Cold Steel and Hot Lead [How the West Was Done 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (9 page)

“Beats me how they’re doing it. I know they’re only doing a few acts. They’re in there whacking up backdrops and painting scenery to beat the band.”

Alameda asked, “What does
The Black Crook
involve? Other than a fairyland grotto.” They squeezed their way into the theater. The intent was for her to audition for a part, any bit part, so she could observe Antonio Franconi, perhaps follow him back to his hiding place. With the help of Derrick and Rudy, of course. And that was assuming Antonio
was
the kidnapper. There might be other Italian-looking men with very resilient limbs—perhaps the ominous Joe the Rubber-Skinned Man, Derrick thought with a chuckle.

He should not have been chuckling about this, but recent events had rendered him extremely silly. First, the meeting with Rudy Dunraven. Not only did he feel he’d bumped into someone he’d known his entire life, it was clear their destinies were interwoven. As long as the fellow refrained from sliding his tongue down Derrick’s throat, he would be eager to see where this would all lead. Derrick hoped Rudy didn’t try anything like that again. Derrick’s prick was still tingling from the stimulation of kissing another man, and this was an unsettling feeling for him.

Then the majestic Alameda Hudson. What a glorious figure she possessed! Derrick had never seen anything like it. Her bosom defied gravity, the way it floated, bounced, and rippled. Of course it wasn’t just her figure Derrick was entranced by. Alameda was a regular spitfire. The way she had snapped at him when she thought he was a married man impressed him. She had taken him down a peg or two! Derrick had a suspicion she could hold her own in matters of politics, sex, or even religion—and they had discussed all three subjects just now in her bedroom.

And he couldn’t even allow himself to imagine what she had been doing thirty seconds before he had barged into her bedroom—in the throes of such a violent orgasm she had fainted and hit her head. If he allowed himself to ponder this, he would be shooting in his pants. Even now, he had to keep his greatcoat buttoned or be mortified that he had an erection that could break a plate.

Rudy was saying, “There is an evil wealthy count who desires to marry an innocent girl, betrothed to a poor artist. So the count arranges for the poor artist to fall into the hands of an evil wizard who has made a pact with the devil. The first part just has minimally clad women doing songs and dances and some debauched comedy by male comedians. Then there’s a hodgepodge of burlesque, then the grand finale with the fairyland I mentioned.”

Alameda said, “Minimally clad? Is there any role where a woman could cover up her arms and legs?”

Rudy said, “It’s a burlesque, Alameda. This is one of the main attractions. Men as well as women enjoy looking at female forms.”

“Why don’t you take a part, to shadow Franconi around?”

“Some of them already know me. And everyone in town by now knows that we’ve vowed to find Kittie’s kidnapper. Franconi would just bolt if he saw us participating in his play.”

Derrick said, “You don’t have to do it if you don’t feel comfortable. We can all just lurk outside and wait for Franconi to go back to his abode. Wherever he’s staying.”

“Probably a tent,” said Rudy. “Cannonball!” He raised an arm to a fellow who did, indeed, look round.

“No, I don’t mind,” said Alameda, although she clutched Derrick’s arm. He felt proud to be escorting such a fetching lady. Even the “spangled beauties of trapeze and limb” stared at Alameda in curiosity and envy. Perhaps envious that Alameda obviously wasn’t part of the performing life—yet. “It will be an exciting change from my life serving patrons at the Cactus Club.”

“Say, Cannonball,” said Rudy. “Is Antonio Franconi performing in this play?”

“Why, yes,” said Cannonball. “He’s playing the part of Count Wolfenstein.”

Perfect
. It would figure that such a culprit would play the part of the evil count. Perhaps whoever played the innocent girl would be his next target, if he was one of those fellows incapable of keeping make-believe separate from reality.

“Can you point him out to us?”

Franconi stood twenty feet away, arms held out at his sides so a costumer could stitch him into a nebulous black robe. He was a rather handsome fellow of about Derrick’s age, although he sported those ridiculous muttonchops that Percy favored. He read aloud from a small book, and Derrick inched closer to hear the dialogue.

