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our take for the evening. I was happy to see that he was struggling with the weight. Like every business in Dawson, we accepted gold dust as legal currency. “Trouble?” he growled as the last of the girls slipped away.
    â€œNo,” I said as he dropped the bag in the desk drawer, which he’d reinforced with a cage of steel bars. I’d never lived in a more law-abiding town, but we didn’t take any chances. I locked the drawer and slipped the key into my reticule. Time to go home and sleep. I’d do the books and banking later.
    â€œYoung Murray might work out as head bartender,” Ray said, standing back while I locked the office door.
    â€œI hope so. That’ll take some of the pressure off you.” Our previous head bartender had left town abruptly. We needed a new man to put in charge, but Ray was having trouble finding someone he could trust with not only the earnings but also the liquor.
    The male employees, the bartenders and croupiers, were Ray’s responsibility. I managed the percentage girls—who came in at midnight when the stage show ended to dance with the men—and the performers. I also kept the books.
    Mary came out of her room as we walked down the hall. Her black eyes glanced down to avoid looking at Ray.
    â€œGood morning, Mary,” I said. “I won’t ask how you slept, as I’m sure the racket kept you up all night. I hope you were comfortable.”
    â€œI slept fine, Mrs. MacGillivray,” she whispered. “I can ignore the noise.”
    â€œA useful talent. Mary, this is Mr. Walker, my business partner. Ray, Mary is beginning employment in Mrs. Mann’s laundry today, and I offered her a room until she finds something more permanent. And a good deal quieter.”
    â€œPleased to meet ye, Mary,” Ray said, with a surprised look at me.
    Mary blinked.
    â€œHe said he’s pleased to meet you,” I told her. Ray hailed from the teeming tenements and shipyards of Glasgow, and his accent could be almost indecipherable to the uninitiated. He was a tough little Scotsman with a nose mashed flat enough to spread out in several different directions and a mouthful of broken or rotting teeth. He stood barely five foot six and didn’t carry an ounce of perceptible fat or muscle on him—the visible heritage of a hard Glaswegian childhood.
    â€œIf you’re ready, I’ll walk with you to Mrs. Mann’s, Mary. You can get something for breakfast there.”
    â€œI have no money,” she said.
    â€œI’m sure your meals will be included as part of your wages.”
    The downstairs rooms were empty, save for Irene sitting primly at a big round table by the far wall under a not-veryprim portrait of a lush nude with somewhat unrealistic bosoms. It would never hang in the National Portrait Gallery, but the customers liked it. She—Irene, not the painted nude—stood up as we approached.
    I looked from her to Ray and raised one eyebrow. He blushed. “I’ve invited Irene for a wee breakfast, Fiona. Do ye want ta join us?”
    I almost said “yes” just to see the expression on his face. I resisted the temptation.
    Irene looked Mary up and down and turned up her nose. “Heard you had trouble upstairs, Mrs. MacGillivray,” she said with an unnecessary amount of relish.
    â€œIt was nothing I can’t handle. Enjoy your breakfast. Come, Mary, mustn’t keep Mrs. Mann waiting.”
    I was half-afraid a bitter Chloe would be waiting for me outside. But fortunately—for her—she had taken her leave. I doubted I’d see her again. There were plenty of dance halls in Dawson, and she’d find employment in another one soon enough. If she kept on drinking, which it was almost certain she would, she would be fired from each one, gradually descending the ladder of what passes for respectability in the Dawson demi-monde, forgetting about me as new resentments crowded