“I mean at the Third Door,” Lulu said, a cautious tone still in her voice. “It’s different than what you’re used to.”
She thinks I’m a knucklehead, Gina thought, feeling annoyed. “Pfft. I’ll be fine.”
The puzzled look on Lulu’s face was quickly smoothed away. “I know,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 3
“Hope the furnace didn’t go out again,” Gina muttered to herself when she woke to a freezing bedroom the next morning. She could even see the faint wisps of her breath, hanging in the air. Though she wanted to stay snuggled beneath the heavy woolen blankets, she forced herself out of her bed with a groan. Her body protested every movement, aching from the late-night hours, high heels, and heavy trays. When she touched the radiator in her room, sure enough, it was cold. With any luck, her father had just forgotten to shovel in more coal. They couldn’t afford a new furnace.
She could hear her father now, banging about in the kitchen. Quickly she donned a day dress and sweater, then entered the tiny kitchen to find broken eggs all over the range, their shells and yolks everywhere.
Gina bit her lip. Those were all the eggs they had left, and she wasn’t sure they had money to spare to buy more at the market.
“Good morning, Papa,” she said, regarding her father with some alarm. His grayish black hair was mussed, and his cheeks were more ruddy than usual. She was relieved, though, to see the stubble on his face; at least he had not attempted to shave himself again. “What are you up to?”
“Didn’t want to wake you,” her father replied, tightening the belt on his old blue bathrobe. His hands were shaking more than usual. “Just making some breakfast. Or at least trying to.” He gave a self-deprecating chuckle.
Gina sighed. Opening the icebox, she took out the carrot soup she had made yesterday afternoon before heading to the Third Door. She had planned to save it for his dinner, but they might as well eat it now.
“Why don’t you listen to the radio?” she suggested, opening up the jar. “I’ll warm up some soup in a jiffy.”
“Soup? Well, all right,” Papa replied, sitting down at the small kitchen table and turning on the radio he’d built a few years ago. Fortunately, she’d just tuned it yesterday. When her papa’s palsy had grown worse, she’d learned to fix the radio herself, popping off the back panel and tightening the tubes when necessary.
Right now, though, she was very glad to hear her papa humming along to “My Blue Heaven” with Gene Austin. He’d been more down than up ever since he’d lost his job driving the L train eighteen months before, after he had crashed the train at the Randolph Street station. Even though no one had been seriously injured, the Chicago Rapid Transit Company had deemed him physically unfit to safely manage the equipment. Since then he had cobbled together a series of jobs, often fixing small electronics and household items for neighbors, building up a small enterprise in the process. On his good days, he could still complete such tasks, but on his bad days—which seemed to be increasing in number—he could barely handle a broom, let alone rewire a radio. Customers didn’t trust a man who couldn’t hammer straight, or fix the inside of a lamp or radio. So Gina had taken to fixing them herself, with their neighbors none the wiser.
She set a bowl down in front of him.
“You made carrot stew,” he said, sounding delighted. Leaning over the bowl, he breathed in deeply. “Your mother’s recipe. Not from a can!”
Gina turned a guilty eye toward the cabinet half-stocked with Campbell’s tomato and vegetable soups. Personally, she enjoyed the canned soups, and the convenience of them even more, but she was glad now that she had spent the day before figuring out her mama’s old recipe.
“I wish Mama had written down more of these family recipes,” she said. “Do you think we might ask my grandmother—?”
Her papa stiffened. Laying his spoon down, he said, “No, Gina. We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You know why.” Lowering his head so that it was just above the bowl, he carefully brought the spoon to his lips, trying hard to keep the precious liquid from spilling.
Gina sighed. She’d never really understood what had caused the strife with her mother’s family; she just knew that they hadn’t shown up for her brother’s funeral ten years before. Whether they hadn’t been invited or hadn’t wanted to come, Gina had never known. The crushing misery of those days following her brother’s death in northern France had numbed her, and any questions she might have raised seemed pointless. Even when the armistice ended the Great War a few weeks later, nothing felt right in the world.
He looked up at her then. “You were out late.”
