Five Whores for Denver

Of course, New York society didn't know what to make of us. We were young and fabulously wealthy from mysterious sources out west. Plus, I was clearly NOT a gentleman. Luckily, stories about the wild-west were en-vogue back then. So, they treated me like a cartoon cowboy. Which was paradoxical, since I was born two hundred miles EAST of Manhattan.

Society was just as mystified by Aimee. My wife was unquestionably the most beautiful woman in New York City. She had a style that reflected her French, Creole and planter roots. And her natural sensuality drove men wild.

The women, particularly the doyens, didn't know what to make of her. But Aimee was so seductively charming that she was a highly sought-after commodity among the "best" sort of people.

The problem was that, we both hated snobs and that killed any interest we had in being part of "society." I found the parties tedious. Aimee was equally bothered. But life had taught her how to disguise her feelings, especially her disdain. We mainly just existed for each other and that was good enough for both of us.

We had staff to take care of the mansion. So, we spent a lot of time traveling. The rail system had matured to a point where unthinkable distances were routine. It had taken us almost nine months to go from New Orleans to Denver in 1860. Now, we traveled from New York to Denver in a couple of days, comfortably ensconced in our personal railway coach.

That kind of convenience allowed us to visit places that were important to us. For instance, for our fifteenth wedding anniversary I took Aimee camping at the remote table rock where we first made love. Yet, that wasn't the best anniversary.

For our twentieth, I took Aimee all the way down to New Orleans. She was hesitant at first, given her associations with the place. But I told her that she just HAD to see a rising young musical talent. She thought I had lost my mind, since she knew I didn't like music. But she went along with it because she loved me.

The guy played the horn and sang something called "The Blues." It was considered " African" back then, strictly bawdy house music. But this particular fellow was getting a name for himself as a magician with that new art form.

He was only twenty-three years old. But he could mesmerize audiences with his soulful sounds. That was why Aimee and I were sitting in a rickety old hall in the French Quarter on the sultry night of July twenty-first eighteen hundred and eighty-one.

It had been a low-key affair to that point. The only special part was the magic of this guy's music. I could see that Aimee was entranced by his absolute artistry. I'd already bribed the proprietor. So, the youthful virtuoso came over to sit with us when he'd finished playing.

He was bright and charming, very good looking and he sported the latest, flash New Orleans style. He was obviously a ladies man and Aimee was by far the most beautiful woman present, even in her fortieth year. The man couldn't take his eyes off her. He began to outrageously flirt, and of course my sensual wife was happy to return his attention.

Money buys power. Accordingly, I was able to summon Alan Pinkerton, himself, down to my little office off Madison Square. I told him that I had a job for his agency, and I was willing to pay an absurd sum to get what I wanted.

Pinkerton was a Scot. He loved money. So, he pocketed the unheard-of sum of twenty-thousand dollars up front. It took a year. But his agents finally came up with a name and a location. Now it was time.

Aimee and the young man were sitting in the dim and smoky room, chattering away sociably, when I abruptly interrupted them. I said, "Louis is a very accomplished person and he has quite a story." They both looked at me puzzled. Why would I bring that up?

I added casually, "He taught himself to play the trumpet and he came down to New Orleans from Natchez back in seventy-four. He was just fifteen. He may only be twenty-three now. But he's already something of a New Orleans legend."

They were both staring at me mystified. Besides sounding like I'd lost my mind; how did I know all of that? I said smugly, "I'll let you two in on a little secret. But you will have to promise me that there won't be any unseemly displays."

They continued to stare at me. Aimee was baffled. Louis was getting angry. He said, "What's this all about, man??!!"

I leaned in conspiratorially and said, "I spent a lot of money to find this out. So, please take what I'm about to tell you as my gift to both of you."

I paused for effect. Then, with a melodramatic flourish I said, "Aimee, I want you to meet your son, Louis."

Aimee sat for a split-second speechless. Then she passed out colder than a mackerel. Louis just looked at me confused. I was trying to manage Aimee's dead body as I said, "Give us a second." He nodded still looking bewildered.

