The Girls at the Kingfisher Club (4 page)

five

The Baltimore

Salon Renaud had been a decent venue, as first dances went.

It was a dance hall well-enough known for the taxi driver to think of it; it was well-enough known to have a photographer at the door to catch starlets who had paid for a little publicity.

(Jo never knew about the photographer. There were only four—not enough to draw attention, yet.)

Inside, Salon Renaud was bright and had a bandstand big enough for a philharmonic.

They made a shabby picture in day dresses and catalog shoes amid the silk and velvet.

(“Very Bohemian,” one woman said, giving them the benefit of the doubt.)

The murmurs stopped once they started dancing.

Jo spent the night asking her partners where else they danced. It was something to talk about that didn't require flirting, and she already knew this wasn't going to be any kind of home. It was too gleaming to be real, and it worried her.

“Is that other place smaller?” she asked, frowning at the electric lights. “Less conspicuous than here?”

Halfway through the evening she wised up and switched from “less conspicuous” to “more romantic,” which got her a lot more answers than the first round had. After the first night, they never went back. Big and bright were the last things they needed.

(Two months later, Doris got word that Salon Renaud had been shuttered.

“He told me they practically burned the place down,” Doris said, tightening the straps on her shoes. “Now the owner's in jail, and they've locked it up tight as a tomb.”

Ella said, “I don't know how you can get so much talking done during such a fast dance.”

Doris grinned. “I'm a lady of talent.”

They were at the Kingfisher by then, and feeling safe as houses.)

• • •

The next morning, the young maid brought up the breakfast trays.

When she reached Jo and Lou's room, she hesitated a moment, then said, “If you have any clothes that need washing, just let me know directly.”

Lou blanched and looked at Jo.

Jo managed a reasonably calm, “I see. Does anyone think we need laundry done?”

The maid shook her head. “You're very quiet. It's just that sometimes I have trouble sleeping. And if anyone else has heard, I'm sure no one thinks the worse of you for getting some fresh air, even at a strange hour.”

There was a little silence.

Then Jo said, “You're very kind,” and paused.

“It's Mary,” the maid said, wrinkling her nose like she shouldn't have spoken.

But Lou grinned and said, “Mary, you're a peach.”

• • •

After that, Jo insisted they stay at the edge of the stairs, to avoid creaking, and anyone with beads had to coil her skirt in her hands so it didn't make a sound.

One maid might be sympathetic. You couldn't risk more.

• • •

The second place they went was some supper club so far downtown that even if Jo had known her way around the city, she'd probably have been lost in the maze.

It was darker than the Salon, which suited Jo; it had a cramped band and whiskey that tasted like dust, which didn't suit anyone; and it had a name that was doomed to obscurity the moment Doris stepped inside and said, “God, it's like someone died in here.”

They lasted two weeks at the Funeral Parlor Supper Club.

Jo and Lou got another name from a bartender with sleek, dark hair and high cheekbones that made him look like the star on a movie marquee. He was young and impatient, and apparently just traitorous enough to go other places on his nights off.

“It's nothing much,” he warned, “but if they ever get some decent drink I might consider it.”

“See you there, then,” said Jo, and the bartender smiled at Lou with dark eyes and said, “I should be so lucky.”

The flirting didn't do much to endear him to Jo (they weren't there for men), but Lou didn't seem to mind it; she took her time coming back with her drink, and she was glancing over at the bar again long before the champagne was gone.

“Just scouting for partners,” she said when Jo caught her eye, and Jo said, “Good,” already knowing better.

• • •

The place was the Kingfisher, and almost from the first moment Jo could tell it was going to be home.

By the end of the night, she was sure.

(Partly, it was that the Kingfisher was small enough to be out of mind and dark enough to slip into; there were faces of all colors on the dance floor and sometimes two men cheek to cheek, and she wanted a place that could keep secrets.

Partly, it was that Jo had a moment of weakness with someone she shouldn't have.)