“I was working, Papa. I started a new job, remember? At the Third Door.”
He scowled as his hands began to shake more. “Of course I remember, Gina. There’s nothing wrong with my mind, even if I’ve got these damn shakes.” He banged his fists down on the table. “I don’t know why you have to work at that place.”
Gina sat down in the other chair and laid her hands on top of his. That seemed to steady them both. “Papa, it’s not so bad, really. And I’ll be working in the drugstore and tea room, too.” Then her voice grew stern. “We need the money. Tips are good. I promise, I’ll be fine.”
The memory of the black silk dress and headdress flashed into her mind then. Had Dorrie thought she’d be fine?
Kissing the top of his head, she put the disturbing thought out of her mind. Then she moved the dirty dishes aside, spread his newspaper open on the table, picked up his screwdriver, and began to unscrew part of Mrs. Hayford’s lamp. At least this was something she could fix.
* * *
Gina stood in front of Madame Laupin’s dress shop a few hours later, breathing in a lovely cinnamon aroma from the brightly lit bakery next door. Like the two other stores on this block of Polk Street, it contained two large windows on either side of the front door. Unlike the bakery, with its gleaming windows and pretty display of cakes, the dress store looked a bit drab and dingy. On the glass, she could just make out MADAME LAUPIN’S, LATEST FASHIONS in faded black script. Only an exquisitely clothed dress form suggested the treasures that lay inside.
Gina mounted the two cracked front steps and opened the door. A bell tinkled above her head when she walked inside the store.
“Bonjour!” A woman called from a back room. “Un moment, merci.”
“Hello!” Gina called out, looking around the dressmaker’s shop, which was impeccably clean. Indeed, although the room was dark, it had an unexpectedly sophisticated atmosphere. Two mannequins displayed elegant creations, and a gleaming sewing machine graced a polished wooden table in one corner. One whole wall had shelves of precisely folded materials, from winter wools to printed silks and summer lace. A long table ran nearly the length of the wall. It was bare now, but a small scrap of fabric lying on the floor suggested that the seamstress used it to cut and measure material. By the window was a glass display case, in which jewelry, headpieces, and ivory combs could be seen.
Gina was gazing into the display case when a teeny woman dressed all in black entered the store from a back room.
“Oui, mademoiselle?” the woman said, looking at her in an appraising way. “Is there something I can help you with?”
The unexpected elegance of the shop had overwhelmed her, and Gina no longer felt that such beauty could be meant for her. She opened her mouth to speak but simply gulped instead, unsure what to say.
The woman was still regarding her steadily. “Did someone send you to me, ma cherie?”
Without a word, Gina handed the Signora’s calling card to Madame Laupin.
“Ah, the Signora!” the dressmaker said, beaming as comprehension dawned. She appraised Gina critically. “You sing, I presume? Surely you do not dance?”
Gina straightened her posture. “I’ll be selling cigarettes and flowers.” And booze, she almost added, stopping herself just in time. “I won’t be performing. Madame Laupin said I’m t
o have two dresses, billed to her account.”
“Oui, I understand. I know just what you need,” the woman replied, ushering her into a back room. “Allow me to take your measurements. After that, we may select the fabrics.”
A half hour later, a delicate mixture of silks, georgettes, and voile, all in shimmery greens and matted black, was neatly folded on the dressmaker’s table, to be made into two lovely frocks. Gina could not keep from exclaiming over the gorgeousness of it all. “Golly, these are swell!”
Madame Laupin smiled indulgently. “Yes, the Signora does like her girls—even her cigarette sellers—to look … how do you say it?.… ‘swell.’” She pulled out a black ledger to record the sale. Getting a glimpse of the price, Gina stifled a gasp. How many weeks will it take to pay that charge back?
Then she touched the beautiful fabrics again. The two dresses cost dearly, to be sure, but she suspected that for the quality of the workmanship she was getting quite a bargain. “Thank you, Madame Laupin. I’ll treasure them.”
“Wear them in good health, ma cherie,” Madame Laupin replied, as she held open the door for Gina. Then a funny expression crossed her features, as if she had remembered something.
