Ingenue

by Jillian Larkin

  “I live uptown. Near Harlem,” Gloria replied. “It’s cheaper.”

  “That’s awful close to all them Negroes. You don’t mind? I wouldn’t feel safe, personally, and you’re just a little bit of a thing. Who knows, maybe you like the Negroes.”

  She could feel a blush spread over her cheeks. What kind of question was that? He was a creep. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied.

  Spark shrugged. He seemed to be looking behind Gloria rather than at her. “Don’t worry about it—no judgment here.”

  Gloria remained silent. There was something fishy about this guy.

  “Anyways,” Spark said with a frustrated groan, “Negroes make the best musicians. Duke Ellington and all that.” He pointed at the handsome pianist up on the stage. “The ones I seen are a hell of a lot better than that kid, let me tell you.” He cleared his throat. “You, uh, ever come across any fine black piano players?”

  “Never,” Gloria lied, hoping Spark didn’t ask many more questions. Most auditions, she just sang and got sent on her way.

  “Yeah, I guess you ain’t had much time. You look like you’re still in school. You strike me as the kind of dame who went to one of those bluenose prep schools.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  He glanced over her shoulder again. Gloria turned, trying to see what he was staring at, but saw only her own image in the mirror behind the bar.

  “Oh, I’ve just got a cousin, or a friend—a friend of a cousin, really—who went to a school like that.” Spark took a few deep breaths. “You wouldn’t know her. She lives in Chicago.”

  Gloria shook her head a little faster than probably looked natural. “Can’t say I’ve ever been.”

  “That’s too bad, it’s a fine city. Windy, eh? So … windy. Anyhow, this cousin of a friend is a real pistol. I guess she got into a bad spot back there and pushed her friends away. Even stabbed one in the back.”

  “Well then,” Gloria said brightly, “I’m glad she’s not here!”

  “Yeah! I hope she isn’t! Would be a bad place for her to turn up.”

  Gloria nodded toward his clipboard. “Maybe you want to hear me sing?”

  Spark gave one last glance at the back wall. “Sure, I think we’re all set. Let’s see what you can do.”

  As Gloria walked to the stage, she glanced again at the mirror behind the bar. Had someone been watching them? Watching her? No, that was silly. Spark was just a creepy older guy. Either that or fascinated by shiny things. Or … completely spliffed. Wouldn’t be the first speakeasy worker she’d met who sampled the goods.

  Gloria pulled her sheet music from her bag and handed it to the piano player. She tried to imagine she was handing the music to Jerome: the way his fingers would linger on hers for just a moment and how he would wink and give a smile meant just for her. But this man took the music without any ceremony, the way any stranger would.

  “You ready?”

  She nodded, exhaling as he began to play the introduction, and stepped close to the microphone. Back when she had auditioned at the Green Mill, she had refused to sing her favorite song: “Downhearted Blues,” by Bessie Smith. She’d told Jerome that she didn’t give away her best stuff for free.

  But that had been before she knew what it was like to be hungry. And worse, what it was like to watch the man she loved go hungry as well.

  Today she would give away the best she had, and she would sing as if there were a hep band behind her and a roaring audience in front of her.

  Gee, but it’s hard to love someone when that someone don’t love you.

  I’m so disgusted, heart-broken, too. I’ve got those down-hearted blues.

  Once I was crazy ’bout a man. He mistreated me all the time.

  The next man I get, he’s got to promise me to be mine, all mine.

  Trouble, trouble, I’ve had it all my days.

  Trouble, trouble, I’ve had it all my days.

  It seems that trouble’s going to follow me to my grave.

  She felt as if she were in her voice. It was the best she’d ever sung.

  Until she realized the piano player was two bars ahead of her. Spark wasn’t kidding: This guy was terrible. Why was he playing so fast? This was a blues song, for God’s sake.

  She rushed to catch up, but then he abruptly slowed down and she lost some of the lyrics. “But the day you quit me, honey” turned into “buday quimoney,” and Gloria didn’t even know where to fit in “it’s coming home to you.”

