All for a Story (18 page)

“He said that?”

“More than once. And if he was here the day that awful man came . . .”

Monica felt herself on the precipice of guilt for having been such a burden to the man, until a certain resentment took over.

“Why didn’t he say anything?”

“Would you have listened?”

For that she had no answer, at least not one that would satisfy either of them, so she dug into her purse, found her mirror, and checked to see what damage Zelda had done to her face.

“I should not have done that to you.”

“No kidding, Katie.” The sting had disappeared, but the tinge of pink remained.

“If you like, someday I will tell you about Edward. Better you
should know the truth, rather than to make up your own story. Is that not so?”

“I suppose.” But she didn’t care anymore about Mr. Moore and Zelda Ovenoff, if they had a torrid affair or true love or a simple, secret friendship. She positioned her mirror, seeing one brown eye, encased in black kohl, beneath a brow tweezed to a thin, perfect arch. A modern eye for a modern girl.

“You modern girls.”
What did she care of one old woman’s disdain?

She snapped the compact closed just as the door to Mr. Moore’s office opened to allow Tony Manarola, looking more shifty and stooped than usual, to exit. The man shuffled straight to the rack, where he retrieved his overcoat and hat before taking his silent leave. Max stood in the doorway, watching.

“What’d you do to him?” Monica asked. “Knock him upside the head with your Bible or something?”

“Just talk.” He crooked his finger, beckoning. “You’re next.”

She walked as if the worn wooden floor were piled with snow, her feet growing numb with each step, and when she stepped across the threshold, the chill spread to her entire body.

“No wonder Ed was such a crank,” she said, vigorously rubbing her arms in an attempt to generate warmth. “It’s colder than anything a lady ought to say in here. Ever hear of a radiator?”

“On the fritz.” He gestured for her to sit down before settling himself behind Mr. Moore’s plain, empty desk.

“Well, then we better make this quick before I turn into a penguin.”

“Clever,” he said in a way that wouldn’t allow her to believe him.

Perhaps it was a good thing the office was so frigidly cold. It would keep her from getting too comfortable, too compliant. The cold sharpened her mind, kept her on edge, though it did tend to
draw her to the only spot of warmth in the room —that being Max himself. She sat a little taller and thrust out her chin in defense.

“I meant what I said out there, you know. About keeping the Monkey Business column. I believe we do have readers who follow you and whatever shenanigans you choose to engage in. I’m merely suggesting a new focus.”

“Let me guess. Tea parties? Tent revivals? Maybe a quilting bee?”

“No,” he said, riffling through a pile of newspaper clippings. “Nothing quite so extreme. I thought you might be interested in this.”

Max half stood from his seat to reach across the desk and hand her a square of newsprint. She, too, had to stand to take it, and rather than return to her chair, chose instead to ease one hip on the desk. When she did, their faces were at the same level —equal for a second —until he sat back down.

What he’d handed her was a photograph of a woman. Not a movie star, not some grande dame of politics. Just a plain, ordinary woman —
plain
being the kindest word possible to describe her features. The photograph was close-up and unflattering. More like a candid shot than anything the woman posed for.

“Am I supposed to know who this is?”

“Read the caption.”

Monica unfolded the small strip below the photograph and read the brief lines.

Anti-flirt leader, Miss Alice Reighly, is president of a club whose members say they are tired of being whistled at.

She looked up at Max. “So?”

“So, that’s your next assignment.”

She slid off the desk and returned to her chair. “Assignment as in, what?”

“As in, find that club, join in, and write about it. Let us see what happens when Monkey gives up the business of flirting.”

He looked so smug sitting there behind the desk, nothing like the sweet guy who had shared a drink with her in a bank vault. There was an accusation lurking behind his cool facade, and she could either squirm beneath the unspoken weight of it or force him to speak it outright.

“What are you getting at?”

“It’s an opportunity for investigation, just like you said you wanted to do. Go, blend in, find out just what these women are trying to accomplish by taking a stand against flirting.”

“Are you calling me a flirt, Mr. Moore?”

Her intent had been to make him squirm, but he appeared to have anticipated her question and dodged it easily.

“It’s what makes you perfect for the story. You look surprised.”

“Insulted is more like it.”

“You flirted with me the first day we met.”

“I wanted you to feel welcome.”

“It was my uncle’s funeral.”

“I wanted to lighten the mood.”

“I don’t think you realize that you’re doing it. Flirting, I mean. More than that, I don’t think you understand how dangerous it can be. A fellow could get the wrong impression —think you’re the type of girl that you aren’t.”

The memory of Bernardo and his men flitted through her mind, but she kicked it away with a cross of her legs and leaned forward. “And just what kind of a girl do you think I am, Max?”

“You see?” He popped out of his chair and paced the width of the desk, hands jammed down into the pockets of his slacks.
“There you go again. I don’t think you ladies realize what it does to a guy —the thoughts it puts into his head when you bat your eyes and show your legs, or come running when we whistle.”

“Who’s whistling?”

“That guy in the car when we were walking to the deli. And even that gangster, King.”

“Well, he didn’t kill us, did he? These might just be the big brown eyes that saved your keister.”

He was directly in front of her now, leaning against the desk. “I worry about you.”

She went a little flippy inside and moved her foot in a slow, calculated circle, hoping to buy both Max’s attention and a little time to calm the tiny waves of pleasure at the thought of his concern.

“Tell me,” she said at last, “this worry of yours. Is it just for me? Or for all of the fairer sex?”

“I’m trusting you to do the right thing for both. Now go. Be a journalist; find the story.”

At some point the room had ceased to be so cold, or maybe her own body, fueled by pride and protection, simply brought itself to a compromising comfort. Either way, she remained motionless until Max, in a move of obvious dismissal, returned to his place behind the desk and began shuffling through his clippings once more.