“Is something wrong, Madame?”
“Just don’t go off where you shouldn’t, ma cherie. Sometimes girls do that.” There was something in the dressmaker’s tone. A warning.
Gina hazarded a guess. “Like—Dorrie, you mean?”
Madame Laupin just gave a funny click of her tongue. “Best not speak of that, mademoiselle.” She opened the door a bit wider. “Au revoir. Mind your step, if you would.”
* * *
As Gina stepped away from Madame Laupin’s, it was hard not to wonder about the elusive Dorrie. Not that it was her business, of course. It was best to focus on the matters at hand, she decided. She felt guilty thinking it, but Dorrie’s loss was certainly her gain, and she was determined to make the most of it.
She had been instructed to stop by the tea room before she began today’s shift at the Third Door; it was one street over on Harrison, on the other side of the alley. As Lulu had mentioned, she needed to learn everything she could about working there, and at the drugstore, so she’d be ready in the unlikely case of a raid.
As she passed the pastry shop, Le Polonaise, Gina took a deep breath, enjoying the delicious aromas emerging from within. Maybe one day she’d be bringing in enough extra bucks to feel she could purchase some of the delicate cakes in the window for her papa to enjoy.
Her thoughts were interrupted then by the piercing sound of a whistle blowing on the balcony above the pastry shop entrance. Gazing upward, she took in two runny-nosed, stringy-haired urchins, a boy and a girl, grinning down at her. The girl had her arm slung around a midsized mangy-looking dog who wore a mournful expression on its face.
“Whatcha doing?” the girl called down to her. She seemed to have a slight Polish accent. “You were in Madame Laupin’s. For about forty-five minutes. Isn’t that so, Emil?” Here she glanced at the boy, who nodded in agreement.
Gina was slightly surprised that they had paid such close attention to her comings and goings. “Buying some dresses,” she replied, about to continue onward. “Starting a new job.”
“Are you working at the tea room?” Emil asked, bright with curiosity. The girl raised an eyebrow.
“Why, yes,” Gina replied, a bit uncomfortable now. She was not sure if she should be declaring that information so openly in the street. Since the children were still looking at her, she asked, “Do you live up there?”
“Oh, yes. Our father owns the pastry shop,” the girl replied with pride. “We have the best pastries. Polish mostly. Some French treats, too.”
“They smell delicious,” Gina replied.
“The Signora sells them in her tea room.” Both children giggled then, and Gina smiled, too. It seemed like they were all in on the joke. Certainly, if they lived near the Third Door, they’d seen and heard everything.
“You don’t say,” Gina said. “Well, I must go. Best not be late. It’s my first day working there.”
“If today’s your first day—you must be taking Dorrie’s place,” the girl said, sounding a bit sad.
“Zosia!” Emil whispered loudly to his sister. “We’re not supposed to talk about her.”
“Yes, I am filling in for Dorrie,” Gina replied, her curiosity about the dead girl once again piqued. “Did you know her?”
“Yeah, she’d bring us hokey-pokey,” Zosia said. “Peppermint sticks, my favorite. She’d throw them up to us and we’d catch them. She knew Papa and Mama wouldn’t let us have sweets. Sometimes we get to eat cakes if they are burnt. We’re not usually allowed candy.”
“Lucky you!” Gina replied. “She sounds like she was a very nice person.”
“Well…” Emil paused.
“We had an agreement,” Zosia said.
“Shhh!” Emil said. “Zosia, don’t tell her.”
“An agreement?” Gina asked. “That sounds interesting.”
“Just sometimes we see things that other people don’t like us to see,” Zosia explained.
“We were supposed to let Big Mike or the Signora know if we saw something,” Emil said, evidently giving in. “Sometimes we’d just tell Dorrie.”
“I see,” Gina replied. It seemed that the entire block was under the Castallazzos’ watchful eye. With a faint feeling of unease, she waved good-bye to the children and entered the tea shop.
