Avon Calling! Season One

by Hayley Camille

  “Oh, just some clubs on the Bowery,” Betty said, carelessly, “but, they’re lovely ladies who do like to look their best. And that’s what we love to do isn’t it, help women look their best!”

  “It sure is!” remarked Fannie, her blonde curls bobbing in time with the music from the wireless.

  “Not gentlemen’s clubs?” Gladys stage-whispered. Her eyes were wide, as if she might burst into flames at the mere thought. The other ladies gasped.

  “Well, I don’t really know,” said Betty serenely. “I never thought to ask. Waitresses or usherettes, probably. Darling girls, though. Besides, there’s a war on - everybody deserves to take a little time out for beauty, isn’t that right ladies?” There was a chorus of agreement and the others turned back to their teacups and cosmetics.

  “Yes, I suppose they do,” Gladys said. She sipped her tea, clearly disgruntled at Betty’s good fortune. Betty sighed. Despite her best efforts, she’d never been able to break through the crust of dislike that Gladys held for her. She had no idea why. Betty could find out of course, but listening in to a friend’s thoughts wasn’t something she did often – it simply wasn’t polite. Then again, Gladys wasn’t exactly a friend… I wonder…

  “Thinks she knows everything.” The other woman’s mind was broiling like an old ham. “Sitting there with her nose in the air and her ritzy clothes, trying to make a fool of me. Dragging our fine name into ill repute – I should tell the secretary. I’ve been selling these products years longer than she has but they all hang off her every word -”

  There it was then, Betty thought. Jealousy, plain and simple. She was relieved. Anything more sinister would have been far too much work to be bothered with right now. But this was easy to fix. In fact, it may even prove to be useful.

  Betty poured herself some tea.

  “You know ladies,” she said loudly, over the chatter, “I imagine we will all pick up some extra customers over the coming weeks before the Gala Ball Fundraiser at City Hall. I’m organizing it with my church social group for the benefit of the orphanage - it’s sure to be swell! All the glitterati will be there, photographers, fancy dresses and champagne. A big brass band and maybe even movie stars! You’re all invited, of course, I’ll need all the help I can get setting up tables and keeping those dreamboats from Hollywood amused. MGM are going to pass on our invites to Cary Grant and Spencer Tracy! Think of the publicity and money we’ll raise for the children!” Squeals of delight broke out and they all began talking at once.

  “Will there be dancing?” Fannie asked, her eyes alight.

  “Oh, yes, we’ll have a gay time!” Betty said. “I’m counting on you to lead the dance floor, Fannie,” Betty laughed. “You’re such a ducky shincracker, you’ll have them lining up!”

  The women laughed and Fannie giggled, pink-faced.

  Betty then turned deliberately to Gladys, whose lips looked like they couldn’t get any thinner.

  “Now Gladys, dear. You will come, won’t you?” she said gently, taking the tall woman’s hand. “I need your help most of all – why, nobody is better at hosting a party than you,” Betty indicated the small gathering of Avon Ladies with their scones and biscuits, “and you’ve been our guiding light for so long and you know the very best products to recommend to our guests should the need arise. I simply couldn’t manage the night without your help, Gladys.” Betty’s voice and heart were sincere. “The ladies at church do their best, but they’re rather ill-equipped for such a stately occasion. There are invitations to prepare, supper to co-ordinate and door prizes to draw and dignitaries to greet. I really do need someone with your talent for organization by my side.” By now, Betty was clutching Gladys’ hand with earnest eyes. “Do say you’ll help me,” she implored.

  The other woman seemed to melt. Her face relaxed and her shoulders dropped, and despite what seemed like momentary misgivings, Betty could see the bitterness behind her eyes fade away.

  “Well, if you need me -”

  “Oh, I really do, Gladys!”

  “I suppose I can manage it then. For charity. After all, I am well known for my considerable talents in making sure things are done right. You know, I saved the day at the Spring Fair last year when I discovered one of the workers pouring whiskey in the Shirley Temples! Can you imagine if the children had taken one?”

