The Girls at the Kingfisher Club (7 page)

eight

That's What I Call a Pal

The cops burst in just after a quickstep.

Most of the sisters were making their way back to the table. The sisters who abstained from the quickstep (Araminta and Lily) were at the bar, and Jo was in her place, watching them move through the room.

Their booth was the same one they'd had since the beginning—close to the back door that led out the alley to the street. It had become Jo's favorite table ever since those first days; men knew to look for them there, and Jake always managed to keep it for them, somehow.

It served them well when the cops knocked down the front door.

There were only three at first—too anxious for the score to wait for cover—and over the last brave chord from the band, two of the cops fired into the air.

One of them shouted, “Everybody on the floor!”

“Beat it,” breathed Jo.

(She knew they'd all hear, even over the chaos; she knew when they were listening.)

The sisters scattered like leaves.

It was a matter of seconds—Lou leading a contingent out the back door, Jake shoving Araminta and Lily and Violet into the cellar tunnel. Sophie, who'd been dancing with an older gentleman they'd known for years, got hustled out under his arm like his daughter or his wife.

They were all so good at disappearing that the only one of them left, when the dust cleared and the cops had flooded the room, was Jo.

By the time she was sure the others were safe, it was too late to run. They had a cop stationed outside the back door, and she wasn't about to try anything with cops.

There was nothing to do but stay in the booth with her hands in plain sight and watch as the Kingfisher's patrons, staff, and musicians got arrested one by one.

It seemed, at least, to be a business-hearted affair rather than someone in the precinct setting an example. Jo knew about raids that went sour. (Salon Renaud was dust.) This was just reminding a delinquent about payment due.

There were no shots fired after the first warning round, and they were taken out by tables rather than dragged to this side or that side of the room. Most of the women were brought out without handcuffs, and aside from a few unnecessary comments to the prettiest, there wasn't much roughhousing. Even Jake got by with only two or three clobbers, when he didn't take the stairs fast enough to please the cop escorting him.

(Still, Jo watched them carefully—she could guess what the police were like when they knew they could get away with it.)

Eventually, an overgrown boy in a police uniform stopped by Jo's table (gun in the holster).

“Miss, you're under arrest for—for imbibing.”

Imbibing. She debated a crack about arresting everyone in New York who'd ever had a drink of water.

Then she thought what would happen to her if she disappeared for mouthing off to a cop, and she couldn't get word to the others, and her father came looking for her.

When she stood and offered her wrists, he flushed; instead, he kept his hand hovering just above her elbow as he escorted her outside.

She risked a glance under the streetlights—someone might have stayed behind to look for her—but she didn't see anyone.

Panic rose in her throat. She forced it back. If the others weren't within sight, it was because they were out of reach of the police, already on their way home.

“I'm really sorry about this,” the young officer said as he passed Jo into the police van with the dozen other women who hadn't gotten out in time.

“You and me both,” she said.

• • •

At the precinct's holding cell, Jo sat in uneasy silence with the other women who had been picked up.

Two policemen took turns bringing them for the bail-money call at the sergeant's desk at the end of the hall. One by one they clicked away on their dancing shoes, and laughed over the line with whoever was awake at three in the morning and willing to come to the station.

One of the women, a sharp-looking lady with a curly black bob and a dress studded with sequins, walked out with a grin and asked the desk sergeant to dial a Fred for her.

He gave her a look up and down that made Jo want to shrink back in her skin, but if the woman noticed, she didn't say.

“Darling, come and bail me,” she said into the line. Her voice rolled down the hall.

There was a short pause, and then she continued, “Well, if he won't bail me out, would you mind? Thanks a million, doll.”

“Who was that?” asked her friend, when she was back.

“My husband's girl on the side,” said the woman, brushing some invisible dust off her skirt.

The friend gasped. “Myrtle, no! What will you do to her?”

Myrtle shook her head. “She's bailing me out. She's not the one who's in deep with me.”

When Jo's turn came, she asked the officer (a new man, older and kinder) if she could have a little while, just to make sure someone would be home.

“Maybe even until morning,” she added hopefully.

“Sure thing,” said the officer, but he added, “Your mister's bound to be angry no matter what. Better just call him and get it over with. This is no place to spend a night.”

