The Dollhouse (14 page)

“Sure can.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Do you want to go back to what you were doing?” she asked.

“Eventually. Not right now. I'm picking up work here and there, freelancing for now.”

“Well, this shouldn't be too tough. Interviews, B-roll, and we're done.”

“Speaking of going back to what you were doing, why was Gloria Buckstone reinstated at the network but you had to leave? You were both proved right in the end after all. Madden was as crooked as a three-dollar bill.”

She hadn't been right.

Rose fiddled with the spoon on the table, stalling for time. When a
source had sent her bank statements that supposedly showed Senator Madden was skimming money earmarked for state nursing homes, she'd known it was a huge get. With the senator's unstoppable popularity, the story had explosive potential, the power to take Rose's career to the next level. Except something about the documents themselves felt off to Rose. She'd begged her superiors to wait until she had further proof of Madden's crimes before taking the news to air. At the time, Gloria Buckstone was Rose's friend and mentor, and unfortunately, she was also her boss and desperate to have a big exclusive.

In the end, Rose's protests fell on deaf ears. When it turned out the bank statements were, in fact, doctored, the whole thing became a massive PR disaster for the news desk. Luckily, the loss of face lasted all of a week before a different whistle-blower came forward with irrefutable evidence of the senator's wrongdoings. Now all anyone remembered was that Gloria and Rose had broken the story first.

Everyone thought she was a renegade, fighting to get the truth out. But if it were up to her, they'd never have run the incorrect version in the first place.

“I left because I missed writing too much,” she said. Always a handy excuse. Made her sound intellectual. The waitress tossed the check on the table and Rose snatched it up, relieved by the interruption. “Allow me.”

Outside in the sunshine, Rose considered her next steps. First off was to find the button store Stella had mentioned, and see if she could get some more color on Darby's life.

Jason shrugged his backpack over one shoulder and stood, legs spread wide. He looked like an urban lumberjack. “How is it working for Tyler?”

She considered the question. Best to be ambiguous. “Interesting.”

“He's the nephew of one of the guys I worked with in Iraq. Comes from a lot of money.”

“So he says. Money buys power.”

“That's true. Stupid name, WordMerge.”

Rose nodded. “It's impossible to pronounce without laughing. My boyfriend said it's . . .”

She stopped.

“What does he say?”

“Nothing, it was silly. I don't want to be bad-mouthing the boss, not cool.”

“I'm a freelancer; what do I care? I shoot the video, cash the check, and move on.”

“Must be nice.”

“You should try it.”

“Can't afford it.”

“Do you miss network news?” His eyes searched her face, as if he were trying to suss her out. “I always wondered if there was more to the story than came out.”

“Nope, that's it.”

He swung the backpack to the other shoulder. “Ah. Anyway. You didn't deserve what happened.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.”

“And Tyler is lucky to have you.”

Ever since the debacle, she'd hated running into people in the business, knowing they'd gossip about their encounter within ten minutes. “I'm doing what I like now. Writing, I mean. Happy to leave the shooting to experts like yourself. It's what I should have done all along.” Even to her own ears, her tone was brusque and dismissive.

“Right. Got it.” He turned to go. “I'll see you on Monday.”

He strode away, head held high. Here she'd been complaining about the lack of collaboration at WordMerge but couldn't have a normal conversation with the first person who seemed to know what he was doing. In any event, what did it matter? She'd probably never work with Jason again; he'd be off to Iraq or Iran or somewhere, shooting footage that put her features to shame.

No, that was the wrong way of thinking.

She'd do whatever it took to make this story work.

Samson Button Shop on West Thirty-Eighth Street sported a black-and-white checkerboard floor, and walls covered with every style and color of button imaginable. The overall effect was slightly psychedelic, and only by focusing on one section at a time could the details be fully appreciated: big black plastic buttons, rose-shaped ones made from silk, others that glowed with a metallic sheen.

Determined to find Darby's former place of business, Rose had googled “button stores” on Thirty-Eighth Street and been surprised at how many were still in existence. The garment district, once a bustling rectangle of New York streets, where pedestrians fought for sidewalk space with workers pushing clothing racks from factory to showroom, was now a burgeoning home for trendy high-rise hotels and tech start-ups, but a dozen or so stalwarts held on. Rose had made her way west from Fifth Avenue while scanning the storefronts, popping into all those that sold buttons.

“May I help you?”

A thin man with a large belly strode over. He wore jeans and an untucked shirt with disappointing white plastic buttons down the front.

“I was wondering if a Miss Darby McLaughlin used to work here.”

“Of course. Is she all right?”