  “That’s precisely why I need you Gladys,” Betty fortified. “To keep a sharp eye on things.”

  “Alright then. I’ll put my best foot forward.”

  “Thank you, dear! You’re a godsend.”

  Betty leaned toward her, with a conspiratorial air. “There’s one other thing, just between us, if you don’t mind. You see, I heard from the Seymour girls who work at City Hall, that Mayor Sutherland’s wife has been sporting a terrible choice of foundation powder lately, far too pale for her complexion, looks positively chalky, and I think she really ought to be given some advice.”

  “The Mayor’s wife?” Gladys’ mouth dropped in astonishment. She pulled herself even straighter and reflexively smoothed her apron.

  “Oh yes, she’s an absolute doll, but no sense of color or style, poor love. She really needs someone of your expertise to give her some gentle direction. I’m sure the Mayor would be quite appreciative, there’s so much publicity following them about, after all. Perhaps you could take some of that new lipstick with you, too - I’d be happy to introduce you at the ball -”

  For the remainder of the morning, Gladys was a kitten. The little party of Avon Ladies spent hours going over their latest products and catalogs, sharing techniques for applying cosmetics and tips for making more sales. When they finally packed up their bags and left the house at lunchtime, there wasn’t an ill-feeling to be found.

  Betty was the last to leave. After assuring Gladys that she would call again in a few days to discuss the particulars of the upcoming fundraiser, Betty sat astride her pale blue bicycle and rode away with a wave. As she pulled from the curb, a dark car took her place.

  Sergeant Jacob Lawrence got out of his automobile and put on his hat. He watched the back of a woman disappear around the street corner on her bicycle and looked up to the blue sky. Nice day for it, he thought, musing on how long it had been since he’d ridden his own bike. Jacob ducked around the other side of the car and reached through the open passenger seat window to collect his clipboard. He flipped through the pages. 46 Maple Street. He crossed the road and knocked on the door of a small red brick home. A tall woman with flowers in her hair promptly opened it.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Mrs. Gladys Eubanks?”

  “Yes?”

  Jacob retrieved his badge from this inside pocket of his uniform.

  “Sergeant Jacob Lawrence, of the New York City Police Department. I just need to ask you a few questions, if I may.”

  The woman’s eyes widened, and she stepped back for him to pass. “Of course,” she said, “please come in. It’s not Henry, is it?” she asked, anxiously.

  “Henry, ma’am?”

  “My husband. He’s serving with the 165th Infantry.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am, this isn’t a military matter,” Jacob smiled.

  The woman sighed with relief as she ushered him to the couch. There were empty teacups and plates of crumbs across the coffee table and misplaced chairs scattered about.

  “I’m so sorry, I’ve just had company,” Gladys said, following his gaze. She began to pile cups onto the tea tray.

  “Please don’t worry, Mrs. Eubanks. I’ll only be a minute. If you’ll sit down I just have some enquiries. Now, you sell Avon products, is that correct?”

  Gladys sat down, surprised.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Have you ever been to The Capitol Palace in Harlem, Mrs. Eubanks?”

  “Perhaps, once or twice. It’s not really my thing, but Henry likes the orchestra.”

  “I see.” Jacob scribbled a note. The wooden clipboard had numerous typed sheets pinned to it, each with a long list of nam
es and address. Beside each name, Jacob had scrawled his notes. Many had a line crossed through the middle.

  “And your customers live in which area of town?” he asked.

  “Well, this area, of course. I cover ten blocks in all directions. That’s quite a lot for one representative, but I’ve been doing this a long time and I’m highly organized.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Jacob smiled, “You don’t travel any further then?”

  “No, I don’t like the bus, so I walk. I draw a good enough income from this area, why would I sell further afield? There are plenty of representatives to look after our New York City customers, I’m only one Avon Lady, as skilled as I may be.”

  “I see,” Jacob said, disappointed. He paused for a moment. He’d already asked his next question twelve times this morning. One young woman had even slapped him for it. “Forgive me for asking,” Jacob said, awkwardly, “but there’s a call house in the bowery -”

  Gladys almost choked. Her face lit up and she looked mortified.

