Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book) (7 page)

      She slapped my arm lightly. “Don’t be stupid. You’ve got to wear a pair of my shoes, too. I have some that I had made for the dress.

      “You had shoes made to match the dress?”

      “Well, I had them dyed to match it.”

      Good Lord. “Don’t you want to save the outfit for yourself? It must have cost a fortune.”

      “It did, but it didn’t become me because I’m too blond for the colors. But I loved the fabric so much, I had it made anyway. It’ll go much better with your dark hair.”

      Boy, I wonder what Lulu LaBelle would think if she could hear my sister talk about expensive clothes as if they were something you could just toss aside if you made a mistake and ordered the wrong color. Anyhow, I’d venture to bet that Lulu bought her clothes off the rack.

      If I were to guess, I’d say this entire outfit Chloe was allowing me to borrow probably cost close to a hundred dollars. Maybe more. Some people didn’t make that much money in a month. A year even, maybe.

      I did look mighty spiffy when Chloe and I walked down the main staircase in her house and Francis and Harvey met us at the foot of the stairs. Chloe had twisted my hair up and stuck some jewelry in it, and it looked good even if it wasn’t bobbed. I felt a trifle self-conscious in Chloe’s flesh-colored silk stockings, but Chloe told me I’d get used to them. I had flatly refused to roll them down and rouge my knees.

      Harvey grinned and whistled.

      Mr. Easthope bowed like the gentleman he was. “You look perfectly charming, Miss Allcutt. It will be an honor to accompany you out this evening.”

      Chloe had touched up my face with powder and my eyes with mascara, and had dabbed a touch of rouge on my cheeks and lips, and I smiled at Mr. Easthope, feeling shy all of a sudden. “Thank you very much.”

      And, after Mr. Easthope had led me to his automobile, an absolutely gorgeous Duesenberg that looked large enough for a family of ten to live in, opened the door for me, got in on the other side, and started the engine, and I realized I was being swept away to a real, honest-to-goodness nightclub, I began to understand the lure of the pictures. There was such glamour in them. I mean, who else could afford to live like this? My parents could, I suppose, but they wouldn’t do it, because they were “old school,” and they’d shun such ostentation.

      No. This way of life had been spawned by the so-called movies, and it was being perpetrated by those who made and lived by them. Maybe Ned wasn’t such a sap. Maybe there was something to his ambition, although hiding in a closet all day didn’t seem like the most effective way to achieve his aim of being discovered and turning into a moving-picture star.

      But what did I know? According to my sister, not a blessed thing. And I guess she was right, if this was the way she lived. And I guess it was, since I was wearing her clothes, and she had more where these came from. I began to look forward to Saturday. It would be fun to update my wardrobe!

      My enthusiasm dwindled as Mr. Easthope drove farther into the shabby part of the city. From the glories of Bunker Hill, we drove downhill and through Chinatown, which looked kind of seedy at night, and down some small, dark streets until we got to a place where several large, expensive cars were parked. They looked out of place there on the dingy street.

      A big galoot stepped out from the shadows, saw Mr. Easthope and his Duesenberg, and gestured for us to follow him down another dark, narrow street.

      “Who’s he?” I whispered, although I’m not sure why. Nobody could hear us.

      “The parking guard. The speaks hire them so that the neighborhood kids don’t steal people’s tires.”

      “Oh.” Those speakeasy people were sure organized. Imagine that. They had a man to direct people where to park and to make sure the cars were safe. I wondered if the police knew about this racket. Recalling the conversation at dinner, I supposed they did.

      So Mr. Easthope parked his wonderful car, the galoot watching all the time, then he got out, opened the door for me, and I got out, and the galoot said, “Youse guys come with me.”

      I hadn’t realized people actually talked like that. Another new experience! Mr. Easthope took my arm and we followed the galoot down a dark alley to a dark doorway, where the galoot banged on the door with a fist that looked rather like a roasted leg of lamb.

      We heard a scratching noise, an eyehole appeared in the door, and an eye appeared at the eyehole. The galoot said, “Guests,” and stepped aside, I presume to assist more illegal customers to safe parking places.

      Someone—it sounded like another galoot—said, “Yeah?”

