"Never on the bed you miserable, filth ridden whore. Never, never, never!"
New Arrival
The stagecoach rumbled to a shaky stop. The coachman set the brake and jumped off the seat. The powdered New Mexico puffed up like fine talc around his worn boots. The door flung open and Ruthie paused for a moment before gathering up her skirts and accepting the blistered hand of the coachman.
"Ma'am" he coughed out, attempting to muster a gentleman's poise.
Ruthie accepted his hand and noted the rough and ragged feel. The tell-tale signs of years of holding the leather strap that commanded his horse team to run their course. She tried not to cringe as she imagined such a leathery appendage against the silk of her folds. She said a quiet prayer that she would not be attending to him later that evening.
"Surely not" she thought. Keeng had plans for her. He had promised. This coachman would not have the money to rent her for five minutes. No, she would not have to worry about those ragged clubs trying to penetrate her most delicate of places.
"Only for a gentleman" she accidentally said aloud. The coachman smiled and gave her a slight bow. She was relieved that he could not read her mind and she feigned a smile at him as she stepped out of the coach.
She could feel the leers as she slowly stepped into the saloon. She was used to being stared at. She liked it, and it would be good for business. The johns that couldn't afford her would get so worked up they would double the earnings of the cut rate girls. Her presence was indeed a boon to the whole operation and she was certain she would see better rates than she did in that dive in Muscle Shoals, or was it Medina. She stopped for a moment, amused that she couldn't actually remember where she had just come from. "Now if I could just get a look at the ceiling, I would surely remember!" She covered her mouth with her handkerchief to stifle the giggle.
Ruthie Sutton was a whore. For as long as she could remember she had been turning tricks to earn her living. Many girls in her situation had a story. One of those stories that makes a person genuinely feel bad for her. "Oh, she became a prostitute to care for her brothers and sisters after her parents were unceremoniously slaughtered by some unpronounceable tribe of local savages." Or "She has a beloved relative in captivity in a far away land that requires an insurmountable ransom to rescue, and she is feverishly earning that money with two bit tit squeezes and two dollar blow jobs". No, Ruthie had no story like that. She was the daughter of a wealthy parson in Canton, Ohio and she absolutely hated that life. She could not stand having religion crammed down her throat, and she hated the promise of a prudish life as a "minister's wife", so she ran away. Ruthie quite unashamedly liked sex, and she liked money. She was very good at her profession and she commanded a hefty sum for her attention. Keeng was a tough negotiator, but Ruthie was certain she was one of the only girls that got to keep seventy percent - an almost unheard of split for this territory. She was wet with the thought of raw silver piling up in her horde. Ruthie slowed her stride and looked around, taking in the view of her new home, the Promenade.
The Promenade was the largest of the town drinking holes, and boasted a brothel with "clean" companionship. Keeng Phelps, proprietor, pimp, and bartender built the older portion of the building with lumber he scavenged from a frigate that had fallen prey to a Confederate iron clad. He named the hotel-saloon combo the Promenade, but had stopped correcting people on the pronunciation years ago.
"It's Prahhhh men ahhhhd" he used to scold. In time, he learned to accept the Americanized pronunciation and even named a gin infused lemon drink "Promenade" as a play on "Lemonade" and a high brow jab at his clientele.
Born in poverty, Keeng had struggled most of his life trying to live up to his name which his illiterate mother had intended to be "King". Sadly, the midwife's assistant was almost as illiterate and spelled his name with two e's instead of the traditional "i". Phelps has attributed his life of "almosts" to the fact that his name is almost correct. Keeng has a reputation far and wide for being one of the most reasonable pimps in the business. The fact that he preferred men over women helped him keep the interest in his stable more profit oriented, at least the female stable that is.
The gunshot rang out, echoing off the wooden walls of the small town, startling everyone in Ruthie's view. She ran over to the window of the saloon to see what was happening.
She felt a hand clasp around her upper arm. A strong hand, but a feminine hand none the less. She wheeled on the perpetrator that dared to touch her. "Let go of my arm bitch!" she growled as she locked eyes with the woman. The woman relaxed her grip slightly and looked her back in the eyes.
"You ain't from 'round here honey, so I'm gonna tell you how things is." The woman's hazel eyes burned right through Ruthie with the look of a concerned parent. "We don't watch gunfights here sweetheart. Dem boys don't always hit what they aimin' at and we can't have no shot whores up in here."
