The Midnight Band of Mercy

by Michael Blaine

  Pinpricks of heat and cold broke out on his neck. His tongue was thick in his mouth.

  Sensing his confusion, she went on. “I just have to get my jacket. You’re soaked.”

  Til dry up.”

  He watched her up-to-date, diminished bustle ticktock down the hall. Only a few years ago, you could balance a dinner plate on these protrusions; now they had shrunk to vestigial pads. Surprisingly, despite her fine-boned frame, Belle didn’t need artificial enhancements.

  He hunted down Mrs. DeVogt in the parlor. A half-drained glass of sherry rested on an end table. “Was Gretta home for dinner?”

  The landlady snapped her newspaper shut. “No, and neither were you. You’ll have to send notice from now on. I’m wasting enough food to feed China.”

  “Sorry, you’re right. Is she around?”

  “She sent word from that horrible laboratory she works in. They’ll kill her if she lets them.”

  “Oh, she’s working late?”

  “You seem rather dull tonight, Mr. Greengrass. Yes, I’m keeping a dish for her. You’ll have to fend for yourself.”

  Belle tripped lightly down the stairs. She had thrown on a cloak in one of those new chemical-dye colors somewhere between purple and red. On her head perched a velvet hat bristling with feathers. He’d never seen her look so smashing. Should he accompany her? Why not? He couldn’t be unfaithful to Gretta if they weren’t even attached.

  “A quick splash. I’ll be right there,” he said, taking the stairs two at a time.

  A minute later, outside on the stoop, he unfurled his umbrella, she took his arm, and they strolled toward Union Square. “You look beautiful tonight,” he said in a husky voice.

  “I shouldn’t wear this in the rain,” she replied, touching her black velvet hat. Tightening her grip, her fingers made out his hard bicep. Jake, her longtime beau, had a pale scholar’s body, curly black hair on his soft chest. A knowing smirk flared on Max’s lips. Caught in his sidelong glance, she felt a sizzling sensation run through her.

  “Watch out for puddles!” he cried.

  Laughing, they timed their leaps over the muddy pools.

  Smiling to herself, she readjusted her dress. He’d never dream how she had picked it up at Siegel-Cooper’s, secreting it under her navy blue coat while the store’s all-female orchestra sawed out a Strauss waltz. An atomizer was spraying a dizzying scent, the song played faster and faster, the mobs of women pressed up against each other at the counter piled high with smooth and silky things, and she’d lost her head. Before she knew it, she was floating past glass cases offering leather goods, perfumes, gloves, handkerchiefs, and watches, drifting among cawing tropical birds, wandering in and out of the photo gallery and past the pink tea room, her heart in her mouth, waiting to get pinched.

  Then she was out on the street, swearing she would never do it again. What had possessed her? She was a visiting nurse, the daughter of a shop steward in the Cigar Makers Union, her father was a kind man who worshipped Joseph Barondess. After that she avoided Macy’s, B. Altaian & Company, and Abraham & Strauss until the day her patient, Mrs. Cohen, twenty-seven years old and the mother of five, died of typhoid in a rear Essex Street tenement. Her daughters had been hiding their infected mother from the authorities.

  Mrs. Cohen, all ninety-four pounds of her, had surrendered to the fever, and then the velvet hat swam into view. First Belle was in an airless apartment, and then she was standing before a tree of feathered and flowered creations. In a dream, she tried on the plush number. Other women were snatching other hats off their hooks, the salesgirls were giggling to each other, so she just wandered away, the price tag hidden beneath her hair. This time she marched straight for the grand doors arid no one said boo. She had an honest face.

  She was honest. She just didn’t have a trust or some uncle on Wall Street like the Gretta Sealys of the world. The woman’s closet was probably ready to explode. Why shouldn’t she have some nice things for herself? She spent her days picking nits and battling the white lung. Shouldn’t she taste life, too?

  They walked along, chatting so easily about nothing at all. Max didn’t have to know about Jake, who was afflicted with a permanent: erection and revolutionary ideals. She could only imagine his curses if he knew she was keeping company with a petit bourgeois like Max. An animal bent on his own pleasure, Jake would have said. The hypocrite. So why did she stay with him? Why didn’t she have the will to break away? Was she so afraid of being alone?