Franconi recited, “‘And how fares your lovely charge? But the fair Amina? Begone, sirrah!” Franconi looked around. “Wufgar? Where is my Wufgar?”

Some woebegone fellow shuffled out from behind a wooden piece of scenery being painted to resemble a Roman coliseum. Or the inside of a barn, Derrick wasn’t sure which.

Franconi commanded, “Track yonder knave and seize him!”

“Aye-aye, sir,” said Wufgar unenthusiastically.

“No ‘aye-aye’!” bellowed Franconi. “I’m a count, not a sea captain!”

“I have no script!” wailed Wufgar.

“We only had so many copies!”

Cannonball had eyes only for Alameda. “And who is this luscious bite of chocolate? Why, she looks as though she could melt in your mouth. Did you bring her to perform as Stalacta, Fairy Queen of the Golden Realm?”

Derrick asked, “Is the part of Amina filled already?”

Alameda clutched Derrick’s arm. “I would like to be the Fairy Queen,” she whispered. “I can see just as much that way but maybe have fewer lines to memorize.”

Cannonball said, “Rudy, remember that dear sweet trapeze girl, Temperance Somebody-or-Other? Her father plunged to his death when the folks holding the net beneath him failed to hold it.”

“I recall her. How awful,” murmured Rudy.

“Yes,” said Cannonball. “The net-holders were distracted when a clown’s pants split. I suppose they thought that laughing was more important than preventing an acrobat from splattering all over the grass. One must always be vigilant in this business! So we have given the part of Amina to Temperance.”

Alameda shoved forward to shake Cannonball’s hand. “I will take the part of the Fairy Queen. What do I get to wear?”

“This is Deluxe Dora,” said Derrick, recalling the name Percy wished her to use.

“We have a most splendid costume for the Fairy Queen,” said Cannonball. He looked Alameda up and down with wiggling eyebrows. “I do hope it will be, ah, large enough for you.” He gestured for a gal to whisk Alameda away.

“She will be safe,” Cannonball assured them. “I don’t allow any hanky-panky in my acts. And you fellows! Rudy, I have to thank you for taking care of Montreal Jed. That crowd was becoming very unruly and would have thrown him a necktie party for sure when that girl disappeared. Besides, he is much too weak for the showman’s life. Even while manipulating the little people, he passes into a dead swoon from apprehension. He is overly concerned with dirt, and that is one thing you cannot avoid in this business.”

Curious, Derrick wandered over to where a carpenter was constructing a mirrored box of some kind. What caught his eye was a small pot of vermilion paint, he assumed of the kind Jeremiah had accused Franconi of stealing from him. The carpenter had evidently been using the paint for highlights in the flaming scenery, perhaps the set for the act where the poor artist is lured into hell.

The carpenter was a curiosity. Apparently near-sighted, he had to lean in very close to hammer his nails, and his hands were very shaky. When he banged his thumb with the hammer he cussed something fierce and set to punching the actual wall of the Oddfellows Hall. He even grabbed a passing stage worker who carried someone’s costume. He throttled this hapless fellow by the neck then tossed him on the ground before returning to his work.

On an impulse, Derrick swiped up the little pot of red paint and secreted it in his pocket. He made an immediate break in case the irate carpenter noticed, nearly banging into a pretty brunette girl who tottered by on very high heels, looking down at the one glove she wore.

“Why do I only have one glove?” she asked in a high, squeaky voice. “Has anyone seen the other glove?”

Derrick was relieved for this distraction. Oddly, the carpenter became involved in the glove, too.

“Your costume only has one glove!” he shouted at the poor girl, who slunk away, gloveless.

Derrick was dead set on getting out of the theater before he was whaled on by the angry carpenter for stealing the paint. He drew Rudy aside from his conversation with Cannonball.

“That girl with one glove was wearing next to nothing!” he told his friend. “Where is Alameda? I hope her costume has a bit more fabric to it.”

“I don’t know,” said Rudy, “but we aren’t leaving here tonight without her. I don’t care what Cannonball says—there is always plenty of hanky-panky going on in the theater. I just saw a fellow tattooing a girl’s breast with a penis.”

“He used his penis to tattoo her?”