There was a table near the back door that was big enough for all of them, with a few seats to spare. The spare seats filled with young men trying to trade drinks for dances, with varying degrees of success.

Even Lou approved of the place, which was saying something, and the next night when they scrambled into a taxi, Jo didn't hesitate.

They'd been going there only six weeks before the bartender from the Funeral Parlor appeared before the rows of bottles.

Jo pushed through the crowd to thank him.

When he saw Jo, he grinned and waved, already looking ten years younger than the last time she'd seen him, and she felt disconcertingly welcome, as if for a moment the nightlife had opened its arms to her in earnest.

She fought the feeling. Vanity wasn't going to get them all back home safely, and the last thing she needed was to get carried away.

“Hey there, Princess,” he called over the crowd of men clamoring for drinks. “What are you having? I'll start a tab until the gentlemen start buying them for you.”

A few of them glanced over their shoulders, as if sizing up how long it would be. She ignored them. As soon as they saw Ella, it would be taken care of.

“I'm surprised to see you here so soon,” she said, smiling, when she managed to belly up to the bar.

“Ditto,” he said, and slid the glasses across the bar with a sidelong glance at Lou.

• • •

By the end of the night, Jo knew three things.

First, his name was Jake.

(“Oh,” she said—she'd expected something different—and he smiled and said, “I have a name back on Mott Street, but Jake suits me in this neighborhood,” and she wasn't going to question having a name you kept at home.)

Second, he already knew her sisters well enough to pick them out from the crowd.

(Lou smiled at him a little too long.)

Third, “Princess” was going to stick.

That suited Jo. It was as close to a real name as the men would get; maybe it would keep them from asking.

• • •

The Kingfisher was the first place Hattie and Mattie (two years later) and Rebecca (the year after) ever danced.

“They have it so easy,” Doris said, sighing, “they don't know any other way,” as if two weeks of dancing halfhearted grizzly bears at the Funeral Home Supper Club had been a crawl through the trenches under enemy fire.

“You're hopeless,” said Lou, yanking the triple knot on her laces.

(It was the only way to keep them on. Later, they learned to look through the catalogs for ugly, thick-strap shoes that would last a little longer before they started to wear thin.

“It's amazing we ever get called Princess in these,” Rebecca said sometimes as they flew down Fifth Avenue on Ladies' Mile, and a streetlight would illuminate a shoe store as if to remind them of what they couldn't have.)

Lou stood and tugged at her skirt. “Right. Jake can't get away, it looks like. Doris, show me that boy you were dancing with. Let's see if he's better at the waltz than the foxtrot.”

“Come on,” said Doris, blushing at the edges, “Sam does his best. People can't be good at every dance.”

“Certainly not him,” said Lou.

(“Those girls have tin hearts,” someone had told Jake. Jo was pleased when he passed it on—she'd worked to keep them a little cold.)

They lasted nearly four years there, before the bust.

• • •

The night the Kingfisher got raided was rainy. Jo had almost kept them home.

The weather was Jo's second thought when the bouncer banged on the door and the place erupted into chaos and she grabbed Rebecca and bolted out the back, through the alley and out to the street.

(Jo's first thought had been for Lou, but that wasn't a thing you ever admitted. She had a job to do; she couldn't afford to play favorites.)

From the shadows, Jo watched the police vans rattling away with her heart lodged in her throat.

When she saw a glimpse of red hair two blocks down—Lou, it was Lou—she clapped a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out.

Behind her came Ella, Doris, the twins, and Jake.

Jo's knees nearly gave out.

She and Rebecca crept around the block to meet them, and Lou was already looking when they came into sight.

“See,” she told Ella, “I don't know why you worry.”

“Where were you?” asked Rebecca, jogging over to Doris and lost in the glorious practicalities of engineering an escape. “Where's the secret door? Is it a tunnel? Where did you go underneath? How are you?”

“It's a long tunnel,” said Doris. “I thought we'd run to Vermont already, and I'm covered in spiderwebs, but I'll probably be fine.”