“Yes, she's fine. She's an old friend of my mother's.” If she didn't lie, she'd never be able to get any information from this man without him wanting to talk to Darby first. And there was no time for that. If anything, the debacle with Gloria Buckstone had toughened her up. Or twisted her ethics. Depended on how you looked at it. “We've only just found each other on Facebook. Luckily, too, as she needed some help with Bird.”

He smiled. “Ah, Bird; she brought him by a few years ago.”

“She's not as mobile as she used to be, and she asked me to come by and say hello since I was in the neighborhood.”

The man laughed. “Excellent. Tell her that Stanley Junior is in charge, and all is well.”

“I will. How long did she work here? Seems like a long time.”

“Well, she started in the fifties. Kept showing up, day after day, year after year, until she retired five years ago. “

“Did she sell buttons?”

“No. Never wanted to be in the front of the store. She did our books, kept records, acted as a secretary for my father. Sweet lady.”

“Very sweet.” Rose ran her hand through an open box of ebony-colored buttons. They clattered like pebbles. “Very private, though. She never takes off her veil.”

“Always kept her face covered here at work, too, at least above her nose. I knew she'd been in some kind of accident, but since I grew up with her, I never questioned it. Or if I did, my father shut me up soon enough.”

“Right. Well, she'll be happy to know that you're still going strong.”

“I don't know about that. We sell most of our stock online these days. I'm looking into the possibility of getting out of the bricks-and-mortar part of the business.”

She looked around the room. “Do everything online? That would be a shame.”

“Another piece of New York City gone with the wind.”

Stalling for time, Rose selected six coffee-colored buttons that looked like round chocolates, good enough to eat.

“Good choice.” Stanley Jr. brought them to the register and wrapped them in tissue paper. “These will liven up a fall or winter jacket. Very stylish.”

As he rang up the purchase, Rose pressed on. “What kind of person was Darby when she was younger? I only ask because she's such a grande dame now. Curious how she was in her youth.”

“She was careful, wry. Ate a tuna sandwich for lunch every day, year in and year out. She didn't mind if I played near her desk. In fact, I think she liked it. She had a great sense of humor, loved to play practical jokes.”

“Jokes? Really?”

“Sure.” He shrugged, thoughtful. “She may have kept to herself because of what happened to her, but she's no stick-in-the-mud. Darby is a
tough cookie. She has class, style. Swagger, almost. An elegant mystery, my father liked to say.”

Rose placed the buttons in her bag. “Does Darby have any family or anyone close to her? My mother is hoping she's well taken care of these days but doesn't want to be rude and ask her outright.”

“Not really. She complained about her neighbors quite a bit, said they were way too nosy for her taste.”

No surprise there.

“But her young friend seemed like someone who would look out for her.”

Rose stopped in her tracks. “What friend?”

“Young girl, in her teens. Stopped in a few times. Lovely girl.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“Allie, Abby, something like that.”

“Her last name?”

He shook his head. “I'm sure Darby mentioned it when she first introduced me, but I don't remember.”

“And she never said who she was, how she knew her?”

“Gosh, no. Darby was pretty tight-lipped about everything. The girl made her happy and seemed nice enough, so I didn't push.”

“Right. Well, thanks for your help. And the buttons.”

“Sure thing. Tell Miss McLaughlin I said hello when you see her.”

“Will do.”

New York City, 1952

D
arby watched as Esme readied the hatcheck room, which was really an old closet with a Dutch door, for the evening rush at the Flatted Fifth. When Esme had encouraged Darby to come down to the club earlier that day, she'd quickly agreed. She'd put on the dress Daddy always liked, a black-and-white polka-dotted cotton with a pleated full skirt, and pinned the new black beret on her head so it tilted dramatically to one side.

“Tell me, Esme, what's acting school like?” she asked.

Esme thrust out her chin. “I'm learning to talk right. Check it out: ‘If you like peanuts, you'll like Skippy.'”

She sounded like a movie star, with no noticeable trace of an accent. “That's amazing. They teach you television ads?”

Before she could reply, two men walked in the front door and stood in front of the hatcheck. Neither removed his coat.

Esme stiffened. “Club's not open yet.”

“We're not here for the club. We're here for you.” The taller man spoke with a growl. “You need to work harder, Esme.”

“Not sure what you're talking about. I can only check as many coats and hats as come in.”

“You know exactly what we're talking about. Come along and let's have a little talk in the back.”

Darby opened her mouth to call for help, but Esme put her fingers to her lips. “Shush. I won't be long. All part of the job. Gotta keep the goons happy.”

They walked off into the club, and Darby wrapped her arms around herself. She was debating what, if anything, to do, when the front door slammed shut behind her.

“Where's your friend?” Mr. Buckley stepped into the foyer and shook the raindrops off his hat.

Darby whirled around and stared up at him, dumbstruck. His height, authority, and demeanor reminded her of her stepfather. “You mean Esme?”

