Avon Calling! Season One

by Hayley Camille

  The door swung open to reveal a busty woman with a mass of peppered hair twisted on top of her head. A satin burgundy dress with high shouldered sleeves contoured her ample figure to her knees and she had a large freckle drawn above her lip. Behind her, the bordello was in full swing.

  “Yes?” the woman said, one eyebrow raised at Betty.

  “Avon Calling!” Betty replied brightly, picking up her bag. The older woman rolled her eyes. The door slammed in Betty’s face. Betty knocked again. After a moment with no response, she knocked again, then again, progressively louder each time. Soon, the door swung open for a second time. There was no need to read this woman’s thoughts, they were written on her face, clear as day. Betty liked her immediately. It was always refreshing to find someone who spoke their mind. All Betty had to do then, was change it.

  “Avon Calling!” Betty repeated.

  “So you said, cookie,” the manageress replied sourly. “You do realize where you are, don’t you? My girls are the prettiest in town, I don’t need you peddling your beauty products ‘round here.” Betty wedged her foot in the door, just before it shut again.

  “Of course, you’re right, Madam!” Betty gushed. “My goodness, no, you don’t need anyone to tell you how to dolly up your girls! Why, Kitty’s has the finest reputation in all of New York City! That’d be your influence, undoubtedly - an elegant lady like yourself. I can tell when a place of business is well run. Women know these things -” she gave the manageress a meaningful look. “Don’t they, Madam…?”

  “…Trixie,” the woman finished for her, still dubious at Betty’s motives, but flattered all the same.

  “Madam Trixie,” Betty smiled. She looked over her shoulder onto the dark street behind and lowered her voice. “No, it’s not your ladies I’m worried about, ma’am. It’s the girls at The Harlem Shake! Haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard what?” Madam Trixie asked, clearly intrigued.

  “Oh dear, they’re in a terrible fix!” Betty said. “I really must explain! It’s just awful.” She nudged her way into the brothel with her Avon bag, shepherding the madam ahead of her with apparent purpose. “I’ll tell you the whole story, but you must show me to the dressing room at once, I was so worried when I heard! I thought immediately of your lovely girls, I’d heard this was a favorite for shore-leavers and I couldn’t imagine a worse predicament for you -” Betty continued her animated volubility as she followed Madam Trixie through the innards of the brothel, taking careful note of its layout. They passed through a series of drinking rooms crowded with rowdy gentlemen occupying plush lounges and card tables under swirls of cigar smoke. At the back of the main parlor was a circular stage with two dancers performing an elaborate shimmy with great sparkling fans made of peacock feathers. A long, polished bar lined with drunken, cheering sailors stood to its left. The area was a hive of activity, with dancing and clinking glasses and customers frequently disappearing with prostitutes up a curved staircase on the far side of the bar. At a large table near the front windows, Vince Carelli and five of his men sat with their heads together. As Betty passed through, still rambling to Madam Trixie as they alighted the stairs, she noticed Vince and his men get to their feet and disappear behind the red velvet curtains of the stage. Betty narrowed her eyes, then took Madam Trixie’s elbow with renewed enthusiasm. “It’s because of the war, of course," she was saying, as they entered the dressing room. A dozen prostitutes and dancers were bustling around in various stages of costume. Madam Trixie, who by now was completely enthralled, gestured for the women to gather in as Betty talked. “The trading routes have opened up and it’s all new ingredients, I’m afraid!”

  “From China, you say?” asked Madam Trixie.

  “That’s right, some sort of powder in the face-creams. And would you believe it? Their faces - they’ve all turned bright orange! Faces like a turnip and none of them making a dime!” The collective women gasped in astonishment. “And it itches too - ever so nasty! First orange, then red raw. And after that the sores develop. There’s no covering them up, either.” Betty shook her head sadly.

  “Are you sure?” a small woman asked, with an effervescence of red curls spilling onto her bare shoulders. “I saw some of the girls from Harlem Shake just yesterday in town and they looked fine.”

