore head. But speaking of flint, there's the man you have to thank for the nickname, over there. Did you see him?"

Clint craned his neck around to check the far back table. A four-man poker game was going on. All four of the men were well-dressed, if just a little flashy. One man wore a big, square diamond pinky ring that flashed whenever his hand moved, one had on a wide-brimmed low-crowned black hat with a hatband made of silver coins, one had on a loud purple-and-blue striped satin waistcoat. One of them, however, was discreetly dressed in black with a silvery-gray waistcoat and a plain white-cuffed shirt with gold cufflinks. Alertly, as if he sensed Clint's scrutiny, he looked up from his cards and scanned the room. Spotting Clint, he gave him a curt nod.

Clint turned back to Vince. "Buck Buckner himself, and dressed like a New York dandy. Those other fellows pilots, too?"

"Yeah, not as famous as Buck, but high water/high rollers like him," Vince said, sipping his beer. "It's funny how different so many of the new pilots are from the old breed, the rip-roaring snortin' old river rats. They're almost respectable. Guess making boatloads of money gives you respectability." Vince was twenty-two, the same age as Clint. He had been a roustabout on the Mississippi River wharf in Memphis since he was twelve. He knew every riverboat, every pilot, every captain, and most of the firemen and deckhands.

They looked around for awhile, soaking up the genial atmosphere. A continual low babble of conversation sounded, punctuated by laughter and an occasional call out to an acquaintance. It was a big square room, with several long rectangular tables and two dozen round four-seaters. The floor was hardwood, and Mrs. Krause and Gretchen mopped it with vinegar every single morning. The walls were plain oak boards, but they were cleaned every other day and whitewashed once a month. Mütter Krause's was the only saloon in Memphis with numerous windows, and they were always sparkling and bright. The long bar was plainly built, with no ornamentation, but it was cleaned and then polished to a high gloss every morning with lemon oil. Even now Clint caught the tang of lemon on the air.

The barroom was thick with tobacco smoke and the earthy smell of beer. Clint didn't mind either. In saloons men missed the spittoons far too often, and he found that habit much more offensive. Mrs. Krause frowned darkly upon missing the spittoons, and tobacco- and snuff-chewing men found themselves buying cigarettes or cigars from Gretchen to avoid her wrath. Also, Mrs. Krause served liquor but had no tolerance for stumble-drunks and certainly not mean drunks. Of course a man could stumble around and pick a fight after having too much beer, but somehow in Mütter Krause's a man found he could sip a beer and have a couple of leisurely shots of whiskey and enjoy the night just as much. Clint certainly felt that way.

Though there were no cheap prostitutes or saloon girls here, there were women. Men brought their wives; there were some old women, probably charwomen; and there were younger women that might be of questionable virtue but they were quiet and well-behaved. Gudrun Krause was no respecter of persons, but she was a respecter of the peace.

Clint heard a plate scrape the bar behind him, and a fresh waft of the delicious-smelling
gulasch
assailed his nostrils. But before he could turn around, Gretchen hurried around the bar and threw her arm across his shoulders. "Mütter says this is her best
gulasch
, for you. And she asks, will you come sing tomorrow night? She says she'll make her very special
Rheinischer
sauerbraten
just for you. Please, please, Clinton?"

He hooked his arms around her waist, which delighted her. "Tell her I'll try. I've got rehearsal, you know, and tomorrow is the twenty-third, the last rehearsal. It might run kind of late."

"You'll be running really late," Vince put in, elbowing Clint, "attending Her Ladyship."

"Who is Her Ladyship?" Gretchen demanded, frowning.

"Don't pay any attention to him, he doesn't know what he's talking about," Clint assured her. "Happens to him a lot. It's kind of sad, really. I'll try to get here by nine, Gretchen. Maybe just a couple of songs."

She clapped her hands and kissed him with relish on the cheek again. "I love, love to listen to you sing, Clinton! I'll be at Court Square on Christmas Eve, too, Mütter says I may! I am throwing you lots of kisses!" Then she proceeded to kiss him twice on the cheek and once on the mouth before dancing away.

"'I am throwing you lots of kisses, Clin-ton,'" Vince mimicked in a falsetto voice. "'Course, I am throwing them a very short way, since my mouth is smack-up on yours!"

"Shut up," Clint said casually. "She's a really sweet girl. You ready for another beer? I am."

"Let me go tell Elza," Vince said hastily, jumping to his feet. "I'm getting tired of watching women slobber all over you."

"Hey, ask Elza to come over here for a minute, I need to ask her something," Clint called after him.

"Shut up," Vince said without turning around.

Grinning, Clint turned to his food with a will. He discovered that
gulasch
was very lean tender cuts of beef and thinly sliced potatoes simmering in a creamy mushroom sauce, and that
spätzle
was soft egg noodles drowned in butter and seasoned with parsley. Mütter Krause listed the menu on a big slateboard with the prices, but she only wrote the German names. Clint and Vince could only remember
Wiener schnitzel
because that was their favorite. If they didn't order that they had no idea what they were getting until it arrived. It didn't matter, though, because everything was piping hot and fresh and delicious. Clint loved spicy, piquant German food.