  “I’ll have you know I’m a good Christian woman!” she cried. “What are you insinuating?” She stood up and straightened her apron. “I think you should leave!”

  Jacob stood, too. He held up his hands, apologetically.

  “Please, Mrs. Eubanks. I beg your pardon. I’m simply doing my job.” It was clear already, that this woman wasn’t the lead he was after.

  Gladys sniffed. “Will you tell me what this is all about?”

  Jacob smiled politely and tucked his clipboard under his arm.

  “I’m investigating a series of incidents that involve the use of Avon business cards. I need to speak to whoever is involved, that’s all. Nothing serious.”

  Gladys looked dubious.

  “The bowery, you said?”

  “That’s right. Do you know of any other representatives that might service that area?”

  Gladys frowned. A few hours ago, she would have gladly dropped Betty’s name to the officer. But now, something held her back. An odd feeling of loyalty.

  “No, I don’t,” she said finally. “I can’t help you.”

  Jacob’s face dropped as he followed her to the door. For a minute, he thought he’d seen just a spark of recognition in her eyes. He pulled out his business card and handed it to her.

  “If you happen to remember anything or anyone that might be able to help me.”

  “I’ll let you know,” Gladys said, curtly. She tucked the card in her apron pocket and closed the door behind him.

  Jacob looked down at his list of names and drew a line through Mrs. Gladys Eubanks.

  The list looked longer than ever.

  He pulled away from the curve, heading for the next address.

  A few days later, Betty found herself soaking up the glorious sun through the window of George’s pride and joy - a gleaming black Chevrolet - as they whizzed along the highway. Her red and white sprigged crepe skirt suit, with its dainty jacket, flared peplum and frothy white ruff at the front was the perfect mix of business and pleasure.

  “Eleven cents for a gallon of gas, can you believe the nerve?” George was saying. “Why it’s highway robbery. I bet they’ll have it at twelve by the end of the week!”

  “I imagine it’s harder to come by at the moment,” Betty said absently. “Say, darling, I was thinking that perhaps we should sow a victory garden? They do say there’s no brighter flavor than home-made jams and jellies. We could plant peaches and raspberries and donate them to the church for Sunday luncheons.”

  “That’s a fine idea, jitterbug!” George said, winking at her from the driver’s seat. “There’s a place in heaven for you.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Betty sighed, looking out of the window.

  “What’s that, love?”

  “Never mind.” She leaned forward and switched on the car radio. The Nat King Cole Trio burst from the speakers.

  I bought diamonds and pearls,

  To treat you so true,

  Gee, baby, I’m so good to you.

  Betty’s brow furrowed. She turned back to George.

  “Are you sure you want to come to the orphanage with me?” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “Wouldn’t you rather drop me off and play a spot of golf with Mr. Williams?”

  “And miss meeting the Mayor and Donald Pinzolo? Golly, no! Why, I’ll be the talk of the office with their cards up my sleeve - a high profile businessman like that! It was mighty good of the Seymour girls to set this up with their cousin at City Hall. It’s all who you know, Betty. A handshake’s worth more than a pot of gold in my industry -”

  “Yes, but given what’s just been in the papers, about his nephew Vincent, I’m not sure he’ll be in the mood to -”

  “All the more reason to take out a life insurance policy! Sometimes a man sees things clearer in a shaded room - a smart man like Pinzolo will recognize an opportunity when it comes.”

  “Yes, but dear -”

  “No, I won’t have it, jitterbug, you aren’t used to dealing with business matters like I am. These men aren’t like the girls you dizzy up with your products. You need a man there to get things done properly.”

  “I’m quite capable -”

  “Besides, this fundraiser means an awful lot to you and I want to help. We need to make a good impression; get those high hats in City Hall spinning, hey!?” George winked at her and began to whistle in tune with the radio.

  “If you say so, dear,” Betty sighed, irritated.