“No, he was drawing a picture of a penis. But that’s almost as bad.”

“Yes,” Derrick agreed fervently. “And this carpenter is suspicious. He could pass for Italian also. Who is he?”

Rudy craned his neck to view the carpenter. He was now standing back to observe his handiwork but was so wobbly he had to hold onto his wooden flames of hell. Probably roostered. “I don’t know. Let me ask Cannonball.”

“Oh, boys!” called Alameda, strutting out from the stage wings. A costumer who followed her had removed her striped tunic, and it was blatantly obvious where Alameda hadn’t been able to button up the bodice of her sister’s gown. Her abundant breasts spilled forth, jiggling as she walked. Alameda waved a headpiece contraption of some sort, garnished with many gaudy gold ostrich plumes. “Look at the hat I get to wear!”

The costume fellow was taking his job too seriously, cinching his measuring tape around the fullest part of her bust, so Derrick grabbed the hat from her. He whipped the tape from his beloved’s bust, crumpling it into the costumer’s chest.

“We need to go, Alameda. Give the fellow that hat.” Derrick whisked her striped tunic from the costumer’s arm and draped it over Alameda’s shoulders.

“But he is measuring me to alter my costume! Oh, it’s pretty and elaborate and feathery—”

Rudy was now striding toward them. “Let’s go,” he said shortly.

“But my feathery bodice—” Alameda protested.

“We can discuss this over dinner, my duck,” said Derrick.

“I need to practice my knots.”

Rudy spoke in his smooth performer’s voice as he uncoiled several lengths of various ropes from his steamer trunk.

Rudy had informed Derrick he would be used to test Rudy’s new act, so he had willingly sat in the chair. Rudy had stoked the corner stove to balance out the icy wind that managed to steal between the chinks of the new Union Pacific Hotel building. He had taken this room, one of the better ones in the building, before the train had become stranded. Now that another blizzard had hit the town just after they had delivered Alameda to Albuquerque House, Rudy was hoping Derrick would be stranded here in his room as well.

It was a delicious hope, and Rudy had already poured two whiskeys down Derrick’s parched throat. Derrick had willingly imbibed. After the strange doings of the day, it was understandable. Even after being in the circus world for a few years, Rudy couldn’t recall a day full of such fantastic doings as today. The day Derrick Spiro had been stranded in Laramie.

Rudy pulled a chair up next to Derrick’s and practiced slithering the length of
reata
rope between his fingers, weaving it in and out, testing its satiny quality.

“Am I supposed to try and break free?” Derrick asked.

“Yes. I’ll tell you when. Although here’s a little secret.” Rudy leaned into his friend confidentially. “Bear grease. Roll up your sleeves.”

Derrick removed his cuff links and rolled up his sleeves to reveal what Rudy knew to be his athletic and powerful forearms. “So,” he said casually, seemingly unaware that his large, beautifully tapered hands were riveting Rudy’s attention, “the carpenter is Eliazar Castillo, the Spanish knife thrower who probably stole Jeremiah’s red paint. Percy could have mistaken him for an Italian in his vision. When he saw someone getting all contorted over poor Kittie’s body.”

Rudy set down his
reata
and moved his fingers to Derrick’s necktie. Just the feel of the silk and the orange scent emanating from Derrick’s chest, plumped up his cock. “Yes, that’s entirely possible. You said he was acting quite disturbed.”

“Almost maniacal,” Derrick agreed. When he helped Rudy remove his necktie their fingers touched, and Rudy inhaled the citrus aroma. All he wanted to do was bury his face in the heated crook of that savory shoulder!

Rudy was not giving up on his ability to seduce this dashing politician. There had been more than a few men who had resisted but eventually caved under his suave charm. Derrick fancied himself a “regular, normal man”? Little did Derrick know. Most of the men who eventually twined their limbs willingly with Rudy, offering up their urgent, eager pricks for his delight, probably considered themselves “regular, normal men” to start with. That was part of the amusement in the seduction of men. Rudy enjoyed their resistance. It made it all that more delectable when they finally surrendered, to taste their virginal flesh simply melt with ardor underneath his questing mouth.