  “Well, I hope they stay so, my dear,” said Betty, “but I wouldn’t hold my breath. Such lovely girls and it’ll take weeks to wear off. I saw the doctor calling just this afternoon at the Gentlemen’s Club on Hargrave Street and I’ve seen ladies all over town looking like pumpkins! It’s my business to know, of course. That’s the trouble with pots from the drug store - you never know what’s in them.” In less than a minute, Betty had the women entirely won over.

  “Good lord!” said Madam Trixie, “but how do we know which cream was to blame?”

  Betty looked across to a dressing table and picked up a pot of face-cream. “Why this is the very one! And this!” as she picked up another. Her captive audience gasped in horror and a few women began reflexively scratching their faces. “You just never know where the ingredients come from, it’s not all apple-pie these days with rationing,” Betty warned, taking the red-head’s face in her hands and examining it critically. “We must be extra-vigilant with our skin-care ladies, after all our looks are our best weapon!” There was a muttering of agreement.

  “But I used that cream just this evening!” the red-head exclaimed, feverishly rubbing her face. “Felix will be coming in later and I’m going to look like a pumpkin!”

  “Stop that Tilly!” cried the Madam, pulling the woman’s hands from her own face. “Wash your face immediately! All of you girls! Wash your faces and re-do them, then relieve the girls on duty so they can do the same. I will not have a pack of pumpkins working in my fine establishment!” Tilly ran off to the sinks and began scrubbing her face in earnest and the others followed. Madam Trixie turned to Betty, clearly exasperated. “What should we do then? I can’t lose my girls to a face-cream fiasco! I have a business to run. Our landlord checks the takings every night.”

  “Mr. Carelli, I assume?” Betty asked, innocently.

  Madam Trixie nodded curtly. “Mr. Carelli for years, but Mr. Felix has taken over of late, and he’s not a man to be trifled with.” The madam held her shoulders straighter with a grim expression and glanced toward Tilly, still washing her face. “Tilly’s the only one that can stand that awful man. I may be the proprietor here, but I still have to pay my way for the rooms and expenses. I’m all tied up. If the girls can’t work I’ll be indebted in ways I don’t want to imagine. I won’t have any harm come to them you know. I may be in the business, but I take good care of my girls.”

  “I completely understand your predicament,” Betty said. “And I’m grateful I thought to stop by. This was just what I was worried about.” She looked thoughtfully around the room. “You know what, I’ll leave you my samples, I have more than enough - no payment required!” Betty lifted her Avon bag onto the dresser and began unloading small pots of face-cream. Each of the working girls took one with a squeal of delight and raced back to their mirrors to begin the tedious process of making themselves up over again. Outside, Betty heard the rain pick up pace. Thunder cracked and rolled beyond the window pane with the resonance of a steel drum and flashes of lightning traced the edges of the lace curtain.

  Madam Trixie’s expression was of sheer relief. “I insist on paying, Mrs. -?”

  Betty turned to her, with sincere kindness, gently sidestepping the question. “No, I wouldn’t hear of it. It’s a community service keeping your ladies looking the part. Work is hard to come by these days and I don’t doubt many of your girls have littlies to look after at home. Besides, there’s many a lonely man out there with no other arms to keep him warm.”

  “Well that’s the truth,” Madam Trixie said. “Those doll-dizzy service boys find a second home here on shore leave -”

  “Well of course they do! There's no charge, madam, I really must insist. We
women must stick together, whatever the weather!”

  “You’ll return in a few days with a bigger order, won’t you though? I’ll need two dozen pots to start and another dozen every week. It seems I can’t trust the cosmetics at the drug store, that’s for certain!”

  “You leave it to me, Madam. I’ll bring your order and some catalogs to browse as well,” said Betty, delicately pulling on her gloves. “Now, I must get back to my own husband. No, no, you stay right here and deal with this little emergency! I’ll let myself out.”

  Betty picked up her bag and left the room as Madam Trixie began issuing orders to the women in the room. They were hurrying to and fro, preparing to relieve those downstairs from their duties to give them an opportunity to scrub their faces clean.