      Mr. Easthope whispered, “Oh, you kid.” That must have been the password. He’d told me about passwords on the way to the speakeasy. I didn’t quibble that, in this case, entrance was granted by the speaking of an entire phrase rather than one word, because that would have been so utterly Boston, even I could recognize it as such.

      The eye disappeared, and the door opened.

      Golly, what a difference between outdoors and indoors! Of course, I’d had no idea what to expect, since I hadn’t habituated speakeasies in Boston, but this one surprised me. It looked like a bordello designed by a color-blind seventeenth-century French courtesan.

      Red-and-black flocked paper covered the walls. Plush red carpeting had been laid upon the floor beneath our feet. The decor was undoubtedly meant to impart the impression of opulence, but it gave me a queasy feeling in my tummy, perhaps because the red clashed with my orange sash. Crystal chandeliers with dangly ornaments were supposed to shed light on all below, but cigar and cigarette smoke was so thick, everything looked merely fuzzy. A jazz band blared away in the main room, which lay straight ahead of us and sported a polished wooden floor suitable for dancing. It was being used, too. A row of dancing girls was executing intricate tap steps and kicks to the evident joy of the patrons.

      I’d never seen girls in public in so few clothes. Even at the seashore, women covered up more than those girls did. I tried not to exhibit my state of shock, since I didn’t want Chloe to be ashamed of me, but I found the spectacle embarrassing to watch, especially when the girls grabbed the tails hanging from the backs of their skimpy costumes and twirled them. I guess they were supposed to be cats or something.

      The noise was ghastly. While I waited for my ears to adjust, I stared around me in fascination. A long bar had been built against the right wall, behind which stood what looked like a battalion of bartenders mixing and shaking and handing out drinks, all of which I presumed contained alcohol. A huge mirror backed the bartenders, reflecting the revelry going forward in the main room. More girls in skimpy outfits, net stockings, and shingled hair walked here and there with trays loaded with cigarettes and cigars and matchboxes strapped to their shoulders.

      Approximately three million people swarmed around the place, dancing to the music, laughing, chattering, and screaming. I think they were screaming because it was the only way they could make themselves heard over the band, which was playing “Baby Face.”

      Almost everyone who wasn’t actively dancing held both a drink and a cigarette or a cigar. Most of the ladies (I use the word loosely) had holders for their cigarettes. I guess that was supposed to be sophisticated. I knew for a sinking certainty that Chloe’s beautiful dress was going to smell like an ashcan when I got home.

      The atmosphere was supposed to be festive, but it appeared only sordid to me. Maybe that’s my Boston upbringing talking, but I don’t think so. I doubted that any of those people were truly happy. Then again, maybe I was wrong. Wouldn’t have been the first time.

      Whatever the mood of the “guests,” you should have seen their clothes. I’ve never beheld so many beads in my entire life. Or so many knees, most of which were rouged. And everybody who wasn’t drinking was dancing the Charleston with an air of devil-may-care bravado.

      All the band members were dark-skinned. They also appeared a good deal happier than the people dancing and drinking, although that impression, too, might have been colored by my proper Boston upbringing.

      “Would you care to dance?” Mr. Easthope yelled politely.

      “Um, sure.” I needed to question people about Mrs. Houser, but I felt a little uneasy and decided to try to get comfortable first. “I need to put my handbag down somewhere.”

      “Of course. I’ll find us a table.” Holding onto my arm, thank God, he maneuvered us through the throng to a table against a wall as far away from the band as he could get, bless his heart.

* * * * *

      We danced for what seemed like hours, and I still didn’t feel comfortable enough to begin questioning the scantily clad maidens walking around the place hawking cigarettes. Poor Mr. Easthope was perspiring like a lumberjack in August (for that matter, so was I), but he never complained once. I swear, the man’s a saint. At any rate, we sat at our table to rest for a while, and I discovered that in my partner, I had a heretofore unrecognized-by-me resource.

      Of course, I’d noticed all the ladies sneaking glances at Mr. Easthope. What red-blooded American woman
wouldn’t
want to feast her eyes on such a delectable bit of masculinity? But as soon as we sat down, all the cigarette girls in the room seemed to make a beeline straight at him. In other words, it hadn’t been necessary to wear us both out dancing. We could have sat at our table and been comfortable (more or less) and let the women swarm to us. Live and learn.