“You look like a fish. Close your mouth.”

She did.

“So where is she?”

“She stepped away, just for a moment.”

“She's fired if she doesn't get back here when we open in ten minutes. It's pouring out there, and I can't have everyone sitting in their wet coats during the show.”

If Esme lost her job, she wouldn't be able to pay for her acting classes. “I'll do it. I'll cover until she gets back.”

Twenty minutes later, Darby was near tears. The men and women coming into the club had piled their coats on the small divider without waiting for tickets. A couple even tossed their umbrellas at her as she frantically tried to keep up with the onslaught. The air smelled of wet wool and underarms, her skirt clung to her legs, and her hair was plastered to her skull. Even worse, she'd had to shove the beret into her purse after it'd fallen onto the muddy floor. She'd never be able to sort this mess out, and every coat looked exactly like the others. Mr. Buckley would fire Esme and never let her sing again. And what if Esme was in terrible trouble right now? Who were those men?

“You look like you just took a bath.”

Sam appeared, holding a coffee cup in his hand. He leaned back on the opposite wall and took a sip.

“Esme was taken away.” Darby could hardly get the words out. “Two men. I'm not sure where they went.”

Sam seemed unperturbed. “Don't worry; that Esme can take care of herself.”

“But they seemed awfully angry.”

“All bark and no bite. Everyone's a tough guy downtown.”

His laconic manner put her slightly more at ease. “And someone just threw an umbrella at me. Threw it.” She grabbed a hanger and stuffed a coat onto it. “They're a bunch of animals.”

“If it makes you feel any better, they don't treat the waitstaff much differently. Or the musicians, if they see them in the street. Up onstage is one thing, but the magic is gone in the light of day.”

“I don't know how Esme handles this night after night. I'd go crazy.”

“You sounded great the other night, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“Seriously. Esme's voice is like velvet, but yours is silvery, like a nightingale.” He scuffed one foot on the floor.

As she paused to catch her breath, the enormous pile of coats slid off the divider and landed in a mad crush on the mud-stained hallway floor. She and Sam stared in dismay at the mound of fabric, then burst out laughing.

He placed his cup on a nearby table, and reached down and lifted the pile in one fell swoop. “Open the door.”

She did and stepped to the side. He handed her a coat and she hung it on a hanger, placed it on the rack, and shoved them together to make more room. They kept at it, over and over. The motion reminded her of the slam of a typewriter carriage return at the end of a line.

“Why aren't you in the kitchen?” she asked.

“They're fine in there, they don't need me.”

“But you're the cook.”

“They're just making simple stuff—peas, fries, and chicken liver sauté. Nothing they can't handle.”

Every so often, their fingers would touch during the handoff of the hangers, and he was close enough that she could pick up the scent of fryer oil and clove on him. An interesting mix, and not unpleasant.

To her embarrassment, he noticed her sniffing the air. “I hope I don't reek.”

“No. You smell like clove. Reminds me of the holidays.”

He smelled his forearm. “I've been working on a new recipe. Steak with a mixture of clove, turmeric, and honey.”

Her mouth watered. She hadn't eaten anything since a Danish from the Barbizon coffee shop that morning. “Sounds lovely.”

“We'll see.”

“Will you put it on the menu?”

His laugh was harsh. “Not if my father has anything to do with it. He doesn't want anything that tastes ‘weird,' in his words.”

“So you found out about combining spices in the army?” She liked hearing him talk. And it was much easier to have a conversation when they were both focused on the coats.

“Right, in Southeast Asia, working as a cook. I had to use what I found.”

“And what did you find?”

“So much. There are ten tiny islands clustered in the Banda Sea that used to be the only source for nutmeg and mace. And the oldest clove tree in the world is located on an island called Ternate in the Molucca Sea.”

“How old is it?”

“They estimate between three hundred and fifty and four hundred years old. It even has a name. Afo.”

“Afo.” Such an exotic word. “What did it look like?”

“It's tall but lifeless, with some bare branches. I saw it when we took over the island from the Japanese at the end of the war.”

“I can't imagine what that must have been like for you.” To go to islands at the other end of the world, to visit dead trees and learn about history that went back so far in time, was unfathomable.

He shrugged. “In the beginning, lots of guys were complaining about the food. The rations were pretty horrible. But then I began experimenting with what the local folks used. I started adding spices to everything we served: eggs, fish, meat. Even desserts. Some of the guys hated it, of course, but they were idiots. Everyone else raved. They gave it a chance. Although, to be honest, the soldiers didn't have much of a choice. Unlike my father.”

His rush of words surprised and flattered her. He thought she was someone worth talking to. She hung up a coat and surreptitiously smoothed her hair behind her ears. “Has he tasted any of your experiments?”