  Betty knew the following twenty minutes would be a fuss of distracted conversation and confusion as word spread of the terrible rash plaguing women’s faces in the streets. Twenty minutes was more than enough.

  A twinge of guilt hit her. She never liked to deceive people if she could help it, especially young women. Unfortunately, deception was an unavoidable counterpart to murder, which was, of course, what she was about to commit.

  Episode Five

  In for a Dime, In for a Dollar

  As Betty descended the staircase, the lights dimmed. A burlesque singer swept out from behind the split velvet curtain of the stage and walked to a microphone. Her negligée glittered and shimmered under the lights. Cigar smoke swirled from the busy card tables up the open staircase to where Betty paused above the dark room, as the brass band struck up a new tune. The singer lifted her arm seductively and played to the crowd as she sang, hitching the breath of every man in the room.

  “Why can’t you be true, like all the other men do?”

  She stepped off the stage and wove through her audience singing, tracing her fingernail enticingly down the cheek of one man and leaning into another with a wink. She was altogether bewitching. And her timing – impeccable. Every sailor and suit was spellbound, a stupid smile smacked onto his face as she teased with a shimmy and a fluttering of lashes. Betty’s heart warmed in a moment of pride. There was nothing she loved to see more than a woman in control. The room was entirely at her mercy.

  How silly of them not to realize, Betty mused, as she quietly descended the remainder of the staircase and stole around the edge of the room unseen.

  The singer leaned forward, jiggling her audience into distraction and Betty took the opportunity to slip behind the velvet curtains of the stage with her crocodile-skin bag. A long hallway ran along the back of the brothel with a closed door at both ends. It was a safe guess that one of those doors led down to Vince’s basement office. Betty chose the end closest to the alleyway where she’d seen Vince’s men unloading the stolen crates. She stifled a yawn against her glove as she walked toward the door, then stopped and closed her eyes for a moment. The pressure of knives strapped around her thigh felt like the reassurance of an old friend. With chin held high and a glint in her eye, Betty opened the door. She found herself at the top of a staircase. She ducked inside and jammed the door handle locked behind her.

  As Betty descended the staircase, the brass band and singer faded away, replaced by the sharp clap of thunder and downpour of rain from the alleyway beyond Vince’s office. It was a shame. Betty always liked a gay tune to work to. Still, the rain and thunder were a blessing. No one would hear them die.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Betty waited. The second doorway was already open a crack. It was Vince’s office, not least telling by his obnoxious voice trailing up the stairs. She peeked around the edge of the door, still hidden. Inside the room, crates were stacked up against the opposite wall, beside a plain door. It was a safe bet to lead back upstairs and out to the alleyway.

  An argument had erupted between the six men that had come downstairs. Betty hugged the shadow of the door, eyeing them carefully. Each man had the tell-tale signs of a pistol strapped under his jacket, and a Tommy-gun lay upon the table as a deliberately careless threat.

  A lanky man sat on Vince’s desk in front of the gun, dangling his legs. Betty knew of him. Sydney Corke. A made guy, relatively new to the family. The unmistakable shape of a Colt Vest Pocket was hidden in his exposed sock. A backup pistol, only good at close range. A favorite of Donny’s crew. Utterly predictable.

  “You can’t chicken out of the deal now, Jimmy,” Vince threatened. Twelve years hadn’t aged him much. His mouth was pinched up, the way it had always twisted as a boy when his cousins beat him at mumbley peg with their flick knives. Soon, the pinch would give way to red blotches on his neck and cheeks. Betty had seen it countless times as a child, usually followed by an almighty temper tantrum that sent everyone rushing to placate him. “I pulled this lot from one of Donny’s jobs,” Vince said, flinging his arm to the side to indicate the stack of crates behind him. “What am I meant to do with it?” His face flushed red under the dangling light fixture in the center of the room.

  “Donny’s been watching me, Vince,” Jimmy argued. “I know it- I got a feeling. If he catches me toutin’ for you we’re both dead.”