  “Can we stop for a minute?” she asked.

  She could hear Jerome’s voice in her head: I don’t care if you forget the words. I don’t care if you go off-key. I don’t care if the building is on fire—you never stop in the middle of an audition.

  “Somethin’ wrong?” Spark asked.

  Yes, Gloria wanted to say, everything was wrong. She shouldn’t have been there alone. It should have been Jerome playing for her instead of a man who played the saddest song she’d ever heard as if it were a party jig.

  “Can we start over?” Gloria looked back at the piano player. “And can you go a little slower? It’s a really sad song … I mean, have you heard it?”

  The man gave her a smile that would’ve been charming if Gloria hadn’t been overcome by the urge to roll up her sheet music and beat him senseless with it. “Sure, Mamie Smith, right?”

  It took all of Gloria’s willpower not to burst into tears right there on the stage.

  “Yeah, give it another try,” Spark said, his tone surprisingly kind. “Forgive Felix—he can play, but he’s dumber than a box o’ nails.”

  “Hey!” Felix called. But he sat up straight and watched for Gloria’s cue.

  Gloria launched into the song again. Felix played more slowly this time, though still too fast for her liking. She managed to get all the words out, but her heart wasn’t in it.

  She’d failed. No one in his right mind would hire her after this audition.

  As soon as Gloria finished singing, Spark stood and clapped. “That’s just great,” he said. “You’ve got yourself a job, doll.”

  He couldn’t be serious. Both of her attempts at the song had been disasters. “Really, just like that? Don’t you have any other girls to audition?”

  Spark lit another cigarette and shook his head. “We ain’t gonna find another canary like you. That was real fine.” He offered his cigarette case.

  Gloria shook her head, still shocked. “No thanks.”

  With his cigarette dangling from his lips, Spark made some notes on his clipboard. Then he removed a few sheets of paper and handed them to Gloria. “Here’s some paperwork. You can bring that along with you to rehearsal on Monday, one o’clock sharp. And in the meantime …” He took out his wallet and counted out a few bills. “Here you go.”

  Gloria stared at the cash in her hand. “What’s this?”

  “It’s money. Legal tender. You trade it for goods and services.”

  She smiled. “I mean, why—? I haven’t performed yet. Or even been to a rehearsal.”

  “It’s an advance. And there’s more where that came from.” Gloria stared at the money in his extended hand, still unsure whether she should take it. Spark grabbed her hand and closed it around the cash. Then he gave her a little push in the direction of the stairs. “Go on, get something to eat. You look like you could use a sandwich. Or two.” He turned away. “Have a nice weekend, kid.”

  Gloria clutched the paperwork in one hand and the money in the other. Then she folded the bills and gingerly placed them in her purse. It wasn’t much—far less than her weekly allowance back at home. But New York was her home now—and this was more money than she’d had in weeks.

  She smiled again at Spark, genuinely this time. “Thank you! You won’t be sorry!”

  When Gloria walked out of the subway station, she made her way to the open-air market on First Avenue. She passed through the crowds with her head held high. Why? Because she had money in her pocket. She was a singer! Or at lea
st … she was going to be. Zuleika Rose: the Ingenue of the Opera House.

  A half hour later, loaded down with her purchases, Gloria turned toward Second Avenue and began the long walk home. It was wonderful to actually buy something instead of steal it. She felt happy and confident for the first time in ages.

  And nervous.

  Jerome would be happy for her, she was sure. He’d be proud she’d landed a gig so easily on her own. He’d be excited to see all the food she was bringing home and to know that the hard times were coming to an end.

  She was about to cross Lexington Avenue when she noticed a flyer that had partially come free from a lamppost. Her own smiling face looked back at her. It was another one of those LOST GIRL flyers. Seeing two of them so close to her apartment was not a good sign.

  She reached up to the top of the flyer and ripped it down. Before she stepped off the curb, she crumpled the flyer into a ball and tossed it into a nearby trash can.

  That girl might have been lost once upon a time, but not anymore. She had money, a gig, and the man of her dreams. Nothing was going to spoil her mood.

