Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book) (16 page)

      Drat the man!

      Mr. Godfrey pulled out the chair next to my desk and made as if to sit in it. I knew what that meant. He wanted to talk. And talk, and talk. Well, I didn’t want to listen. Hoping I didn’t sound too rude, since Mr. Godfrey was, after all, one of Ernie’s clients, I said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Godfrey, but I must consult with Mr. Templeton now. Thank you very much for the flowers, and have a lovely day.” And I held out my hand for him to shake. The poor man couldn’t do anything else, thank God.

      As soon as he left, I went into Ernie’s office. “When are we going to Pasadena?”

      “After I return Mrs. Von Schilling’s telephone call.”

      Humph.

      However, he’d meant it, I guess, because it wasn’t another ten minutes before he left his office again, this time clad in coat and hat and bouncing some keys in his hand. “Ready?” he asked with a smile.

      “One minute, and I will be.” I retrieved my hat and handbag from my desk, straightened my suit jacket and skirt, plopped my hat on my head, and said, “Ready.”

      “Good. Come on, kiddo.”

      Because I was pleased with Ned’s recent industry, I made Ernie take the elevator down. “Don’t worry, it’s safe,” I assured him. “And I know how to operate it.”

      “I’m not worried. But the stairs are quicker.” The elevator groaned to a stop in front of us, and I pulled the lever that opened the doors. “And they’re quieter.”

      “Not when you’re galumphing down them,” I said, feeling perky.

      When the elevator got to the first floor, I had to experiment a couple of times before I got the car level with the floor. I didn’t want to trip—more, I didn’t want Ernie to trip. I figured it would be bad form to cause one’s employer to fall splat on the floor because of something one did.

      Again, Ned and Lulu were conferring when we entered the lobby. I waved at them both. Ernie said, “Twenty-three skidoo.”

      Lulu waved some fiery red fingernails at us. Ned just stared. He wasn’t a particularly verbal young man.

      I was eager to see what kind of an automobile Ernie drove. I didn’t expect it would be a fancy model, like the ones driven by Mr. Easthope and Harvey. Actually, Harvey didn’t drive his big, enormous Pierce-Arrow Series 33. He had a chauffeur on staff to drive it for him. I was right. Ernie led the way out of the Figueroa Building and down the street a ways until he got to a Studebaker that looked as if it had been around the block a few times. Around several blocks several times each, actually. He opened the door on the passenger’s side. “Slide on in, kiddo. It’s not fancy, but it runs like a top.”

      “I’m sure,” said I, not wanting to make him feel inferior by indicating in any way whatsoever that I wasn’t accustomed to being driven around in such dilapidated automobiles.

      Which pointed out to me once again that one is constantly bombarded with evidence of prejudices one might not even know one possesses until they figuratively slap one in the face. The truth is that I was inwardly sneering at Ernie’s car. And that automatic sneer was mine only because I’d been privileged to have been born into a wealthy family. And being born into a wealthy family had been pure dumb luck on my part. See how silly human beings can be without half trying? I determined not to indicate by so much as a lift of a lip that I considered Ernie’s Studebaker beneath me. Well, it was beneath me, in reality, but not in
that
way.

      He got in on the driver’s side and grinned at me. “Not what you’re used to, is it, Miss Allcutt?”

      I frowned at him. “If I’m supposed to call you Ernie, you really should call me Mercy, you know.”

      He pressed the starter button on the floor. At least he didn’t have to crank the silly thing. “Mercy. That’s short for Mercedes, isn’t it?”

      “Yes.”

      “Classy name.”

      “Is it?” Curses! Now even my name was classy. It occurred to me that I might never be able to fit in with the common herd.

      But that was defeatist thinking, and I wouldn’t allow it to fester in my bosom.

      “I was named for an aunt,” I told him. “That’s not so classy.”

      He shrugged as he leaned out the window and looked at the traffic passing by on Seventh Street. “She got money, this aunt of yours?”

      “She’s dead,” I said, not caring to go into
that
issue. In fact, my aunt Mercedes had been wildly wealthy, which is one of the reasons I was named after her.

      “But she had money, didn’t she?”