  “Make ‘im take it, Vinnie” a fourth man urged. “No one breaks a deal with us!” The man in question was chewing tobacco with his legs apart and arms crossed, oozing arrogance. His face was freckled and pinched under a shock of scruffy ginger hair. Every move that Vince made was reflected back through the mans’ eyes in equal parts idolatry and envy. This one was Travis Colby. Betty knew him all too well from her days on the street.

  As a kid, Travis had had a penchant for tormenting the stray dogs that loitered near his neighborhood park. He’d latched onto Vince like a leach and was always neck deep in trouble. Travis was reckless and cruel- the most dangerous combination of all.

  “You said you have a buyer, just do it quiet-like,” Vince pushed. “How’s Donny gonna know?”

  “I can’t! They’ve gone cold on me, don’t want to risk getting caught,” said Jimmy. “Jack Sidler did Donny over last month and look what happened to him.”

  Betty’s lips formed a hard line. She knew very well what had happened to Jack last month. Stupid kid. He was in over his head before he’d even set foot on the street.

  The last of Vince’s men was closest to her, with his back to the door. He was a bear of a man, with hunched shoulders and thick fingers that twitched reflexively over his coat pockets. The Muscle. Given he was in her way, Betty decided to dispatch him first.

  She considered her options as they bickered. The two extras weren’t really part of her plan. They weren’t Vince’s usual gang, although she knew of them. The smaller man was Jimmy Chan. He wore a white zoot suit and rather splendid hat. Pity. I do appreciate a man with style. Underneath the brim, his eyes darted uneasily. Jimmy had a reputation for eating alone, small time jobs, and Betty was surprised to find him caught up with Vince. She tapped into Jimmy’s thoughts, curious at his change of heart.

  If I don’t move this shit, Rex’s gonna scalp me. But, Donny – no way, this ain't worth a bullet in the brain for.

  Betty frowned. Rex Hatfield was the biggest bookie in town. His empire was built on the backs of whipped thoroughbreds and desperate, addicted fools that bet their kid’s meal-money on a stampede of adrenaline at the gate. The races were fixed, of course, and every man that worked for Rex was as crooked as his false walking cane. For the poor bastards that found themselves out of their depth in debt, punishment was hard and fast. It seemed Jimmy was currently under that press.

  Jimmy’s collusion with Vince now made sense, and if word on the street was anything to go by, so was the recent escalation of his crimes. Only a month ago, Jimmy and his offsider had clipped some New State Bank guards on-route with a transfer truck of greenbacks. They’d never been caught, though Betty would have gladly taken them out herself, had she not been otherwise occupied at the time dealing with a couple of street rats pushing for Vince. Now, it seemed Jimmy’s urgency to get his paws on some cash was
clearly reaching breaking point. That he’d risk skimming Donny’s haul to pawn it with Vince spoke for itself. At least it had. Now, he’d gotten cold feet.

  Jimmy’s offsider had remained silent throughout the exchange. In fact, Betty realized she’d never actually heard him speak at all. Perhaps he couldn’t. She’d come across these two once before. At that time, Betty had had no choice but to leave them to their dirty business, intent as she was at the time, on her own. Jimmy’s man was tall, with a red satin tie and a row of gold-capped teeth up front. I wonder how hard they’d be to knock out, Betty mused.

  Oh well, she decided. In for a dime, in for a dollar.

  Betty gently intertwined her gloved fingers and cracked her knuckles. Family reunions were such fun. She lifted her hand to the door.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Betty reclaimed her bag and poked her head around the open door, looking in.

  “Good evening, gentlemen! I do hope I’m not intruding!” Her eyes were positively gleeful. “You see I followed you down here, I believe I may be of some assistance to you this evening.” She clucked sympathetically, at the stunned look on all six faces that spun toward her. “You seem to be in rather a pickle, don’t you?”

  “What the hell’s this?” said Vince, looking to the men around him for some sort of recognition. Betty stepped in and shut the door behind her. A key was hanging out of the door lock, which she clicked satisfyingly into place. They’re as good as dead. She dropped her bag to the floor.