Don’t smile at flirtatious strangers —save them for people you know.

ANTI-FLIRT CLUB RULE #6

THE FIRST HURDLE was finding the meeting. For a woman bent on changing the way of women, Alice Reighly was sure secretive about the meeting place. It took an entire afternoon with Anna manning the telephone directory, calling every
Reighly, A.
in the book, asking if she (or he) was the one affiliated with the club. They found her just in time, as there was a meeting that very night. It took an hour combing through city maps to find the address on Harvard Street, then two streetcars, and finally half a block’s walking before coming across a hand-lettered scrap of canvas hanging from the banister of a row of small apartments.

ANTI-FLIRT CLUB

7:30

DOWNSTAIRS (BASEMENT)

Basement.
At least she’d dressed warm —wool skirt, sweater, and galoshes. The perfect outfit to blend in with the other plain
Janes bent on wiping the wink off the face of the earth. Her crushed-velvet hat was pulled low over her ears, but she maintained that its silk lining served dual purposes: to warm her ears and serve as a reminder that no serious journalist should ever relinquish her grip on fashion.

A walkway stretched along the fronts of the apartments, bending around the corner of the last in the row. She walked cautiously, hunkered down, embracing more secrecy than she’d felt with any speakeasy. She should have called Max, let him know the address so when some lowbrow tabloid unapologetically reported the discovery of a pretty girl found chopped up after being lured by the promise of a more pious existence, he’d be able to identify the body.

The walkway ended with a set of narrow steps dimly lit by a single bulb and a strip of light peeking out from beneath a solid door at the bottom. She took a deep breath before taking the first step, then held it for all the rest, exhalation being the promised reward for not turning back. Once there, she pressed her ear against the door, hoping to hear some clue that she’d come to the right place. Nothing —although the muffled silence could be attributed to the cushion of silk and velvet between her ear and the door.

Then, the sound of conversation. Women, and giggles, and footsteps descending the stairs at a quick pace.

“. . . and so I told him, ‘Look, Mr. Morton. You might be my boss, but that doesn’t give you access to my personal files, if you know what I mean. I’m a secretary, not a secret Mary.’”

“So’d you slap him?”

“Nah. I’m two weeks behind on my rent already. I just —oh, hello.”

The women appeared to be close to Monica’s age, and since
the narrowness of the stairwell wouldn’t permit them to walk side by side, the first sped up for the final steps and came straight to Monica, hand outstretched.

“I’m Junie. Are you here for the club?”

“I am,” Monica said, surprised by the girl’s grip. Mr. Morton had better mind his mischief.

“I’m Stella,” the second girl said, keeping her own hands firmly clasped within each other. “What’s your name?”

“Maxine,” Monica said without hesitation. It was a decision she’d come to on the second streetcar —a necessary step to protect her anonymity. Thankfully, neither girl had offered a last name, leaving her free to guard her own.

“Good to meet you.” This from Junie, obviously the more talkative of the two. “Come on, we’ll show you in.” She grabbed the door and dragged it open —no easy feat, as it appeared to be made of solid steel. Stella entered first, and Monica followed, thankful to be sandwiched between two returning veterans of flirting forbearance.

They entered a plain hallway, lit only by the light coming from an open door halfway down.

“Why all the underground secret stuff?” Monica asked, instinctively dropping her voice to a whisper.

“Oh, it’s not a secret,” Junie said, further establishing herself as the more forthright of Monica’s two new friends. “I think it’s just part of Miss Reighly’s philosophy of modesty.”

“Interesting.” Though she’d hoped it was more to do with a fear of attack by forward-thinking flappers.

While the journey thus far had been spartan and cold, crossing into the actual meeting space more than made up for the previous eerie atmosphere. The room itself was set up modestly with rows of chairs numbering no more than twenty and a battered wooden
podium at the front. No flowers or ribbons or decorations of any kind. What the room lacked in ostentation, it more than made up for in charm. And warmth. Obviously the beneficiary of an active heating system, the room offered a warm embrace and encouragement for a girl to banish her overcoat to one of the rows of hooks along the back wall. Monica was wrestling with the buttons of her own when a different kind of warmth assaulted her —that in the form of a bleached blonde determined to help her with the process.

“Welcome! I’m Arlene. Let me get that for you.”

“I’m fine,” Monica said, knowing her notepad and pencil were tucked into the lining.

“Nonsense. Since we don’t have any men around, somebody’s got to help a girl out.”

In a flash, Monica’s coat was gone and Arlene was enveloped by a flock of chattering girls. She’d been prepared to face a roomful of crab apples; instead, she found herself in the midst of vibrant, vivacious voices streaming from women of all shapes and sizes —most of them her own age. Nobody looked like she’d fallen out of a fashion magazine, but neither did anybody lack a comfortable, modern style. These were shopgirls and secretaries with bobbed hair and light makeup. Quite a few were smoking cigarettes, and an impromptu foxtrot lesson was taking place in a corner at the front of the room.

One by one they stopped and grabbed her hand. Lucy, Francine, Dalia, Marie.

“Maxine,” she said, over and over, until she believed it more than she didn’t.

A girl named Emma Sue with soft, rounded features to complement a mass of equally rounded curls took Monica’s arm and led her to a long table covered with a white cloth, where platters of doughnuts and pots of coffee waited.

“Thanks,” Monica said, taking a steaming cup from a tall, skinny redhead. She grabbed a doughnut from the top of one of the pyramids and submerged it.

“You’re a dunker!” Emma Sue exclaimed with the enthusiasm of finding a long-lost sister.

Monica matched her tone. “Is there any other way?”