* * *
Full of lace doilies, china figurines, and delicate pastries, the prim tea shop proved to be completely at odds with the exuberant speakeasy below. The place was overseen by Mrs. Metzger, an older woman with plump red cheeks and grayish blond hair pulled back in a bun. Though a bit finicky in decor, the place was also warm and comfortable, like Mrs. Metzger herself, and seemed to attract an elderly, and very chatty, group of women from the community. The tea room tasks were much like those she’d learned when she had worked in the restaurant—sweep the floor, wipe down tables, and take the occasional order.
“I’ll take mine with an extra dollop, dear,” one of the white-haired women said to Gina, after ordering hot chocolate.
“An extra dollop?” she repeated. “In your chocolate?”
“Just one, please.” She winked at her companion. “More than that, I’ll be taking a nap right here on the table.” Both women giggled.
Gina went back behind the counter and started to make the hot chocolate. An extra dollop of what? Sugar? She’d added more honey to the other women’s tea when they’d made that request.
As she uncertainly regarded the honey swizzler in her hand, she heard Mrs. Metzger chuckle from behind her. “Different kind of dollop, dear.” The tea shop owner reached inside a sugar canister below the counter and in one swift movement extracted a small, dark flask from inside. Shielding her actions from the customers, she poured out a measure of deep brown liquid. Taking a step closer to Gina, she murmured through clenched lips, “Bourbon or rum with chocolate, dear.”
Gina placed the spiked drink on the lace-covered table in front of the customer. “Where are you from?” the woman asked her. “I think I’ve seen you around.”
Gina was about to answer when she caught the faintest shake of Mrs. Metzger’s head. “Gina, please be a dear and take care of those crumbs in the corner,” the tea shop owner said, nodding toward a broom. The message was clear. She was not to engage with the patrons in a personal way. She only spoke of pastries, hot drinks, and dollops until just before six o’clock, when it was time to head down to the Third Door.
* * *
“Here you go! Two Aviations,” Gina said, carefully laying the light blue drinks down in front of two natty fellows seated at a corner table. For the last fifteen minutes, the men had been attempting to convince her that they’d been pilots in the Great War. Something about their smarmy smiles made her suspect that they were lying. Probably trying to impress her, which, even if she were in the market
for a man, was most certainly the wrong way to go about it.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Marty enter the speakeasy, scouring the room until his eyes locked on hers. He moved toward her then, looking like he had something on his mind. The would-be flyboys were still trying to tell her about one of their supposed exploits.
“Hold on, boys,” she said, putting them off. “You can tell me all about it later.”
As she moved to meet the photographer, she found her path suddenly blocked by people stopping to watch two rather glamorous-looking couples descend the stairs in what seemed to Gina to be an overly slow and dramatic fashion.
From the excited whispers going on around her, she could tell that these were no ordinary folk.
Both the women were dressed in heavy furs and sported fancy diamond necklaces and bracelets. The men were wearing stylish overcoats and fedoras, glancing surreptitiously about them. Seeing Marty move toward them with his camera, they held up their hands in warning.
“No pictures, mate,” Gina heard one of them say to Marty.
The women strode confidently forward, the diamonds in their earrings and tiaras sparkling even in the dim light.
Stepping back against the piano, she heard Ned give a low whistle. “They’re hot to trot tonight,” he said under his breath.
“Who are they? Performers?” Gina asked, feeling doubtful. Though she hadn’t thumbed through Variety to the extent that Lulu most certainly had, she didn’t recognize either woman. “Stage actresses?”
Ned chuckled. “Doll, you really are a babe. They’re with the O’Banions. Those are their wives. Or maybe their girlfriends. Sometimes it’s hard to keep track.”
“Oh,” Gina said, then fell silent. The O’Banions she had heard of. North Side Irish. Her mother’s world.
“The question is,” Ned said, “what are they doing here?”
As if in answer to that question, the Signora emerged from her salon in a beautiful evening gown and approached the foursome. Gooch, Gina could see, was keeping a keen eye on them from across the room. Little Johnny appeared out of nowhere and took a position on the other side of the room, his right hand casually resting on his hip.
Murder Knocks Twice Page 4