Jo didn't have much choice. Even if Lou could make it to the house, there might not be enough savings for bail (she didn't know how much bail was for imbibing), and Lou still had to find out where she was. It could take a day just to visit every jail in the city, assuming you were allowed outside at all.

Jo decided she might as well get comfortable; she'd rather take her chances in jail than ever call her father's house.

But what would happen to the rest of them if she was discovered missing?

She fought against tightness in her chest. They were clever. They'd come up with an off-putting illness for Jo, if anyone asked for her. It would give them a day, maybe, before she had to find out a way to get home.

She pressed a hand to her sternum—it felt as though some air needed forcing.

Over the next few hours, the other women went home. They went out joking or yawning, shuffling out in unstrapped shoes. One girl, still drunk, gave the officer a kiss on the cheek as he walked her down the hall to meet the man who'd come to bring her home.

Jo watched them going, her panic growing. Was their father even now sending a message upstairs that Jo should come to the library? When he found out she wasn't there, he'd think she'd run away. What would happen to the rest of them, if he thought his oldest and steadiest offspring had made a mockery of his authority?

He'd bar the back door. He'd give them all away to the first eleven men he could find.

Jo leaned her head back, the cool brick wall scratching her clammy neck, and closed her eyes.

When the kinder cop came back and called for Myrtle, the woman with the curly black bob stood up.

“Who's outside for me?” she asked.

“A young lady.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Myrtle nodded, unsurprised, and adjusted her headband before the walk down the hall. Jo guessed it wouldn't do to show up disheveled in front of the husband's new girl.

“Myrtle,” called her friend as Myrtle moved past the bars, “I'll come down to the store tomorrow and hear about it?”

“You might as well,” Myrtle said. “I'll probably be selling her T-straps at a discount when you get there.”

Her friend gasped. “You wouldn't!”

Jo wondered what shoes were so delightful that the idea of a discount was so horrifying.

“I'd say she's earned it. At least she's smart enough not to play around close to home, which is more than I can say for myself.” Myrtle shrugged. “Get home safe, Agnes.”

• • •

The kind cop came back four more times. At last, Myrtle's friend was called up.

Then Jo was alone.

“You want to make that call now?” he asked.

He was a middle-aged man, a career uniform (the nameplate that read
CARSON
was well worn). Some of the younger cops were gruff when they took a woman out, as if they were embarrassed on behalf of the boyfriends outside and were making sure the women felt suitably sorry, but Carson had walked Myrtle out to her husband's girl.

“I don't have anyone to call,” Jo admitted.

Officer Carson didn't seem surprised.

“Well,” he said, “the sergeant is the one who made the bust, so I can't just shuffle you out of here off the books. He'll have my head.”

She was touched it had even occurred to him. “I understand.”

He frowned and gnawed on his lower lip, where a little salt-and-pepper stubble was beginning. “Tell you what. Why don't you sit in the lobby while I book you for your overnight stay? I'll take my time, and you can see if a friend might be around to pay your fine.”

It would have been a more useful trick several hours past, when people's husbands' mistresses were swarming the place looking to post bail left and right, but Jo was grateful for the sentiment.

“That would be lovely, thank you,” she said, and managed a smile around her sour stomach.

The front of house was still pretty busy for four in the morning. Apparently when a man called his wife telling her he had been out drinking and dancing, it took her a while to find the energy to bail him out, and the penitents piled up.

The place was a crush of made-up women in morning suits walking from the front desk to the collection area and back, with rumpled, sheepish men following behind.

Officer Carson got her settled on a bench in the center of the room and said something in a low voice to the desk clerk, who seemed to be even younger than Violet. Carson hooked a thumb in her direction, then disappeared into the crowd.

Jo smiled at him as he rounded the corner. This wasn't quite a ticket home, but it was nicer than cuffs.

She watched the crowd, regretting that she didn't dance much. She was a stranger to all the men here. She'd have to hope that one of the dozens of men in love with Araminta was willing to do her a good turn in hopes it would work in his favor.

After half an hour of scanning the room for anyone who might be inclined to part with twenty dollars for her sake, the panic began to rise in earnest.

Oddly, without this chance she might have been more stoic (it was easy to be stoic in a cell all alone), but to look at every face and see a stranger who might have helped her, except except
except
, was more than she could bear after a sleepless and terrified night.