      Darn it, he wasn’t going to let the subject drop, was he? “I suppose she was fairly well to do.” I spoke repressively, and hoped he’d catch on to the fact that I didn’t want to talk about my family’s relative wealth.

      “ ‘Fairly well to do,’ you say. Ha! I bet she was rolling in it.”

      “This is a very unsuitable conversation, Ernie. My family’s financial status has nothing to do with the matter at hand, and I don’t care to discuss it.”

      I’d used my lady-of-the-manor voice, the one I’d learned from my mother when she spoke to disobedient servants, and I could have kicked myself as soon as I heard what I sounded like. It didn’t seem to faze Ernie, who grinned as he guided the Studebaker out into traffic. He turned north on Hill, slung his right arm over the back of his seat, and steered one-handed.

      “All right, kiddo,” he said at last. “I won’t tease you about your bags of money.”

      “Bags of money? Nonsense!”

      But he was right, and we both knew it. Why was it that every time I seemed to sense a lessening of the social gap between me and the world I strove to enter, somebody like Ernie Templeton came along and ripped out the fragile stitches I’d sewed in an attempt to mend the gap? It was a very annoying problem, but I vowed I’d overcome it or die trying.

      Then I decided there was no reason to carry things
that
far.

      
Nine
 

We’d been tooling along Figueroa Street, heading vaguely northwards for about twenty minutes, before my temper was under control enough to initiate a conversation. “Whereabouts does Mr. Godfrey’s fiancée live?”

      “I dunno. But I got some information that she’s working at a bookstore on Colorado.”

      I gaped at him. “In
Colorado?
”

      “
On
Colorado.”

      Oh. “Colorado is a street in Pasadena?”

      “Right. It’s the main east-west street. It’s the street the floats and bands go down on New Year’s Day.”

      “Ah. Yes, I’ve seen pictures of the Tournament of Roses Parade. It must be lovely.”

      “It’s okay. I saw it once.”

      “It must have been beautiful.”

      “Yeah.”

      “When you come from back East, as I do, you probably appreciate seeing all those flowers in the middle of winter more than you do if you’re from around here.”

      “I guess.”

      So much for that topic.  After about another hour or so of driving through some very lovely scenery, Ernie making an occasional comment of a neutral nature, we reached the city limits of Pasadena. His next comment was not in the least neutral. “I’ll take you down Millionaire’s Row, kiddo. You’ll feel right at home.”

      It was far from professional behavior on my part, but I lost my temper again. “Darn it, Ernie Templeton, why do you persist in flinging my origins in my face? I’m trying very hard to be a normal, everyday working girl.”

      He let out a roar of laughter that nearly deafened me, and he proceeded to laugh so long and so hard, he actually had to pull over to the side of the road, pull his handkerchief from his pocket, and mop tears from his eyes. I glared at him the while, cross as crabs, my arms folded across my chest, unable to see any reason whatsoever for him to have succumbed to such hilarity. After several minutes of that nonsense, he calmed down some and I spoke again. “And what, if I may be so bold as to ask, is so funny about wanting to be perceived as a normal, everyday working girl?”

      “You’ll probably never understand,” he said, his voice weak from the strain of so much laughter.

      “I’m sure I can if you explain it to me,” I said coldly.

      After wiping his eyes one more time, he stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket, took a swig from that accursed flask he kept in his other pocket, turned in his seat until he faced me, and said, “You don’t get it, do you?  Don’t you know that any other girl in the universe would trade places with you in a heartbeat, if she had the chance? You’re the only person I’ve ever met who’s willing—hell,
eager
—to trade a life of luxury and ease for one of toil and care.”

      “Toil and care?” I’d never heard myself sound so sarcastic. “My, my, aren’t we poetic all of a sudden?”

      He choked back another laugh, I think, to judge by the noise he made. “I’m a real poetic guy, Mercy. And you’ll still never understand.”

      I only glowered some more, and he went on. “Well, hell, how could you? You can’t possibly comprehend the irony of it all.”

      “I understand irony perfectly well,” I said, offended. “But I can’t discern any in this instance. For your information, there’s a very good reason for me to want to become a part of the worker proletariat.”