  LORRAINE

  The bitch was leaving.

  Lorraine leaned back against the wall of the office, her heart pounding. The entire time Gloria had been at the Opera House—from the moment Gloria shook Spark’s hand, right up until the minute her heels clacked up the steps as she departed—Lorraine had been glued to her small window into the barroom. When Gloria had passed on her way to the stage, she had looked directly at Lorraine, almost as if she could see her. She couldn’t, of course—it was a two-way mirror. Lorraine could see out, but Gloria couldn’t see in. That was the whole point.

  Those eyes, though.

  Gloria’s bright green eyes had unintentionally gazed into hers, and for a moment Lorraine had missed her former best friend. Gloria’s eyes were so shockingly familiar—the only familiar thing in New York, certainly—that it made Raine’s insides ache.

  They’d had so many wonderful times together—getting Glo’s bob, passing notes in class about cute boys and haggy girls, going to the movies on the weekends and dreaming about what they wanted to be when they grew up. No other person filled that hole in Lorraine’s life. The memories were still sharp.

  But even sharper—sharp enough to draw blood—were the memories of how Gloria had shunned Lorraine. Suddenly she’d been too good for Lorraine. So Lorraine had been chucked out into the cold by her best friend while Gloria partied with that two-faced wench Clara, Bastian, Marcus … everyone, really. And after everything Lorraine had done for her!

  She’d obsessed so much about getting back at Gloria that it had become an elaborate fantasy—never to come true.

  But now it had.

  That had been the real Gloria out there. A too-skinny poor girl in last year’s dress, singing her heart out to an empty club. Or trying to, anyway. Much as Lorraine hated Gloria, she couldn’t help getting miffed at Felix’s erratic playing. Gloria’s face when she asked to start over was one of the most pathetic sights Lorraine had ever seen. It should have been hilarious to finally see Gloria fall flat on her face. But it wasn’t even amusing.

  No, Lorraine couldn’t go soft because of some cherished memories.

  She was a bitch. Gloria was a selfish bitch.

  And that was the whole reason Lorraine was here, working for Carlito. You reap what you sow, Lorraine reminded herself, running her fingers through her hair and blotting at her forehead with a napkin. She needed a stiff drink, but she was working.

  No fair.

  At least Spark had done a decent job with the script Raine had prepared for him. No major mistakes. Gloria didn’t seem to suspect a thing.

  At that exact moment, Spark’s head poked through the doorway.

  “What?” Lorraine asked, her voice sharp as he pulled the door shut.

  “I did it like you told me, boss. Even gave her the money.”

  “The advance,” Lorraine replied. Carlito thought offering an advance to Gloria would give them a little extra insurance—no way a desperate girl would pass up free money. “It was for food,” she said. “I know skinny is the fashion right now, but no one’s gonna wanna watch a rail shake it on the stage.”

  “Just seems weird to pay her when she ain’t done any work yet.” Spark sat down in a chair and loosened his yellow bow tie.

  Lorraine nodded. “What’s weird is you,” she replied in a monotone. “I’m surprised she didn’t take one look at your mug and go running.”

  “Ha! I was nervous for a little bit there. That girl seems like a sharp tack.” He leaned his bony elbow on the arm of his chair. “Those certainly were some screwy questions. What did they mean?”

  She scowled at him. “None of your beeswax. Go polish something.”

  Lorraine leaned back in her chair. She should have been ecstatic. Wasn’t her plan—okay, well, Carlito’s plan—coming together exactly the way she’d wanted?

  “Someone’s gotta get the club ready to open, anyway.” Spark walked out, whistling “Downhearted Blues.”

  Lorraine pulled out a pad of blank telegram forms. She uncapped a pen and sat with it poised over the paper. She thought for a moment, then wrote:

  GLORIA HERE. STOP.

  WHAT NEXT?

  She frowned, ripping the form into pieces and tossing them away. Carlito had instructed her never to mention Gloria by name, in case the telegram was intercepted. She needed some kind of code. That was how the Mob normally did it, right?

  She started writing on a new form.