  Why was it a crime to have a good time? She was so weary of Jake’s Schwabian arias on the virtues of syndicalism, and his arguments for a general strike. Since most of the Jewish boys at Schwab’s bar were barely working, Belle thought their big talk was ridiculous. Sometimes Jake’s friends muttered about a few well-placed bombs, but it was impossible to take them seriously.

  She cared for him most when he was quiet, when they were touching, and she could trace the shape of his smooth face. His buttery skin told a different tale than his bellicose ideas.

  Located in Tammany’s building on Fourteenth Street between Irving Place and Third Avenue, Tony Pastor’s theater was a world away from Simon’s Avenue B Temple of Amusement. Aiming for a wider audience, Pastor had banned alcohol, smoking, and blue material in his vaudeville hall. Middle-class women and shopgirls occupied comfortable seats alongside the male element, which in Pastor’s wholesome environment was less likely to unbutton a tight pair of pants or stand on its hind legs and shout abuse for the sheer fun of it. Pastor did maintain a well-oiled door to the saloon next door, and he did sprinkle his audience with elegantly dressed professional ladies from time to time, but in public he was four-square for clean entertainment, the family, and bigger profits.

  Craning his neck, Max took in the crowd. “This is some break for Danny.”

  Belle wondered at the sweeping, curtained stage. “How could he get up there in front of all these people?”

  “Danny? To him, this is like falling off a log.”

  They took orchestra seats in the heart of the bubbling crowd. Touching Belle’s hand, he waited; when she didn’t withdraw it, he wove his fingers in hers. Simply squeezing her hand loosed streaming sensations, light electricity running through his whole body.

  He threw his arm across the back of her seat. He wasn’t getting anywhere with Gretta. What business of hers was it anyway? Belle’s shining eyes, her febrile excitement, her naive delight were a tonic. And he’d thought she was one of those bloodless socialist bores. How could he have been so wrong?

  A Dutch act, Golden and Waller, opened the bill. They were neither Dutch nor much of an act, but their hoary routine drew a few scattered laughs. Phillip St. Louis, Juggler Extraordinaire, tossed around a few colored balls and fiery sticks. The mixed crowd of shopgirls, middle-class ladies just off a spin down the Ladies’ Mile, merchants, drummers, shoulder hitters, and Democratic Party potentates barely reacted.

  Then, in patent leather boots laced to the knee, Tony Pastor minced onto the stage, swaying, his steps barely achieving dance. Swaggering, he snapped off his opera hat before planting himself to sing. In a nasal warble, he put over his favorites, “Yum Yum Yum,” “I’ll Give You a Pointer on That,” “Lula, The Beautiful Hebrew Girl,” and “The Strawberry Blonde.” Despite his keg-shaped body, he managed a few jaunty steps in between numbers. Finally he launched into his signature song, “Sarah’s Young Man.”

  My first love was Sarah,

  Oh, none could be fairer.

  The fact is indeed

  I’ve ne’er seen one so fair.

  On her I grew lovesick,

  She was a domestic,

  And lived in a mansion

  On Washington Square

  Belle stood and clapped. “He’s so old-fashioned, but it’s hard not to love him,” she said, flush-faced, her face powder studded with sweat.

  Then, in a striped suit and boater, Danny Swarms soft-shoed onto the boards. The blowzy band struck up a tune. Twirling his cane expertly
, he knocked his hat at a rakish angle, did a quick pirouette, and danced toward the wings.

  “It’s him, it’s Danny!” Belle gasped.

  Leaning at an insouciant angle, Swarms tapped his way back to center stage and launched into a song.

  Ida, Ida, I’m so glad I spied her,

  Ida, Ida, she’s my Coney-oney queen,

  Ida, Ida, I’m so glad I spied her,

  Ida, Ida, she’s my one and only dream.

  Danny worked hard to put Izzy Ballin’s song over, but the response was tepid. Perhaps the melody sounded too much like a hundred others. Perhaps Izzy Ballin was not going to make it in the songwriting business. But Max suspected that Danny was selling the tune too hard, using every funny face, every tricky step, every one of a dozen deliveries all at once. The whole performance, as professional as it was, had an edge of hysteria to it. As a singer and dancer, Swarms didn’t seem quite human. He moved more like a Swiss wind-up toy.

