Ms. Bakerfield waved a hand, and a barman ambled to her.
“Another?” he said.
“Please.”
He seized a rum bottle and filled her glass. “You’re not from around here.”
“Aren’t I?”
He grinned. “How long will you—?”
“Long enough.” She raised the glass. “Salute.” She downed it, slapped it atop the bar. “Lovely.”
“We aim to please.”
She beamed and then glanced through a wall-mounted mirror, and over her shoulder, at a white-suited man, seated at a crowded table, who stared at her.
“He’s not the only one,” the barman said.
She shrugged. “Well, he’s the only one who’s drink I’d like to buy.”
The barman’s eyebrows elevated.
“Go on…” She watched the barman grin and then pour a drink, and through the mirror, deliver it to the suited man, and point at her.
The suited man peered at her, and she turned and smiled.
The barman returned to the bar, collected a half-dozen near-empty glasses, and dumped them in a steamy, soapsuds-brimmed sink. He scrubbed, rinsed, and stacked them atop the bar and then took up a towel and wiped one but, glimpsing in a far corner at an armed man who peered at Ms. Bakerfield, did a doubletake and all but dropped it. Suddenly, he examined Ms. Bakerfield—whose eyes darted away and didn’t return—plodded to her, dropped the towel on the bar, and wiped. “My saloon and I rather not play certain games.”
“Good to know.” She took-up a wallet. “Now, be a good pawn and grab my bill.”
“Provided this visit’s your first and last: on-the-house.”
“Does this mean I’ve missed you?” a voice said.
Ms. Bakerfield wheeled, saw the white-suited man.
“Say it isn’t so?” the man said.
“‘Tis so…” She frowned at the barman. “Forever I’m afraid.”
The man followed her eyes. “Jamison?” He smiled and stepped to the bar. “No worries: he’s been on his feet too long. Jay, for the lady and me, one more and then take a load-off, ay.”
Jamison scowled, poured two glasses, and trudged through a narrow doorway behind the bar, and the man snickered.
“What did you do?” he said.
She raised her glass. “I drank.”
The man took-up his glass and tapped hers, and they drank.
She thumped hers down and nodded at it. “One lovelier than the next.”
“Life’s often that way with women, as well.”
She chuckled. “Then you must not know many Saint Frances women.” She dug several bills out the wallet.
“No please,” the man said and reached inside his jacket. “Allow me.”
She tossed the bills atop the bar. “Next time.”
He peered at her.
“No worries.”
He leaned on the bar and examined her.
“Have a seat before you stain that suit, mister…?”
“Lovett,” he said and sat. “Frank Lovett.”
She stared into space. “Lovett, Lovett…” She lifted a finger. “‘Lovett’ as in Lovett and Co. landmines used in the war?”
He chuckled. “That’s Levy and Co. They’re government arms contracts. We’re ‘Lovett’ as in Lovett Land Development. Real estate.”
“‘We?’, Mr. Lovett?’”
“A Kansas City office and myself.”
She glanced over her shoulder at loud-speaking men at his table. “Your office?”
He looked. “No, folks I met tonight, but you know how it goes: When you’ve made waves in business, everyone you meet has a proposal.”
“So, you’re in Frances alone.”
His weight shifted. “I don’t believe I got your name.”
“Bakerfield. Christine Bakerfield.”
“Ah, and you couldn’t be alone…although I don’t believe I’ve seen your beau about.”
She laughed.
“You find something funny?!”
“‘Beau’—my husband hated when I called him that.”
“Ah, a husband.” Lovett panned the room. “And where is he?”
“Back home…in Princeton.”
He nodded. “A confident man, indeed.”
“‘Confident’?”
“He’d have to be to allow a beautiful wife to travel so far without him. If I were he, I’d pace past a window, day and night, with an eye on a horizon.” He smiled at her. “I wouldn’t get any rest.”
“Oh, if you were he, you’d rest plenty: he’s dead.”
His smiled faded. “My apologies.”
“Don’t trouble yourself—come midnight, it’ll be five years.”
“Midnight tonight?”
She nodded and then watched his forehead wrinkle.
“Well, I can’t imagine remembering such a date’s easy.”
“No, I’d say it’s easy for myself and several families given it’s tied to a robbery.”
Lovett looked at her.
“Yeah, some heartless swine robbed a family-ran bank for hundreds in upstart funds, killing a half-dozen.”
“Princeton, New Jersey, you said?”
“No, Mr. Lovett.” She peered at him. “Shatner Bank’s in Princeton, Missouri.” Lovett’s hand bumped his glass off the bar, and the glass shattered on the floor.