Their father got up early, and he never hesitated when it came to business. If he called for her before the girls could disguise her absence—

Across the precinct, someone laughed.

It was a man's laugh, carefree; someone who had come to rescue, rather than be rescued.

The man was saying to the desk clerk, “What, you wanted him to pour you a drink?”

His voice fell out of her hearing, but a moment later the desk clerk laughed, too.

The man was wearing a long black coat and a fedora that cast shadows over his face. Between Jo and the man there was a constant stream of strangers that blocked any glimpse of his face, but something about him caught her attention, held it.

It was too loud, she couldn't place the voice, just knew it was familiar—

Someone beside Jo cleared his throat.

It was Jake. He looked a little worse for wear, a dark circle under one eye where he'd been socked.

“You all right, Princess?” he asked, frowning.

Relief washed over her, and she gave him a smile that felt like it would split her face. “Not really. I thought your boss had worked things out with the cops.”

“Me too,” he said. “Either they upped their rates, or the boss got on the wrong side of a congressman.”

“Are
you
all right?”

He half-shrugged. “Around cops is a bad place to be-Chinese, sometimes.”

She had wondered before about his parentage, and how it had brought him to the Kingfisher, but never asked; she was sorry this was the way she'd been admitted into confidence. She tried a smile. “Guess nobody at the Kingfisher knows the mayor?”

“The mayor's even worse,” Jake said with a rueful smile. “You got a ride home?”

“I don't even have a ride out the door. There's no one to pay my fine.”

Jake didn't seem surprised. (Jo felt like the only person in the world who was ever taken by surprise any more.) He nodded, glancing across the crowd.

“I'll get my friend to post you,” he said. “He's got money to spare, and he likes playing the gentleman.” Jake waved over his head at the clerk's desk.

The man in the fedora seemed to cross the room by magic—one moment he was standing at the desk, and the next he was in front of them, laughing and shaking hands with Jake.

“Told you to come work with me instead,” he said. “The police call me in advance when someone's out to look righteous. This low-blow stuff is a waste of everybody's night.”

(Jo couldn't breathe.)

“The bosses like a little excitement, I guess,” said Jake, shrugging. “Say, I have a friend who needs bail. Could you spare twenty?”

“Sure thing, you sly dog,” the man said, and absently looked over at Jo.

After a second, he recognized her.

His shoulders stiffened under the coat, and he shifted his weight evenly onto both feet.

It was his nervous habit; that much she remembered.

She said, “Good to see you, Tom.”

nine

Big Bad Bill

(Is Sweet William Now)

It was a relief that Tom had changed.

He'd gotten broader in the shoulders. The hawkish lines of his face had settled, less out-of-place than they'd been when he was young and gaunt. His eyes were ringed with lines that were turning to wrinkles. He moved more cautiously (though maybe it was just that she'd never seen him when he wasn't dancing).

Maybe he was just out of practice; maybe it was only that he hadn't done so much running from the police in the last eight years.

His eyes were dark green. She hadn't really known; in the dance hall they'd looked gold, because of the lights.

He stared at Jo as if he couldn't believe it, like it was Christmas, or like he'd expected her to pine to death when he went away and he was shocked to see she'd made it to this ripe old age without him.

She could slap him.

She could kiss him.

She had to get home.

“Tom?” Jake prompted. “Would you mind? It's only twenty. I'm good for it, if you don't have cash to spare.”

Tom shook himself a little, glanced between Jo and Jake as if trying to figure them out.

“Not at all,” he said. “Happy to help a friend of yours.” He looked back at Jo. “What's your name?” he asked, too innocently.

He'd asked that question a lot, years ago; late at night, breathed against her hair.

She'd almost told him, once, the first night he asked her to come with him. But as foolish as she'd been, she knew better than to break their cardinal rule (
her
cardinal rule) for some boy who could dance. She'd shaken her head no, every time, and he'd smiled and dropped it until some other night.

Now he was looking at her with a Cheshire grin.

She returned it.

“Jane Doe Six. I was the last Doe in line.”

He frowned for a split second before he smiled. “Be right back,” he said, talking to Jake, looking at her.

