Free Under the Poppy by Kathe Koja

gents without daydreams, well, we give ’em the show to think on, the girls dressed up so pretty and fine, Jen with her needle-tracks covered, and Vera, and Pearl with her moony smile. And wily Puggy always thinking of new things for them to do, pretending to be princesses, or rubbing themselves with feathers, or the Roman Candle—the gents always go for that one—while our Jonathan plays so high-class you’d swear you were in a concert hall with the queen. He’s a good lad, Jonathan, does his best and never complains, not that he can, you know, but still. I’d like to catch the gent who cut him, I truly would.
    That first night we didn’t have Jonathan yet, nor Puggy, nor any of these girls—only two girls did we have, Lorraine and, what was it, Nora or Dora—Dora, yes. We didn’t even have the sign yet, only the name, Under the Poppy chalked mysterious-like on the wall outside. It was me on the door, Miss Decca the hostess, and Rupert the host and barkeep and coin-changer and everything else, telling the girls what to do, how to stand, how to flutter their fans: You’re the Queen of Sheba, he told Lorraine, sitting there with her tits out so you didn’t notice her face so much. And Dora, you’re her slave girl, you’re there to satisfy her however she likes. Understand? They didn’t really, but they were glad to be in out of the wet, and they would have done anything for Rupert; the ladies have always fancied him, not that he fancies them back.—Well, shouldn’t’ve said that, perhaps, but who cares anyroad? especially in a place like this? It’s his own affair who he fucks or doesn’t. Poor Miss Decca, she’s in love with him, you know, straight-up, and that’s not telling tales because anyone who spends a tick with her can see it. There’s some talk about them being sibs, but people only say that ’cause they live here together and aren’t wed or bedding, and people have to say something.
    That other’s her true brother, the showman, the puppet man from overseas, or wherever he says he comes from: they have that same foxface look, and the same air of, what you call it, secrecy. Like they both know something you don’t. But he wears his easier than hers, like for him it’s a sweety tucked into his pocket, and hers is a bone stuck in her throat…. Wish we’d had him in the old days, with his dolls, what does he call them? The mecs, right? They put on quite a show, quite a show, I was flummoxed as a trick myself, watching. I can’t get past how he makes one talk while he’s diddling with the other, I bet he could do three at once if he’d a mind to. That bony one, the Bishop he calls him, that’s a spooky toy, don’t think we’ll have much use for it here. The one thing the gents don’t like is to be scared.
    That very first night, I think we were the scared ones, were any gents going to come to us? Was the Poppy a good idea or not? But after the two queens of Sheba got done petting each other, and giggling around with their roostertail fans, the five men who were there stood in line for them. And the next night it was ten, and then thirty, and we were in business proper. We’ve never had to worry about the lucre until recently, all this commotion with the soldiers. They say there’s going to be a war, or something like. I imagine that’s why Rupert spends so much time with that Jürgen Vidor, keeping us out of harm’s way.
    We’ve had a shiny time of it here, most of the time. Vera and Velma showing up just as Lorraine was falling ill, and Jen getting tossed out of her circus act…. Puggy was a stroke of luck: if he hadn’t wanted a bit of smoke he might have wound up at that penny-gaff Gaiety instead! He says he was just passing through, and maybe that’s so, but he settled down quick enough. I like Puggy. He has ten bad ideas for every good one, but his best ideas are better than anyone’s. He found us Jonathan, for one.
    And I found us Lucy, I’m proud to say, just picked her