Aimee came around almost immediately. So, I hoisted her onto her feet and walked her out into the street. She was completely flustered as we stood under the gas lamps. I had never seen her like that. By way of explanation I said, "The first thing that I knew about you was that you were mourning the loss of your child. I love you. So, I paid Mr. Pinkerton to find him for you."

She looked like she was trying to believe me. But it was still just so overwhelming. She stared at me solemnly as I added, "Your boy was freed after the war. He grew up being taken care of by one of the older women in the house. He thinks she's his mom and we can walk away from here right now if you want him to keep believing that."

I said with sincerity, "I just wanted you to see what a fine and accomplished young man he's become." I kissed her and said appreciatively, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree" Then I added, "So, do you want to go back in there?" My wife's a warrior. She runs from nobody. So, of COURSE she wanted to go back in there.

Aimee's incredible violet eyes were flaming as she said, "What you've done is the kindest thing imaginable. My heart had a hole in it. Now, you've mended it. I will love you forever."

Aimee's son was still sitting at the table looking totally gobsmacked. We quietly sat down, and I explained the circumstance of his birth, without giving him too much of the painful detail. He understood. Every former slave would understand that story.

I said sincerely, "I know you think that Mama Elizabeth is your mother and for all intents and purposes she is. But my wife is your biological mother and she has mourned your loss every day of her life."

I finished with, "I just wanted her to see what a fine person you've grown into and how successful you've become." I added kindly, "I'm going to leave now. I know you two have a lot to talk about." They were both openly weeping as I made my way out the door.

*****

So, I closed the book on Aimee's regret and the years passed into the next century. A lot of the pleasure of growing old comes from sharing life's experiences with a special someone. And nobody was more precious to me than Aimee.

It's scary, when you get to the point where you're aware of the diminishing time you have left. That thought had never crossed my mind when I had uncounted days in front of me. Yet, one of the things about life with the right person, is the joy that comes with each passing day.

Like the Louisiana weather, Aimee was a woman of shifting moods. She could be sunny and silly and then deep and sympathetic in the same hour; whatever was necessary to ensure our happiness together.

In that respect, I have never known a woman so in tune with the moment. I don't know whether Aimee could sense my moods and then adopt herself to them; or, if we were just so alike. But we were totally sympatico in so many ways.

Sure, we had disagreements. Intellectually, Aimee was the strongest person I knew. She'd been forced to keep her nature locked behind adamantine walls just to survive. Now she had somebody to love, and who loved her in return. She could finally be herself.

My wife is a Cajun by birth. She's fiery. I benefitted from that passion even as we aged. But the ghosts of her past were too deep-seated to be totally banished. So, there were times when they would get the better of her. Sometimes she'd cry. Once in a while she'd fly into a rage. Yet, we never had a time when we didn't know why the other person acted or felt a certain way.

Myself? I had no real regrets. When I was pulling an oar in a whaleboat, I could never have imagined that I would be as wealthy as I was. I had lived a long life with a marvelous woman. And I'd spent nearly seventy adventurous years doing whatever caught my fancy.

We'd built a mansion on Oyster Bay, near Teddy Roosevelt's Sagamore Hill. Ours was an unpretentious little place; thirty rooms, a dozen baths and eighty acres. By that point in our life, both Aimee and I had gotten used to the better things in life.

Louis roomed with us when he was playing in New York City. He was a charming and intelligent addition to our family. Aimee adored him. His stepbrothers and sisters all thought that he was "jazzy" whatever that meant. I knew that was the type of music that he played. But somehow, I suffered by comparison.

I was still a sailor, at-heart. So, I wanted to spend my remaining time near the sea. I had a seventy-foot schooner docked at the foot of the property, in Oyster Bay Harbor. Aimee and I would explore up and down the east coast, often as far south as St. Augustine, even Miami. But I was the captain of that ship, not a hand on it.

Still, there was still one open account. And I knew that I would not die a happy man if that debt wasn't paid. It was the reason why the other part of the fortune I gave to Pinkerton was to track down one Esau Briggs.

Pinkerton was long-since dead. But his agency never quit. They finally located Briggs in Europe, which was why he had been so hard to find. The varmint might have scuttled overseas because he was afraid of me. But he stayed there because things were a lot more civilized.