When he was gone Jake turned to her, arms folded. “I didn't realize you knew each other.”

“We don't,” she said.

• • •

There were no taxis.

By the quality of light it was close to sunrise, and Jo wondered how fast she could walk eighty blocks in her heels. (If she didn't take a wrong turn; the city looked so different in daylight.) She could feel the chilly steps through her soles.

“Let me give you a ride home,” said Tom, who had come up beside her like they were friends, like they were just picking up where they'd left off the night before.

“I'll be fine. Thanks for the bail,” she added, not quite looking at him. “I owe you.”

“You could start with your name.”

She looked over. “What would you do if you had it?”

He seemed a little uneasy, his eyes moving over her face like he was looking for something. Jo realized that (of course) the years had changed her, too. She was older and heavier, with lines creasing her forehead from years of concern. Her hair was laced with a pinch of gray, and she answered questions with questions.

He was facing a sour old woman he'd never expected to see again.

This was like meeting someone you'd seen once in a movie when you were a kid—as unreal, as impossible to find what you were looking for.

She must have looked sad, or disappointed, because he frowned and glanced away.

Finally he said, “Jake tells me eleven girls follow you around at night now. Where do you find all those strays?”

“It's amazing how quickly you collect people when they stick around,” she said, glancing down the street at the sound of a motor. She couldn't stand here any longer. She had to find a cab or a bus, beg or borrow. She had to get home.

He shifted his weight. “Yeah, well, some absences aren't your own fault. It's easy for a guy to land in jail, just for being in the wrong place when the cops show up.”

This morning, she couldn't argue.

“It's good to see you,” she said. “Glad you're doing all right. Now I've got a cab to catch.”

“I'll drive you,” he said again, quietly, earnest. “Cabs don't hang around at this hour waiting to take broke drunks home. You'll walk twenty blocks just looking.”

It was already lighter. Any minute the sun would be up. Jo had only a few minutes before her father was awake and looking for her.

Tom waited, holding very still. He smelled like whiskey and soap now; gone was the cedar from when he unloaded barrels and boxes into the cellars of the Kingfisher.

“Swell,” she said.

• • •

When the police station dropped out of sight behind the jagged teeth of low buildings that lined Houston, and they were flying north over the cobbles, he settled back into the driver's seat with a smile.

It was almost how he had been, and for a moment she was dangerously close to being that girl again, her face pressed to his lapel.

She fought it. It was a bad habit; it was a problem when you had too much nightlife and no daytime occupation. No one hung on this long to some crush they had when they were young and stupid. She was just tired, that was all.

“No luck on your name, right?” he asked, glancing at her when they stopped at an intersection.

She looked at him sidelong, and he laughed.

“Can't fault me for trying. Not like it's a strange question to ask.”

“Or a new one.”

He didn't argue. “Where are we going?”

“Eighty-Second and Fifth,” she said. She'd slip through to her place somehow.

There was a little silence.

He drove the car effortlessly, which didn't surprise her. Once he'd told her how he'd had to shake some cops downtown, driving through streets that weren't meant to handle cars. He'd grinned as he told it, eyes gleaming, and she'd thought he was magic.

She'd been young.

“You still bootlegging?”

The question was sharp, but he only grinned. “Nah. That's a dangerous business for a guy my age. I have a dance hall of my own, these days. Just traded for it with the old owner—he gets my place in Chicago.”

She wondered what had driven him from Chicago to New York. Probably a warrant.

“How long were you there?”

“Long enough to start missing things in New York.”

She knew better than to take the bait and look over.

“This is Eighty-Second,” he said a few minutes later, taking a corner onto a row of stately, silent houses whose windows gaped black. “Which house is yours?”

“The stone one, thanks,” she said, swinging the door open before the engine was even off.

He sprinted around the front of the car to help her out of the seat and made it just in time to take her hand once she was already on the sidewalk.

This close, his eyes were startling, and his hand was warm. She fought against tightness in her chest.

“I missed you,” he said, so low her heartbeat in her ears almost drowned it out. “I've wondered a lot about you, since we met last. How have you been?”

“Stock market and hemlines both went up,” she said, pulling her hand back and turning down the street. “Thanks again for the ride,” she said over her shoulder.

“Do you always go dancing at the Kingfisher?”