Ruthie felt her posture relax. The woman spoke like she remembered many locals in Alabama, yet she knew from the woman's posture that she was genuinely concerned for her well being. This had to be the Madarma as Keeng had called her.
Regina May Barrister was indeed from Alabama. Born to a wealthy family of cotton growers, she had been fairly well pampered until the war. Her father and brothers had all been lost fighting in the war. Her family's slaves had excused themselves from further servitude and Regina left home when the Union troops set fire to the back fields. She did not stay and wait to witness worse. She had no sisters, and her mother had passed delivering her youngest brother. There was nothing left for her in Alabama. The curvy brunette had started her life as a prostitute in Atlanta. She made a handsome living laying the rebel troops that wondered in from time to time, no doubt without permission from their commanders. When Sherman came through Atlanta, she once again felt the fire against her back as she left the town behind.
Regina met up with Keeng in Texas. She was whoring in Abilene and he had come in to play piano in the joint. Keeng had taken a lot of ridicule from the cowpokes for his "womanly" mannerisms, but the girls all looked out for him. When Keeng called for Regina to come work for him, he promised she would be his "Madarma" a word he made up meaning "chief whore".
"Git reddy hun, the boys always come in whoney after they been a killin' " Regina said with a smile on her face. "Git it ready gurls" Regina shouted to upper balcony leading to the rooms upstairs.
Neddy ran into the Saloon. He was always the first one in to report the news, hoping to get a discount drink and a free feel or two in return for delivering the news to the staff. He quickly threw himself on the stool and Keeng gently set a shot down in front of him urging him to begin. Neddy Jules, town drunk and gossip, lubricated his tongue with the watered down whisky, and as he placed his hand folded in his lapel, he made his announcement.
"Earl Rate is dead. Yup, uhm hmm. Hamilton McRae shot him dead in the street. I saw the whole thing." he proudly announced.
"And McRae, is he alright? Was he shot?" Regina asked trying to mask her panic.
As Neddy reached for Regina's leg, running his hand up her skirts a little toward her upper thigh, his smile had an almost lizard-like quality. Regina knocked his hand away.
"Out with it Neddy" she growled through her clenched teeth.
Neddy wiggled his empty shot glass in the air and Keeng refilled it habitually.
"Naw...the hardcase is fine. He is always fine" Ned sneered as he slowly sipped the shot; leering at Regina out of the corner of his eyes as he made the slurping sound.
Regina was visibly relieved and she began to primp herself. She knew that Hamilton "Hardcase" McRae always came in for a roll after he killed someone and she was his favorite whore.
Hamilton McRae was not the typical gunfighter. He had the look of an over-fed banker. He dressed in fine clothing that helped hide the paunch he had cultivated over his routine biscuits and gravy breakfast. He wore a pinstriped long coat and a red satin vest. His black gun belt held two matching pistols that were still smoking as he stood in the doorway to the saloon. His long dark hair hung like a curtain under his understated hat. His piercing eyes scanned the room through his heavily bearded face. To the casual observer, Hamilton appeared more of a dandy than a gunslinger. It was obvious the man made his living out of the sun and without breaking a sweat. Yet he carried himself with the confidence of a Texas Ranger. He was both alluring and nondescript, and he walked like he owned everything he surveyed.
Ruthie found herself astonished at the sight of the man.
"This is him?' she thought to herself. 'He doesn't look like a gunfighter". She had a vision of a v-shaped ruffian with leather chaps and trail dust. She found his low-cut gambler hat a stark disappointment compared to the outrageous ten gallon hats so popular amongst the wannabe cowpokes in the Deep South.
"I'll have him eating out of my hand" she smiled as she thought to herself. This was exactly the type of money she was used to getting and for very little effort. After all, he probably finishes half way before he starts like the presby deacons she used to service in Alabama. She gently placed her hands on her hips with a slight wiggle, watching his face to see if he noticed.
Hamilton noticed. He noticed everything. His very life depended on every detail.
"She is new" he said looking at Keeng.
"She is" Keeng said beaming "Now Mr. McRae, she is a little different; the normal price doesn't apply to her. She is here to entertain the men of quality in town." "Like yourself, of course." he nervously corrected.
"Right, let's give you a roll then shall we?" McRae looked at the smug blonde.