Briggs had been living in London for the past fifty years, off of his father's money. And so, I went down to the Cunard office in Manhattan that very next day and bought a passage for two on the Mauretania.

London in 1911 was a splendid place. It was the capitol of an empire where the sun never set and the wealth that poured into that city had created monumental buildings and splendid mansions. We rented one of those on Berkeley Square.

Neither Briggs, nor I, were young men. And I would never have had Aimee, if he hadn't seduced Faith. So, it might sound obsessive to pursue a grudge over half a century. But it was time to draw a line under that account, once and for all. I had carried the emptiness of Faith's betrayal since the day I'd learned of it and I had to know the reason why.

Briggs had been the son of the richest man in New Bedford. Now, his circumstances were greatly reduced. By the first decade of the twentieth century, electric lighting had replaced whale oil lamps and Mr. Rockefeller's kind of oil was industry's lubricant of choice. So, the whaling industry had long since hit its apogee.

Briggs was living alone. He owned a little rowhouse off Drury Lane, on Dryden Street, on the back side of Covent Garden. The Theater Royal and the opera house were nearby, and the Garden itself was always busy. So, he was probably enjoying the good life. But things had been on a constant downward spiral for him financially.

Every morning, he would take coffee at a little shop on Maiden Lane, just off the market. I'd watched him for a couple of days before I spoke to him. No, I didn't plan to kill him. Too much water had flowed over the dam for that. And I had met and married the woman I was meant to be with. But Faith's shade still demanded satisfaction.

I approached Briggs as he sat at a table outside the coffee house. To ensure privacy, he had dragged it into a corner behind a faux-marble pillar. It was shady and pleasant back there. Briggs was reading last night's copy of the Daily Mail.

I had left Aimee at our residence. This was between me and my past. Aimee absolutely understood that. She had a few lurking specters of her own.

Briggs shoulders had a defeated slump as he lounged in his chair. It was like life was weighing him down. I remembered him as small and dapper, a real dandy. This man was obese. But he still wore the height of London fashion. It was threadbare, like it had been worn too many times. Perhaps it was his only outfit.

I felt myself slipping back to the way it was in the time that I'd pulled an oar. Briggs had never bullied me growing up. That would have been crazy. Since, I was a lot bigger and tougher than he was. But he had always treated me with contemptuous superiority.

He looked up startled and angry. How dare I intrude on his morning coffee. What he saw was a big and very rich gentleman; dressed in a bespoke brown silk Granville suit and vest, carrying an expensive walking cane. I was wearing a wide brimmed fedora, all the better to hide my face.

As I plopped down in the chair across from him, I said in a hail-fellow-well-met tone, "Hello Esau, it's been a long time." My familiarity puzzled him. I obviously knew him. But he had no idea who I was.

He said in an irritated voice, "I'm taking my morning coffee my good man. Why are you bothering me?"

I doffed my hat and leaned forward to look him directly in the eyes. I said in a menacing tone, "I wanted to talk to you about Faith Polk, you'd remember her as Faith Ivarsson." Then I put the hat back on. I wanted to keep my face hidden.

Briggs finally recognized me. His first expression was horror. It was as if his worst nightmare had sprung up on a London street. I said, sociably, "No, I'm not here to kill you. I probably should. But I've led a happy life. I just want to hear the story."

Then I gave him a look that disclosed my true feelings and added calmly, "It had better be truthful or I might reconsider."

He sputtered, "How can I remember an incident that took place fifty years ago??!!"

I said ominously, "I've remembered it every day of my life. Now it's time for you to lay those memories to rest for me. What happened between you and Faith?"

The old Esau Briggs was beginning to appear. He couldn't help it. He was just too fundamentally narcissistic. He laughed and said, "It was simple."

He paused to savor my look of pain, smirked and added, "I'd always wanted Faith. But she never had eyes for anybody but you. I was in Baltimore when I heard about the hurricane, and it gave me an idea. I knew you wouldn't be back for a couple of years, even if your ship wasn't in it. So, I made up a story."

He stopped, grinned, and said with a wink, "Your mother didn't believe me. But Faith did. It was like she expected something to happen to you. She told me that she had always known she'd lose you. She felt it, every time you sailed away. She said that she just loved you too much."