She should say yes, and never go there again. She should say no, never to look for her. She should say she hardly remembered him, that this was getting him nowhere.

“Sometimes,” she said.

She ignored the smile that spread over his face, and turned on her heel and rounded the corner before he could get it in his head to follow her.

He was dangerous, and she was off guard. No good could come of it.

She slid into the alley between two houses and, suddenly panicked by her proximity to home, ran fear-blind to Eighty-Fourth, where the loose gate latch on their neighbor's fence led to the narrow scrap of common yard, and then the welcoming alley, where the new milk bottles were still waiting to be taken inside, and then (finally, finally) the back door of the house.

Inside, she took her shoes off with shaking hands and scaled the stairs in stocking feet, forcing herself not to run, listening at the second floor for any sound.

The house was silent.

What if they had all gotten picked up?

Oh God, what if no one else was home at all?

There was nothing on the third floor either. She took the last flight slowly, her breath short, feet heavy with dread.

Finally, with shaking hands, she opened the door to her room.

Eleven girls were inside, baggy-eyed and too wrung out to even greet her when she stepped inside. They just grinned nervously and slumped back against the walls.

Jo sympathized.

Lou, who'd been pacing the room with a look of having done it all night straight through, nodded.

“I was giving you until dawn before I started looking for you in jail cells,” she said.

Jo didn't question it. Lou had resources when she set her mind to something, and she was wearing a face not even Jo would argue with.

“Who got back first?” Jo asked.

Sophie raised her hand. “Mr. Walton put me into a cab and paid the fare. I was home in twenty minutes.”

Araminta, Lily, and Violet raised their hands next.

Jo looked over. “Lou?”

“It took some doing,” said Lou, “what with all seven of us, but it was still dark, and we managed.”

Violet spoke up. “Did you really get caught by the cops, General? We thought you were right behind us, but when I turned—”

“It was fine,” said Jo. “Over and done.”

Lou frowned. “How did you get sprung?”

“It took some doing,” said Jo. “Now come on. Everyone back in bed. I have to get into a nightgown before breakfast comes.”

They went, whispering about all the awful things that hadn't happened to them but could have.

Lou closed the door and turned to Jo.

“How did you get out? Are they looking for you?”

“No, the fine's all paid.” Jo peeled off her stockings and hid them under the mattress.

“Who paid it?” asked Lou, with narrowed eyes.

“Jake took care of it,” said Jo. “Now help me out of this. They'll come up with breakfast any second.”

Lou eased the silk up off Jo's shoulders. “Jake got picked up, too,” she said. “We saw it as we came around. He couldn't have paid your fine from inside.”

Jo sighed. “Let it alone, Lou. It's done.”

“Jo, are you in trouble?” Lou was frowning into their reflection in the mirror, Jo's dress a pile of fabric in her hands. “When I got home and didn't see you, I could have just—well.” She hooked the slip on the mirror's edge. “How come you couldn't run out with the rest of us?”

“There wasn't time for everyone to get out,” said Jo. “Someone had to make sure the rest were safe.”

She pulled a nightgown from her wardrobe. Lou sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.

“There were seven of us,” she said, her voice tight. “We took two cars, and it couldn't have been more than half an hour to wave them down, but the whole way home my heart was in my throat like it was trying to jump into the other car. I don't—I don't know how you do it.”

Jo sat beside her, Lou's warmth seeping into her skin. “You get used to it.”

Lou sighed. “You're out of your mind, Jo. If I'd been left alone, I'd be halfway to Boston by now.”

Jo didn't answer.

Lou leaned closer in. “But I'm glad you're home.”

Jo smiled.

Of all of her sisters, it had always been Lou she loved most.

Jo had a fondness for practical Doris, for proud Araminta, for brainy Rebecca. But it was with Lou that Jo had made her first waltz figures on some dark, quiet night in their room, nearly twenty years ago.

It was for Lou she had first taken them out dancing, so Lou would stop her talk of leaving.

Of all of them, Lou was the one Jo couldn't lose; Lou was the only one of them who knew her.

“Help me clean up,” she said at last. “Breakfast will be here any second.”

• • •

The note came on Jo's breakfast tray.

Please bring two downstairs for interviews this afternoon. Love, Father.