“It's just a precaution,” Jake told Jo. “Tunnel's been there for ages.”

Jo was trying hard not to shake. “And how often does that come in handy?”

Jake shrugged. “Generally the cops leave the place alone—out of sight, out of mind. It's more lucrative busting my neighborhood than some two-bit operation like ours. I bet Simmons just forgot to pay protection this month.”

It didn't feel like “just” anything, but in front of the others Jo didn't dare look worried.

Lou came over, brushing the last of the cobwebs off her elbow, stopping just within Jake's reach.

“You can show a girl a good time, I'll give you that.”

“Hope this doesn't scare you off the place,” Jake said. “I know you sometimes disappear.”

“You're a nosey parker,” said Lou, but he shrugged with his hands in his pockets, met her eye, smiled.

Lou's face fell.

(Jo knew Lou knew better than to make men promises.)

“We should get home,” Jo said.

• • •

In the cab, Lou said, “We're not going back, are we.”

She sounded sadder than Jo expected, and Jo was kind when she answered, “No.”

• • •

Pete's: at the seaport, where a man got rough with Ella when she wouldn't dance with him.

Hattie and Mattie appeared as if by magic.

“Not sure what port you're from,” said Hattie, and Mattie said, “But when a lady says no, stop asking.”

He frowned, spat out, “You girls have a pretty high opinion of yourselves,” and dropped Ella's wrist with a flourish.

“Let's go home,” Hattie said when he was gone.

Jo said, “That's up to Ella.”

Ella looked around the room (which was slim pickings, and a lot of guys who looked like trouble), but then she squared her shoulders and said, “I want to dance.”

Jo was pleasantly surprised. “Then we dance,” she said, and cast a look around the room that dared anyone to make something of it.

And dance they did, all night, to spite the devil.

Still, that was the last time they ever saw Pete's.

• • •

The next time they drove past the palace (the Vanderbilt house, she had a name for it now; people knew the oddest things), all the lights were out, the rows of windows like empty eyes shrinking back from the life on the street.

It's not a sign, she told herself, and hoped it was true.

• • •

Fine Imports: a basement off Fulton Street, with shipping crates stacked to one side and a subbasement from which gin magically appeared. It felt, somehow, like dancing in an old tomb.

Not that there was anything wrong with old tombs, until you tried to dance in one.

“If this place gets any more cramped,” Doris said, “I'll have to dance on my knees to keep from knocking my hair off.”

They didn't last long at Fine Imports.

• • •

The Baltimore: half a block away from a print shop in Chelsea, just far enough west that the Flatiron Building blocked the moon.

The machines shook the sidewalks for three blocks in every direction.

“You're joking,” said Jo, before the cab even stopped.

Doris laughed so hard it nearly drowned out the presses.

They never set foot in the Baltimore.

• • •

The Swan: a supper and music club nestled three blocks from the Waldorf-Astoria, with a double-door entryway, and a stream of businessmen and their respectable mistresses going past the doorman in his smart coat.

This time, Jo saw the photographer.

The cabs didn't even slow down.

• • •

By then, Araminta was starting to hover at the mirrors, watching them with big, hungry eyes.

She never asked—Araminta wasn't reckless enough to ask Jo for favors—but Jo knew what was fair.

Araminta had earned the right; there had to be a place for her to dance.

Two weeks after the raid, Jo told Ella, “Tell Araminta to bring up a dress and some half-decent shoes.”

A minute later Araminta appeared, clutching a catalog dress and a pair of thick-strap shoes, smiling so broadly Jo hardly recognized her.

Araminta powdered up in the crowd alongside Rebecca, applying rouge with shaking hands until Rebecca took pity and did it for her.

“You're such a ninny,” Rebecca said, “it's a wonder they're letting you out. Hold still.”

Araminta said, “No need to be a wet blanket, Rebecca, it doesn't become you any more than your dress does.”