      The first woman who appeared before us looked as if she were a trifle past her prime, and I wondered if it embarrassed her to work in such an outfit in such a place. She looked at me strangely when I spoke to her and asked her name. I honestly don’t believe she’d even known I was there until I talked to her.

      “Dolly,” said she, her squinty-eyed gaze letting me know she didn’t think I belonged there, which was moderately discouraging. I mean, I hadn’t even really questioned her yet, and she’d already pegged me for a goody two-shoes. More than ever, I looked forward to Saturday.

      “My name is Mercy Allcutt, Dolly, and I’m trying to find Babs Houser. Do you know Mrs. Houser?”

      “
Missus
Houser?” Dolly laughed a most unpleasant laugh. “Yeah, well, maybe she is. And yeah, I know her. She lost or something? She didn’t show up to work.”

      “Her daughter is worried. It seems she hasn’t been home since Saturday.”

      Dolly whistled. “That’s not good.” Her eyes, which were heavily made up, popped wide open. “Oh, shoot, I wonder if the white slavers got her.”

      Her words so shocked me that I pressed a hand to my squashed bosom. “Wh-white slavers?” Good Lord!

      “Yeah.” Dolly lowered her voice, although that wasn’t really necessary. Leaning closer to me, she said, “I heard tell that the Chinks like to capture white girls and ship them to China to work as … well, you know.” She winked at me.

      Actually, I didn’t know, but I was too embarrassed to ask. Maybe Chloe would clue me in.

      Anyhow, Dolly didn’t wait for me to respond, but pointed at another girl, much younger than she. “That there is Gwenda,” Dolly said, indicating the girl. “Her and Babs are pals. Maybe you should go ask her.”

      “Thank you!” I jumped up and hurried over to the girl Dolly had indicated, only then realizing that Dolly had probably sent me to the other girl so she could have Mr. Easthope to herself. I was learning quite quickly.

      I waved at the girl, who had turned my way. “Gwenda!”

      She appeared surprised that anyone should be hailing her. Pointing to her chest, she mouthed, “Who, me?”

      I nodded, realizing it was no use screeching. I also realized that—and this is hard for me to say, since it speaks of a ridiculous degree of upper Bostonian snobbery—I experienced a great degree of apprehension in approaching a woman who was so skimpily dressed and who worked selling cigars in a speakeasy. I know, I know, the poor thing probably had no choice, and I was only being fussy. I tried to overcome my qualms. Truly, I did, even though I hadn’t quite done so by the time I reached her.

      “You want me?” Gwenda asked, sounding as incredulous as she looked. “You want a packet of cigs? I’ve got some clove ones here that sometimes the ladies like.”

      She’d pegged me as a
lady,
too. I had to do something about that. “Er … no, thank you. I need to ask you some questions about Babs Houser. I’m looking for her, you see.”

      “Oh!” Gwenda’s expression of doubt transformed into one of joy. “Where is she, do you know?”

      If I knew, I wouldn’t be looking for her, would I? I didn’t point this out to Gwenda, who gave every indication of being a very sweet, if dim, bulb. “No, I don’t know where she is, but I hope to find her. Her daughter is worried.”

      “So am I. This ain’t like Babs.” I’m sure that if she didn’t have that tray slung over her shoulder, poor Gwenda would have been biting her fingernails.

      I stuck out my hand. “My name is Mercy Allcutt, Gwenda. I’m happy to meet you.”

      After looking at my hand dumbly for a moment or two, Gwenda took and shook it. It was obviously a new experience for her. “Oh.”

      “Why don’t we sit down for a minute?” I suggested, thinking that might help her relax. Silly me.

      “Oh, I can’t sit down, Miss Allcutt. I’d get fired.” She looked around with apprehension.

      “We don’t want that to happen,” I assured her. “But I would like to know if you can think of anything that might help us find Babs.”

      Her face fell. “You’re looking for her, too?”

      “Too? You mean other people have been looking for her?”

      “Well, her gentleman friend come here asking for her.”

      “Her gentleman friend?” I recalled Mr. Templeton saying something snide about an uncle when Barbara-Ann came to the office. “What’s his name?”

      “Matty Bumpas. I think he’s a real stinker, but don’t tell Babs I said so.”