  Then out of the wings spun a woman in a shimmering pink wrap and matching parasol. On her wide-brimmed hat clung a pile of wax fruit. As the band pounded out the simple theme, she fluttered just out of Danny’s reach, her intricate, natural steps pouring life into the act. Vamping without shame, she drew a leer from Danny, who took her hand as they broke into a bounding waltz.

  Max’s jaw dropped. The tight-lipped, sly bastards had kept it from him all this time.

  “She’s great, isn’t she?” Belle whispered.

  “That’s my sister I told you about!”

  As Danny stepped aside, Faye seized center stage. A barely concealed wildness infused her gestures. She tossed off her hat and cloak, the lights went down, and she shimmied in a strapless gown.

  There are some who see an angel

  When I stroll down Division Street,

  And some who see a devil

  When they gaze at my flying feet.

  I don’t hear what they are saying

  When the violins start to play,

  Music’s my lord and master

  I can’t help it, I swing and sway.

  Faye’s singing seemed to inspire Danny, who worked the break in a frenzy of elbows and knees. As he played the moth to her flame, Faye, assuming a demure expression, bent over to display a rosy decolletage. Exhausted from his labors, Danny stepped back, tapping his cane in time. Max had seen Faye perform a hundred times, but the way she lit into the chorus here gave him chills.

  Who cares what they’re thinking

  Who cares if they turn away?

  I was born to sing songs,

  Who cares if they’re sad or gay?

  Gripping his sleeve, Belle said, “She’s fantastic … like a powerhouse … and he’s so cute … imagine….”

  He took her backstage, where they found his sister still huffing and puffing from her performance. His face a greasepaint-streaked mask, Danny beamed, his arm around Faye’s naked shoulder.

  Max made the introductions. “Fresh stuff, sis. Faye, this is Belle. I told you about her.”

  The white lie cued his sister, who batted her eyes at Belle. “Oh, sure. All about.”

  “I couldn’t take my eyes off you up there,” Belle said, glowing herself.

  “Like a dancing bear, huh?” Faye joked.

  “We had to come out after those fish, too. House was dead as a doornail,” Danny pointed out.

  “Is this a one-shot, or what?” Max asked.

  “Tell him, Danny.” Faye poked Swarms in the chest.

  “I’ll whip her into shape soon,” Danny responded, slapping Faye’s hip. “We caught on a tour. Keith. Nine cities. Boston. Hartford. Philly.”

  “We’re looking for a place near the Square, too,” Faye blurted. All their secrets were pouring out now.

  “Yeah, we want to be close to Panic City,” Danny put in, referring to the booking agents and theaters that ringed Union Square.

  “So you’re moving out?” Belle asked.

  “Faye wants one of those little dogs,” Danny responded. “The ones that travel.”

  Max cut in. “Don’t talk to me about dogs, you S.O.B. Grab a quick one?”

  “Go, go,” Faye agreed, shooing the men away.

  When they repaired to the bustling saloon, Max bought the first round. “Marry her or I’ll stab you to death, you sonofabitch,” he suggested.

  It was all in good humor, except that he meant every word. Danny’s amorous record included a brief marriage at seventeen to a minister’s daughter in the wasteland of Roxbury, New York, a long affair with the wife of a ticket manager, a fling with a chorine named Maxine St. James, and steady attendance at Mrs. Jabonne’s and the House of All Nations. In other words, he was no better than Max himself.

  “It ain’t you I’m worried about,” Danny declared, sucking the foam off his beer.

  Max slapped him on the back. “You’re right. Faye’ll shoot you in your sleep.” He stayed away from the Leon question, figuring they could work that one out themselves. “I don’t believe in mixing the races, you mick bastard, but you’ll have to go down to City Hall, I guess.”

  “How many times I gotta tell you? Scotch-Irish! Presbyterians, for Jesus’ sake,” Danny protested.

  “I can’t tell you heathens apart,” Max growled.

  By the time the men listed back into the dressing rooms, Belle and Faye were laughing and whispering in each other’s ears. It was about the last thing Max expected. “Thick as thieves, huh?” Max observed.