That shot an excruciating thunderbolt of agony through me.

Briggs was boasting now. He said, "Faith went into deep mourning. At first, she wouldn't eat, and she slept constantly. It was like she wanted to die too. I kept coming over, bringing her food, holding her while she cried."

He was getting into it, like he was reliving it, "I told her over-and-over that she had to let you go. That you were dead."

His conceited grin was becoming nauseating as he added, "She would constantly ask me if I was sure. I swore on a stack of bibles that it was true. I was a factor and we knew those things. Your ship was one of the ones that was lost, and you were gone."

He glanced at me amused. "Then one day, she was crying, and I was holding her. She looked up, just for reassurance I think, and I surprised her with a deep kiss. She resisted at first. But I knew that all of her pent-up feelings had to go someplace. Finally, she groaned and began kissing me back. That was the first time."

He stared at me, taunting, "Her tits were just as beautiful as I imagined, like big soft pillows. And she was absolutely wild once I got her going. It was like she couldn't get enough of it." I knew Faith, she was both passionate and needy. She'd be insatiable once the line got crossed.

Briggs laughed and said, "I'd been enjoying her tight little cunny for a couple of months when she announced that we were going to have a baby. She was overjoyed."

Could the pain get any worse?

Briggs finished his coffee and said dismissively, "Of course that wasn't going to happen. She'd been fun for a while. But the thrill of conquest had already worn off. I was gone on the next ship to France."

Then he added mockingly, "I hear she died having the kid." He chuckled and said, "Serves her right. Women are just cunts."

I was staring into Briggs's smug face while he recounted my wife's debasement. He was enjoying my look of pain and sorrow. It was the last thing he ever saw. The jury was back. The verdict was rendered. The penalty would be death.

Sword canes were popular in London prior to Bobby Peel's Metropolitan police. They were the only way a gentleman could defend himself, short of openly carrying a blade. So, there were plenty of nice ones still available.

Mine was a beautiful lacquered piece, black with a big shiny brass knob. Hidden inside, firmly attached to the knob, was an ultra-thin, two-foot, razor sharp, tempered steel rapier. I had been covertly slipping it out, as I listened to Briggs boast about my wife's ruin.

He had an instant to realize what was about to happen. His eyes filled with panic. I hissed with fifty-two years of pent-up hatred, "This is for Faith!!"

Then I used my fearsome strength to drive the blade up from underneath the coffee table and directly into his heart. The kill was silent and clean. There was no blood, just death. His look of dread vanished almost instantly, to be replaced by one of nothingness.

I secured Brigg's corpse with my left hand, while I slipped the sword back into the wooden cane body with my right. Briggs deserved much worse. But that was all the justice I could administer under the circumstances. I prayed there was a hell.

Then I made a production of bidding Briggs's carcass a fond adieu, just in case anybody was watching. People would eventually realize he was stone-cold dead. But by that point, I would be a phantom. The business with my past was concluded and the account had finally been closed.

I had mixed emotions as I strolled back to our place. The debt had been wiped out and I could spend my remaining days with my perfect friend and lover. Yet, I still had to wonder what my life would have been like if Esau Briggs had never been born.

Aimee was waiting with the guarded look that she had perfected in her former trade. I said simply, "He's dead." She asked the practical question, "Any witnesses?"

I shrugged and said, "Probably... But they only saw Briggs talking to a sport in a fedora, not a financial tycoon like me. He died too fast to make a fuss." She said, "Any regrets?"

I said, "Only that I won't live forever. Because, I have the world's most wonderful woman to spend my life with. I have no misgivings about dispatching that son-of-a-bitch."

She said, "What happens next?" I said, "Let's do the grand tour, London, Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Rome. I want to stay in Europe until next spring."

My canny wife got that familiar look. She knew I needed comforting. It was early afternoon. But Aimee reached over, took me by the hand and led me toward our bedroom. She wanted to make a salient point about our eternal partnership.

Her statement amounted to a couple of hours of unbridled passion. It was a wonder to me that a seventy-two-year-old man could perform like I did. But of course, anything is possible when your partner is as sensual as my incredible wife.