After a while Vince came back with two pewter tankards of beer, talking to not Elza but Buck Buckner. The riverboat pilot held a cigar and gestured as he talked. They reached Clint, who stuck out his hand. "Hello, Buck. Good to see you. Have a seat, if you don't mind watching me eat."

Buckner was the pilot of the
Lady Vandivere
, the largest and possibly the most elegant steamboat on the river. A four-decker, she had thirty luxurious staterooms, a ballroom, a dining room, and four salons. Buckner was thirty now, but he had piloted the
Lady Vandivere
since she was built seven years ago, when he was at the unheard-of age of twenty-three. Buckner, like many other pilots, had come to understand that if they were going to be rowdy, shouting, cursing, coarse brutes they would never pilot a passenger steamboat that, of course, was designed for the Quality. These young men had set about to gentrify themselves, and they generally did a good job of it. Buck certainly looked like a gentleman, with carefully coiffed dark hair, clear features, dark eyes, and discreetly tailored suits. His air was one of competence and confidence. Only when he was gambling, which was his passion, did his predatory nature come through in the sharpness of his eyes and the hard set of his mouth. He looked like that now.

"I don't mind watching you eat, Hardin. I'm glad to see it. Going to need your strength, you know," he said, watching Clint's every bite. "How's the workout coming?"

Clint replied, "I haven't had much time to work out. I've been kinda busy."

Buckner frowned. "Singing your sweet little heart out, I guess. I don't think Mike the Hammer's going to be beat by you singing him to death."

"You know, I think Mike the Hammer should be named Mike the Hammer Head," Clint said. "That fellow has the hardest head I ever saw on a man. I know I landed three solid right crosses and he didn't even blink."

"He was too busy beating you to a pulp to blink," Vince rasped.

"Yeah, I remember," Clint said mournfully, wiping his mouth carefully and pushing his empty plate away. "It hurt, a lot."

Impatiently Buckner said, "Hardin, you fast-talked me into sponsoring you for this fight. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know if Mike's going to knock you flat again. I'll know how to place my bets to recover my financing."

"No, no, don't worry. This time I've got a plan," Clint said grandly. "This time he goes down."

"Uh-huh," Buckner said darkly. "So what's the plan?"

"I'm going to keep him from hitting me in the ribs and gut until I can't breathe, and meanwhile I'm going to beat his head until he falls down," Clint said evenly. Though he was unaware of it, his jaw had tightened and his eyes had darkened to charcoal-blue, and he looked dangerous.

Buckner and Vince stared at him. Buckner said, "That's your plan. That's the whole plan?"

"That's it," Clint said shortly.

Now Vince and Buckner looked at each other. Vince said, "Don't look at me. I don't know anything about the plan. I didn't even know we had a plan."

Buckner considered Clint again. "He's smaller than you, but he's faster. A lot faster. That's how he got to you last time, he darted into your space and pummeled you until you were weak."

Clint nodded. "He did that, for eleven rounds. But that wasn't the reason he beat me. He beat me because I couldn't knock him out first, because like I said, his jaw is like an anvil."

"And you've figured out a way to keep him from tiring you out, and getting in a quick knockout," Buckner said thoughtfully. "How?"

A brief look of discomfort shadowed Clint's face, but when he spoke his voice was hard. "Just trust me, Buck. I'm going to beat him. Bet on me."

"All right, I will," Buckner said quietly, "but if you lose, you're going to owe me a lot of money."

Clint said nothing more, so Buckner went on, now in a light tone, "Good night, gentlemen. Clint the Flint Fist, get to bed early, you need your beauty sleep. Vinnie, keep him on the straight and narrow until Boxing Day, yeah?" With a few nods to acquaintances, he left.

Vince resumed his seat next to Clint and said glumly, "I feel so much better now that I know you got the plan. The one where you win and Mike the Hammer loses."

"Simple, yet elegant. Don't you think?" Clint drawled.

Vince studied him for a moment, and then a slow grin came over his face. "You're watching the clock. What's up? You have an appointment?" A somber Viennese regulator wall clock of walnut and ebony hung behind the bar, and Clint had been glancing at it off and on for the last hour.

"Something like that," he answered carelessly. "Hey, by my reckoning I now owe you two beers. You ready?"

"No thanks and don't change the subject. You've got a lady-in-waiting, don't you?" he punned. "C'mon, it's old Vinnie here. I'm your best friend, you can tell me. Is it Her Ladyship?"

"Vinnie, Mrs. Maxfield is a widow, living in her parents' home. Don't be a complete imbecile."

"Okay, okay, so it's not Mrs. Maxfield. Who is it then?"

"I didn't say it was a lady, I didn't even say it was a person," Clint rasped.

"So, what, got a train to catch at midnight?" Vince rolled his eyes. "I don't get it, Clint. I never have. Not about your women, I've seen enough of that all these years to see why they fall all over themselves over you. But you never talk about them, you never tell me one blessed thing. We talk about everything else under the sun, from religion to politics to music to when my little brother's eyeteeth came in, but you never tell me about your lady friends."