“No.”

“Well, I'd like to.”

Esme appeared, looking flushed but unhurt. “Sorry, D.” She startled when she noticed Sam. “What on earth are you doing in the hatcheck girl's closet?”

“Helping out your friend, here, who was helping you keep your job.”

Esme's eyes grew wide. “You are the most wonderful
amiga
in the world, Darby.”

“Well, we didn't do a very good job. I have no idea what coat goes with what person. And what was with those two men? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” Her voice was steely. She didn't want to talk in front of Sam.

He took the hint. “I'm heading to the kitchen. Darby, come back and visit me when you're through. I have something to show you.” He sauntered off, hands in his pockets.

Darby pulled Esme close and lowered her voice. “What was that? Who were they?”

“Just some guys who think they can tell me what to do.”

“What did they mean, you have to work harder?”

“Stupid stuff. They have a deal with all the businesses in the neighborhood. They offer protection, and in exchange the owners let them skim
off the top. Which means they're always pushing me to do certain things, you know, for the customers. To bring up the tips.”

“Mr. Buckley makes you do that?”

“The girl before me did, so everyone thinks I should, too. But they don't know who they're dealing with. I'm not a cockroach they can step on.” Esme reached into her handbag and pulled out a switchblade with a silver handle. “See, I can take care of myself.”

“A knife? You need a knife? Why don't you tell Sam what they did? Maybe he can help. Reason with his father somehow?”

Esme gave out a bitter laugh. “You got a lot to learn, girl. A lot to learn.” She shooed Darby out of the tiny room and fitted herself inside. “Go see your man. Maybe he'll give you a taste of something sweet.”

The steamy front entrance to the club was nothing compared to the junglelike humidity of the kitchen, where the line cooks banged pots against the stove and yelled at each other over the steady drone of the ventilation system. Sam led her to the grill, where a chunk of marbled meat sat on a plate. Burgers sizzled over the fire, and he used a spatula to rearrange them and make room before placing the steak in the center.

The flames flared up. “Here, smell this.” He held a small white dish to her nose, filled with yellowish powder. The color reminded her of the maple tree outside her window at home, after the peak of autumn had past, a burnished mustard. The smell was bright and savory, a mixture of toast and turmeric.

“You see, I rub the steak with it and let the meat rise to room temperature.” His eagerness was that of a young boy. She wished he'd had a father who would take him under his wing and tell him he was doing well, the way Daddy had done when she'd disappointed Mother yet again.

Once the steak had cooked to his liking, Sam let it sit for several minutes and turned his attention to what the rest of the kitchen was doing. He had an air of authority about him, speaking to a waiter in clipped tones to correct an order, before turning to a busboy to help him lift a tub of dishes into the sink.

He returned to her side and poked the steak with his finger. “Not quite yet. Esme said you go to secretarial school, is that right?”

She didn't want to be reminded of her uptown life. “I do. It's awful.”

“Why?”

“I'm a terrible secretary. Or I'll make a terrible secretary. I wish I could do something creative, like this.”

“What would you do?”

Charlotte's offer still tantalized, but there was no guarantee she'd remember making it, or even meeting Darby, when she returned. “I really don't know. Is it ready yet?”

He cut into the steak, its juices running red onto the wooden cutting board. “Try this.”

The texture of the beef mingled with the spices and sent her mind racing, the same way the jazz music had done that first night. Flavor flooded her palate, first savory, then a strange flowery bitterness, before the spices amalgamated into a final burst of clove.

“Astonishing.” She wanted another bite and another.

He fed them to her, laughing at her voraciousness.

“Sam, I've never tasted anything like this. It reminds me of what it's like in the fall back home. I don't know how to explain it.”

“Do you want it explained?”

“I do.”

“Then follow me.” He took off his apron and grabbed her hand. She took it, eager to see where he was going to lead her but reluctant to leave the juicy steak behind.

Sam walked quickly, darting through the crowded streets and pulling Darby along after him. Below Houston, the streets ran in every direction, and she had no idea where she was. The rain had stopped, so she wasn't wet, but she felt naked without a coat. Sam didn't seem to care, just forged through the crowd.

She didn't even have her purse, having left it with Esme. Sam turned around to check on her, puzzled at her distress.

“Where are we going?” She tugged at the Peter Pan collar of her dress.

“I can't tell you; it'll be a surprise. But if you liked the steak, you'll love this.”

Maybe he was taking her to dinner at a restaurant that served curries and other exotic foods. She hoped she'd be able to eat what was served, that it wouldn't be spiced innards or something too gooey.

He stopped at a nondescript building where laundry hung limply from the fire escapes. The sign on the door was written in unfamiliar characters, the number 12 the only symbol she could recognize. Even stranger, the window was blacked out.