      He threw his arms out in an expansive gesture. “See? That’s exactly what I mean! Do you honestly think that—oh, take Lulu LaBelle as an example—do you think she considers herself part of your
worker proletariat?
”

      Put that way, I guess he had a point, although I’d never admit it. “Not unless she reads a lot. Or takes up with a union organizer, I guess. Which isn’t impossible, curse it!”

      “No, I don’t suppose it is,” he said. And with one last gurgle of suppressed laughter, he turned and began driving again.

      I sat next to him, fuming, and wishing with all my heart that I could prove myself of use to my employer, who still clearly believed me to be a spoiled rich girl who was only taking a job on a lark. Short of performing some sort of heroic deed that none of my friends in Boston would dream of performing because they’d consider it beneath him, and of forcing Ernie to acknowledge my value afterwards, I couldn’t think of how to go about it.

      Orange Grove Boulevard, the “Millionaire’s Row” Ernie had mentioned, didn’t remind me of home one little bit. It was ever so much greener and more fabulous than Boston. Rolling green lawns, huge trees, and gigantic mansions surrounded by enormous iron fences abounded. Boston was much more subdued than this, although most of the wealthy there had palatial homes outside the city. I don’t think I’d ever seen so many flowers, either.  I remember sucking in my breath at one point and whispering, “Oh, my!”

      “Pretty swell, isn’t it?”

      “I should say so.” For a fleeting moment, it crossed my mind to try to persuade my parents to move to Pasadena. Fortunately, that insanity passed almost as soon as it entered my head, and I reminded myself that I was here primarily because my parents weren’t.

      Even after we turned onto Colorado Boulevard and left Orange Grove behind, Pasadena looked like a pretty nice place. “Is this Pasadena’s downtown district?”

      “Yeah. Pretty keen, huh?”

      It was keen, all right. And ever so much cleaner and tidier than the downtown area of Los Angeles in which I worked. Mountains loomed to the north, looking protective and purple in the late-morning sunlight. The air was clean and fresh—and hot.

      “I think we’re getting close,” Ernie said after a few minutes. “Look for a sign that says Vorland’s Books.”

      “Very well.” I scanned both sides of the street, trying not to admire the architecture and shrubbery too much, since I didn’t want to get sidetracked. We spotted the building at the same time. “There it is!”

      “Ah, there it is.”

      I guess we’d found it. “What is this woman’s name, Ernie?”

      “June Williams.” He’d stuck his arm out the window to signal for a left turn on a street called Hudson Avenue, and upon which I presumed he aimed to park.

      “And she was engaged to marry Mr. Godfrey?”

      “So he says.” He zoomed into a space vacated by a departing Packard Eight Sedan with a liveried chauffeur behind the wheel. I wondered if that automobile belonged to one of those grand mansions we’d driven past.

      I stared at him. “You mean you don’t believe him?”

      The rubber of his wheels screeched against the curb, making me wince, and he turned off the engine. Glancing at me, he said with one of his sassy smiles, “Hell, kid, I don’t believe anybody until I get all the facts.”

      Ernie climbed out of the Studebaker, and I remained in the passenger seat. It only occurred to me when he’d opened my door that perhaps women in my line of work didn’t have doors opened for them all the time. Nuts. There was more to this being-of-the-people nonsense than I’d thought about before I attempted it. Ernie didn’t sneer at me or anything, so I guess he was accustomed to opening doors for ladies. Therefore, I continued the conversation as if no unpleasant thoughts had interrupted it in my mind. “You don’t think you have all the facts yet?”

      “I don’t know. We’ll see. Let’s go find out what Miss Williams has to say.”

      Sounded like a good idea to me, so I walked alongside Ernie to the bookstore.

      Miss June Williams proved easy to find. She approached us, as a matter of fact, with a saleslady’s smile on her lips. Eyeglasses perched on the bridge of her nose, making her appear the studious type. Of course, at that moment, I didn’t know she was the woman for whom we were looking. All I saw was a pleasant-looking person, probably in her early twenties, wearing a plain blue jersey dress with a high round neckline, a tiny collar, and a dropped waist. She looked very prim and proper and businesslike. I believed my own green suit did not pale by comparison, but neither did it proclaim me as being anyone in a higher social caste than she. Which, naturally, made me happy.

        “May I help you?” she said in a pleasant voice.