  She wasn’t pleased at George’s insistence on attending. Betty looked out the window and took a deep breath, preparing to fix her smile. It had been years since she had last seen Donny – twelve in fact, and she was nothing like the frightened, scrawny girl she once was. That version of her died, precisely when Donny believed she had. Staging her own death had been a desperate way to escape his empire, but she’d managed it impeccably. Sometimes, she could still smell the smoke of her childhood home engorged in flames. Still see the stunned face of her father, dead on the kitchen floor. His blood was long-washed from her hands, replaced by that of so many more. She didn’t fear seeing Donny again now, under the cover of a new life. But she would rather not have ruined a perfectly good Saturday morning by wasting it on him.

  She glanced at her husband, who was now singing a merry tune. There was very little danger involved today. This was simply a reconnaissance mission to find out what, specifically, Donny was up to. She had only needed a reason to be on the premises, but now it seemed, she had to contend with George’s ambitions as well.

  The Chevrolet rolled through an open gate beneath a plaque that read, “St. Augustine’s Home for Unwanted Boys”. A Delahave luxury convertible was already parked out front. Three men stood beside it, smoking cigarettes. One wore a Driver’s uniform, another had an elaborate 35 mm camera slung around his neck sporting a big, fancy lens. The third, a tall man that Betty recognized from pictures in the paper, was the Mayor.

  As George pulled up alongside, the men butted their cigarettes, and the photographer took his camera in hand and began snapping shots.

  With a grand smile on his face, Mayor Sutherland stepped across to help Betty from the car and turned, posing for the camera.

  “Mrs. Jones, I take it?” he said, cordially.

  “That’s right, Mr. Mayor, please call me Betty. This is my husband, George.”

  George bounded over and offered his hand.

  “George Jones, Mr. Mayor. Mighty good of you to see us today.”

  “Good to meet you, George,” Mayor Sutherland replied. “I hope you don’t mind I brought my photographer. Publicity can be a terrible thing, Mrs. Jones, but only if you don’t have any.” He winked at Betty, who laughed in false delight.

  They turned and walked toward the entrance of the orphanage, the photographer hopping around them, taking pictures. Betty tuned in to the Mayor’s thoughts, curious.

  “Damn do-gooders. This better be worth it.”

  Betty smirked. This
meeting could turn out to be fun, after all.

  They entered the building and found themselves in an expansive room flanked by staircases. The walls had been freshly painted and smelled of plaster. A long line of young boys was being led down one staircase by an austere looking nun. Their solemn, grubby faces disappeared through a doorway to the left.

  Betty, George and the photographer followed Mayor Sutherland up the right-side stairs, along a hall and into a spacious office. Two men were busy measuring for a new pane of glass in the tall windows that overlooked the front entrance. There was a box of swept, shattered glass on the floor nearby and one window sported an empty frame.

  “Here’s the man we want to see!” Mayor Sutherland exclaimed, walking toward the main desk. Donald Pinzolo stood up to greet them. His face looked drawn and irritated. The Mayor laughed nervously.

  “Donny, meet George and Betty Jones. They’re organizing the big charity do at City Hall that I told you about. Quite a number it’ll be, all decked out for your orphans here. Raise lots of money. Good press, Donny, that’s what we want, good press!”

  The photographer ducked around them, clicking his camera. Betty stepped confidently to Donny, offering her hand, which he took, briefly. His eyes raked her face and dress, discriminately.

  “Have we met before Mrs. Jones?”

  Betty smiled, coolly. “Oh, goodness no, Mr. Pinzolo. I’m just a housewife, I can’t imagine where we’d have met. Have you volunteered at the soup kitchen, perhaps? I’m often there.”

  Donny looked so confused that Betty had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

  George stepped forward, interrupting their exchange.

  “Had a bit of trouble with your window there, did you Pinzolo? I’ve got a policy to cover that right up for you if you’re interested - George Jones, insurance.” He thrust his hand to Donny and shook the other’s enthusiastically. As George turned away, Betty caught Donny raising an eyebrow to the Mayor, who shook his head incrementally.

  “Play along,” Mayor Sutherland’s mind silently begged. “We need all the good press we can get after that nightmare with Vinnie.” Betty smiled and looked around the room serenely.