I ambled around listlessly, in search of company and a drink. I shouldered past some low-priced scarlet ladies and stopped in the middle of the Allen Street, inspecting my surroundings. Walking further down the street, I spied a large building, crowded with colorfully dressed women and fierce looking men. Reading the sign above the door, I turned to a medium-aged, rather portly sort, attired in what once was probably a black cotton suit, who was just walking past me.
“Sir, what is so interesting in that theatre over there?” I asked politely.
In what seemed a mixture of Cockney, Southern-ese, and perhaps Western slang, he drawled, “Well, stranger, that be the Birdcage Theatre. That’s where our here fallen angels and deadbeats bend an elbow. If you hang round there, you be sure to have a hog-killin’ time!” snorted the man.
Following my reporter instincts, I smelled a story. “Maybe I’ll drop in, and watch the action inside. I could use a shot of whiskey anyway,” I murmured mostly to myself, “something to help wash this apprehension from my body.” I knew the stranger had no idea what I had just said.
“Alright, but be sure to watch for bad company. I’d feel mighty sorry if you ran into a “curly wolf” of some sort!” Advice given, the man stalked away, resuming his walk through town. I walked on trying to picture a “curly wolf” – whatever it was. I made a note to learn some of the local jargon.
I turned and started to walk towards the Birdcage Theatre, moving around the throng of people in the streets. When I approached the doors, I paused momentarily, not quite sure what to expect. Then, moving confidently, I pushed open the swinging doors and walked inside.
I found myself in a dimly lit hall, bustling with drunken male patrons and scantily dressed women. People were everywhere, going in and out of the nearby darkened rooms. Whoops of laughter filled the crowded hall, so loud it sent me stumbling back into an empty corner just inside the doorway to collect my thoughts.
After my vision had adjusted enough to see clearly in the dim light, I cautiously stepped forward, almost tripping over a lady lying on the dirty floor. She looked up at me, smiling a crooked and mysterious smile. She wore a stained gingham top, one too tight for a woman of her physique, since it exposed more than half of her ample breasts. Long, blondish hair – obviously dyed – tumbled over her shoulders, covering a portion of her face. Her skirt was a decorative black and red, showing a generous portion of bare leg. When I tried to move past her, she grabbed my ankle, stopping me. “Hey, sweetie, you looking for someone special?” asked the woman, stroking one leg suggestively. “I can help solve that little problem for you, honey….”
Tugging my ankle away from the strange woman, I stuttered, “Um, I’m not really looking for anyone right now. I’m just taking a look around, seeing parts of Tombstone. I really, ah, want to be alone, if you catch my meaning, miss.”
Flush with a whiskey that apparently fueled her rage, the indignant woman flipped her hair over her shoulder and snapped, “Well, I don’t be liking you too much, anyway. Too stiff for your own good. That kind of attitude can get ya beefed round here, ya hear? Course, I don’t care a continental ‘bout you.”
Muttering something noncommittal, I continued surveying my surroundings, taking in everything. Men stumbled towards ladies, shouting and jeering at them. The women replied with a smile and a flick of their wrists, beckoning them into a room. I carefully started towards one of the darkened rooms, working around the activity going on in the main room.
When I stepped into the next room, I found himself among a jumble of tables, booze, and people. The occupants of the room were everywhere: sitting in chairs, on top of tables, up against the wall, or lying on the floor. Laughter boomed in every direction, and contentment filled the room. Everyone there was happy, if not slightly drunk, and enjoying themselves.
I made my way to the bar to order a drink, trying my best not to touch anyone who wasn’t sober. At the bar, I spoke to a short man with swarthy skin and dark hair, who was shouting at a nearby customer for trying to climb over the counter.
“Can I have a whiskey?”
“Sure, comin’ right up.” The bartender turned, filling a shot glass from a dark bottle containing no label. My stomach did a quick flip-flop, knowing that some unknown substance was about to invade its space. When he handed me the whiskey, he casually asked, “So… how long you been in Tombstone? I don’t think I seen ya here before?” “True, I haven’t been here before.” I extended my hand in what must have been a ludicrous act to the barkeep. “I am Stilson Hutchins. I write for the St. Louis Times, and I’m looking for stories to send back East.”
“Then you came to the right place, mister. Ole Tombstone got a lot ‘o action. There always be gunfights an’ brawls ‘round here. There’s always a man bein’ shot o’er here. Do enjoy your stay, mister.” The dark-skinned man then left to satisfy the needs of his other customers.
Suddenly a crash that sounded like breaking glass came from the other side of the theatre. Turning to where the sound came from, I saw the scarlet lady that I met when I first came in confronting a tall Mexican woman with long, black hair.
“I told you to stay away from my man, Margarita! Like he wants someone who’s as ugly as a burnt boot!” screamed the small, yellow-haired woman.
“Like you is one to talk, Gold Dollar. You’re so ugly you could make a freight train take a dirt road!” screamed Margarita, her face reddening in anger.
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