Free Jack of Clubs by Bárbara Metzger Page B

trays.
    Everything was in order. It ought to be, for what he was paying the chef. Jack sampled a lobster patty before backing through the service doors to resume his watchful perambulation.
    At the table closest to the kitchens, he noticed a scrap of white fabric on the floor. A napkin, most likely, he thought, dropped by one of the card players, or a towel one of the waitresses had used to wipe up a wine spill. Either way, it offended Jack. His casino was a reflection on him now, and he would not appear less than pristine. He bent to pick up the cloth, reached down, and touched a foot. A tiny foot. A bare foot. A misbegotten, misdirected, meddlesome foot. A where-the-devil-was-Miss Silver-when-he-needed-her foot. It was under a white flannel nightgown, like a foot of surrender. A flag, that was.
    Luckily the gamblers at the table were busy placing their bets, so they did not hear the squeak from the foot’s owner, or the curse from the club’s owner.
    Jack stood up and thought furiously for a moment. Harriet could not stay there, of course, and she could not be seen. He’d be in trouble with the licensing officials. Worse, he’d be a laughingstock. Worse still, his club would lose all claims to sophistication, exclusivity and elegance. A child underfoot? A fellow might as well stay at home by his own fireside playing jackstraws with Junior.
    Just then a serving girl came out of the kitchen with a tray of filled wine glasses. Jack had hired the new girl on Downs’s recommendation because she was young and cheerful, rounded and rosy-cheeked under her freckles. She was just what Jack decided the club needed, to offset the brittle beauties like Rochelle he had already hired. The girl’s hair was more orange than red, but she would fit in, in the dark. Besides, Downs liked her, and the man was too serious by half. The captain’s capable assistant deserved a bit of liveliness in his life, too.
    Jack stepped in front of the young woman so his back was to the room, and stopped her progress by lifting one of the glasses off her tray. “Darla, is it?”
    â€œOr Dora, sir. I ain’t used to answering to the other yet.”
    â€œYes, well, Darla or Dora, I wish you to create a diversion.”
    He might have asked her to create the Taj Mahal the way she gaped at him.
    â€œCome now, Dolly, you are a bright young woman. I would not have employed you otherwise. Go over toward the front door where Mr. Downs is greeting the new patrons and make a scene. Nothing like crying fire, mind you, for I do not want to empty the place. I just wish everyone to look in that direction.”
    She was looking at him as if he’d sprouted another head, or devil’s horns on this one. “Mr. Downs, he said as how I was supposed to act like a lady.”
    â€œYes, but right now I need you to act like I am paying your wages. Which I shall raise if you do as I ask, instead of arguing.” He put a guinea on her tray to ensure cooperation, whether she understood her role or not.
    â€œA scene, he wants,” she muttered as she walked away. “But not a riot. And they said as how this position was an easy one.”
    Jack positioned himself behind one of the cardplayers, within easy reach of The Foot. He waited. Darla seemed to be arguing with Downs, although no one appeared to notice except Jack. She’d put her tray down, except for one glass. Now she looked over at her employer. Jack raised both hands, palms up. Up, more, louder.
    So Darla tossed the contents of the glass into Downs’s face, shouting, “How dare you touch me like that, you swine! I ain’t that kind of girl.” She raised her voice to a screech. “And I’m going to tell Cap’n Jack you pinched me, see if I don’t.”
    That had everyone’s attention, all right, calling out bawdy comments. Poor Downs had gone as pale as a ghost. “But I…That is, I