  This comment sent the women into fresh gales of laughter.

  Outside in the night air, Belle dragged deeply on a cigarette.

  “You’re a tobacco fiend?” he asked, surprised.

  “It bothers you?”

  “Are you kidding?” He lit up a Cairo cigar. “You’re giving me an excuse.”

  Soon they were wandering through the seething Rialto. Sports in striped suits and bowlers ogled Belle. Drunks careened in and out of the crowd. Dips worked the excited and careless, the rubes from Columbus, Ohio and Albany. Inside Fleischmann’s Dairy Restaurant, the humming conversation, the clash of dishes, the tinkle of silverware blended into a single buzzing sound. The tiled floor reflected the brilliant electric lights.

  Gazing at Belle across the freshly wiped table, Max’s spirits rose.

  In his mania to chase down one more good story, he’d been forgetting to live. Fleischmann’s house band played a light melody. The coffee and strudel tasted wonderful. He drank in the eager look on Belle’s face, her large brown eyes, the way she fidgeted on the plain wooden chair.

  “You liked it, huh?”

  “I could have split. They’re such a couple. Don’t they just go together?”

  “Yeah, like nitro and glycerine.”

  “You think it’s a bad idea?”

  “Nah, it’s perfect. I get rid of both of them but keep them in the family.”

  “The two of you, it must have been wonderful growing up together.”

  “More like the Battle of Chickamauga.”

  “You fought?”

  “Each other? Like cats and dogs. But mostly we had an alliance against the old man. Faye would save up hair balls and stick them in his soup.”

  “Your family’s close?”

  “Are you kidding? My father said the mumbo-jumbo over me years ago. You know the one, Blessed art Thou, Oh God, King of the Universe, do me a little favor and strike my son dead. I’m one of those dead sons you see walking around.

  “So, you and Faye were gabbing it up back there.”

  “She has some sense of humor, your sister. Such nerve.”

  Why shouldn’t they become friends? Belle could examine Leon and talk sense to Faye into the bargain. He wasn’t about to reveal his nephew’s existence behind Faye’s back, but Belle would take it in stride, he felt certain. “What’re you talking about? You plow through Mulberry Bend every day by yourself. All she does is get up on a stage and flounce around.”

  His compliment made her face burn. “In front of all those strange
rs, I’d be tongue-tied.”

  He ordered one more strudel. She put the plate in the center of the table, and they ate quietly, cutting smaller and smaller pieces, each making sure, wordlessly, that the other got a fair portion.

  “You know what? You might be able to help me.”

  “How?” Her quick tongue licked crumbs from her lips. Then, more decorously, she used a napkin.

  “Never mind.” Couldn’t he think of anything but his stories? “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “No, now you made me curious.”

  Didn’t she know the tenement terrain far better than he did? Why not ask? “Well, this may sound funny, but I was just wondering if any of your patients—the poor ones—if they took out insurance.”

  “I have rich ones? Insurance, I can think of one. She said she didn’t want to be thrown in a hole in the ground. The insurance promised to buy her a stone.”

  “The rest couldn’t afford it, huh?”

  “Some of them belong to burial societies, but then the societies go broke and they don’t pay. Plenty of them have nothing.”

  On the slow, looping walk home, they stepped into a warehouse doorway. STRASSER’S LAMPS AND CHANDELIERS read the legend on the wall. Tilting her head back and standing on her toes, she kissed him frankly. What was wrong with trying him out? He looked so healthy and strong. Sometimes she thought Jake was going to burn himself up from the inside out.

  Just to hold her close, not quite knowing what he was doing, he lifted her off her feet, and they bumped awkwardly against the door. Their front teeth scraped together, he staggered back, flailing, and her hat went flying.

  When they finally reached Mrs. DeVogt’s boarding house, they slipped around the side of the stoop and down the basement stairwell. Opening his coat, enfolding her, he made a warm cocoon. There she matched him, hungry kiss for hungry kiss. This time they kept their balance.

  chapter twenty-three

  What a turn Danny did,” Belle informed Mrs. DeVogt’s breakfast table. She danced her fingers between the rolls and the marmalade.

  “You went to the show, you two?” Mrs. DeVogt asked.