  THE BIRD IS IN THE CAGE. STOP.

  Lorraine tore that sheet up, too. Who knew whether Carlito remembered their last conversation at the Green Mill as well as she did? She sighed and started on yet another fresh form.

  I GOT IT SORT OF. STOP.

  Good enough. She reached for a manila folder and slipped the form inside.

  Out in the barroom, Spark was polishing the black sconces on the walls. Lorraine walked up to him and bopped him on the head with the folder. “Make sure someone takes this over to Western Union right now.”

  Spark nodded, and then he was gone.

  Lorraine rubbed her temples as she tried to remember everything she needed to do before the club opened for the night. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Gloria. She’d seemed so sad, so pitiful. Whatever else she could say about Gloria Carmody, Lorraine couldn’t deny that the girl had always had charisma and a sense of fun—something that had been sorely lacking in the second semester of Lorraine’s senior year at Laurelton Girls’ Prep.

  Without Gloria around, Lorraine’s classmates had stopped speaking to her. The photos from Gloria’s engagement party in all the newspapers only confirmed what her classmates had always thought: Lorraine was a drunken quiff. And when Lorraine did receive notes at school, they said things along the lines of No one cares what you look like, Lorraine, so why do you still bother with ten pounds of war paint? Tramp.

  “ ’Scuse me, Raine, coming through,” called a busboy wearing the customary white shirt and black pants. He was carrying two trays full of highball glasses. She realized she was standing right in front of the door to the kitchen.

  She jumped out of his way and straight into Ruby, the new waitress. “My foot!” the brunette yelled, hopping up and down on one high-heeled shoe.

  “Sorry,” Lorraine mumbled. She noticed Rob across the room near the steps, lugging his bass case toward the stage.

  There—getting the band set up! She knew that was on her to-do list.

  She walked over and lifted one end of Rob’s bass. “Here you go,” she said.

  Before they’d taken two steps, though, she became lost in her thoughts: What were Gloria and Jerome living on? Gloria had looked so excited when she got the job. As if she were thinking, Hooray, I finally have enough money to buy a can of tuna! Even after months of practically living on the street, Gloria hadn’t lost that dippy charm she had. Always so hopeful. Always so naïve.

  That was when
Lorraine forgot where she was going. She banged the end of the bass against a chair, then dropped it. The strings thrummed in deep alarm.

  Rob stopped in his tracks. “Dammit, Lorraine! What the hell are you doing?”

  “Don’t you dare swear at me!” Lorraine yelled back. People were staring. She needed to pull herself together. This was only the first time she’d clapped eyes on Gloria since she’d arrived in New York. She was going to have to see that perfect face of Gloria’s plenty more times before this mission was over.

  “I’m gonna go see how Vinny’s doing,” Lorraine announced. She cringed at the whispers filling the room as she climbed the steps.

  Outside in the alley, Vinny was alone, presiding over a line of women and a few young men. A small table with a cash box, where he would place each guest’s $2.50 cover charge, stood next to him.

  It was a sweltering night. A few of the bobbed, fringe-covered young women waved feathered fans in front of their perfectly made-up faces. Lorraine didn’t even look at the men—that was how distracted she was.

  “Hi, Rainy Day,” Vinny said as Lorraine lit her cigarette. “What brings you out here?”

  “Just making sure everything is copacetic. What’s the password tonight? Spifflicated?”

  Lorraine gasped as she noticed the smug grins that suddenly adorned many of the flappers’ faces. She thought she had been whispering, but apparently that hadn’t been the case.

  Vinny groaned. “Not anymore, it’s not. You think you can watch the door for a minute? I’ve got to let ’em all know we’re changing it.”

  Vinny ducked inside.

  “You gonna let us in?” a girl with black hair asked with a smile. “We know the password.”

  “Shut up,” Lorraine snapped.

  “Or what?” the girl asked in an annoying tone.

  “I’m not even going to deign to give you an answer,” Lorraine said, taking a drag of her cigarette and staring the girl down. “I eat girls like you for dinner. No, for breakfast! I could skin you and wear you as my fall coat!”