“Oh, probably as soon as I could walk and swing my arms at the same time. Then I started working for Big Mike’s father. His pop heard about my boxing, came out to see a bout. Saw me take down my opponent in one blow. Offered me a job on the spot.”
“What kind of job?” Gina asked.
Her papa hesitated. “Let’s just say I made sure things went the way Big Mike’s pop wanted them to go.”
Gina’s mind flashed to men who worked at the Third Door. “Like Gooch? Mr. Gucciani, I mean.”
“Gooch?” Her papa frowned. “He’s not so bad. At least he wasn’t back when I knew him. If I’d have known, though, that you were working for Big Mike—”
“Papa, I’m just selling cigarettes and serving drinks,” Gina interrupted. “Besides, we need the money.”
She regretted her bluntness immediately when she caught the wounded expression on his face. Hastily she sought to change his mood. “Is that when you met Mama? When you worked for Big Mike’s pop?”
“Ah, Molly,” he said, a fondness coming over his face as he launched into the beloved story she hadn’t heard in years. Sweet Molly O’Brien, charmed away from her Irish neighborhood along the lake by the smooth-talking young boxer she’d met by chance on the Metropolitan West Side Elevated Railroad. As her father would tell the story later, he skipped his stop on the L, entranced by the young woman whom he would come to woo and marry within six months’ time.
“Was that why you stopped boxing? Mama didn’t like it?”
“Oh, no, not at all. Your mother, sweetheart that she was, had the fight of the Irish in her. I don’t think she liked when I got knocked out, of course, but fortunately I didn’t do that so often.” He paused. “What she didn’t like was me working for Big Mike’s pop. She got me the job driving the L instead. Told me it would remind me every day of how we met. And you know what, it did.”
Gina smiled in return. Then her papa’s tone changed a bit.
He shook his head. “I want you to know, Gina, I’m not proud of that life, when I worked for Big Mike’s father. Your mother changed everything. She changed me.” He paused. “You’re starting to be just like her. Beautiful, kind, and with some of that same temper I admired in your mother.”
Gina took a deep breath. “Papa,” she said, “there’s a man who works at the Third Door. Name’s Marty. He’s the photographer. He said…” She hesitated. “He said he’s Mama’s cousin.”
“Marty Doyle.” His tone was flat.
“Yes, that’s right.” She watched her father’s hand begin to tremble more than before.
“He turned against her, like the rest of her uppity family. Just about broke her heart.”
“What happened?”
“Your grandparents didn’t like Molly taking up with me. Disowned her on the spot. Even her dearest cousin couldn’t find a way to defend her. Willy-willed, that’s what your Marty was.” He practically spat out his name. “I’ll never forgive him for that.”
“Is that why we never met her family? Didn’t they want to meet us?” Unexpectedly a tear came to her eye. “Not even when she died?”
“They didn’t want to know us, your mother always said. That’s why I didn’t tell them when she passed. Or when we lost Aidan.” He swallowed and looked away. It was clear that the conversation was over.
* * *
A few days later, when Gina arrived at the Third Door, she found everyone in a strained mood.
“Hurry, Gina,” Faye said through a clenched smile. A single strand of her silvery hair had slipped free of her headpiece. It would have looked charming on someone else, but on Faye it looked like an icicle on her chiseled cheek. “Get dressed. The Signora wants you to shake a leg. Lulu’s not here yet.”
“What’s going on?” she asked Ned when he sauntered over to the bar to have Billy Bottles refill his flask with gin.
“A bunch of rumrunners got caught on Lake Michigan in a boat bound for Chicago,” he whispered, cracking his knuckles. “Big Mike and the Signora are boiling mad.”
“It was one of their shipments, I take it.”
“You bet. Apparently the poor suckers were stranded out there in the cold for eleven days, bouncing about on the waves. With only a single gas torch for heat. It’s a wonder they survived!”
“What will happen to the bootleggers?” Gina asked.
Overhearing her, Mr. Darrow chuckled. “No question about that. They’ll spend the rest of their days in prison.” He took a puff of his cigar. “Unless, of course, Congress finally votes to repeal Prohibition. Figures out that it’s causing more damage than good.”
“I suppose,” Gina said. Keeps me employed, though. Pays well enough. However, she didn’t want to offend Mr. Darrow, who seemed to feel strongly about it. She returned to the situation with the rumrunners. “What will they do about the missed shipment?”
Ned shrugged. “Probably what they always do. Buy some rotgut at half the price and slap some fake labels on the bottles. The booze-swillers here will never know the difference.”
“If they don’t know the difference, why do they bother with bootlegged liquor from Canada?” Gina asked.
“Sometimes our customers know their liquor,” Billy explained, frowning at Ned. “Some of them come from your part of the world. Society folks.”
Gina glanced at Ned, who had reddened slightly. “Not my world. At least not anymore.”
Faye walked over again. “The Signora doesn’t pay you sots to stand around yapping at the bar, now does she?”
Billy tightened his lips but moved to the other end of the bar. Ned stalked back to his piano and began to bang something out on the keys. With a smile, Gina recognized the words to the popular tune. “Ha-ha-ha!” he sang. “Pardon me while I laugh.”
* * *
Over the next hour, Gina worked the room, getting better at reading the needs of customers. Light a cigarette here, crack a joke there. Always pushing gin drinks and beer, since they were running low on rum. Right now, she was on her own. The cocktail waitresses were getting ready for their next set, and she was taking care of the floor alone.
“You’re a natural, doll,” Ned said to her once when she walked by the piano.
She shrugged and passed the order on to Billy Bottles. She didn’t feel like a natural, though, a few minutes later when a tipsy young woman pulling a friend along by the elbow pushed past her, causing three drinks to spill into her cocktail tray. When she glanced around, she found that the Signora was staring straight at her, her face a mask, no indication of what she was thinking. She knew for sure she couldn’t set half-empty glasses in front of this crowd, not with the prices they were paying. She returned to Billy.
“Could you top these gin rickeys off?” she asked, as she set the glasses on the counter and wiped the tray.
“Not tippling off the customer’s drinks, are you?” he said with a wink before regarding the drinks with a professional eye. She watched as the barkeep added a bit of foam from whatever he’d been concocting in his shaker and a dollop more gin to each glass. “Should be good to go. We’ll call these the Billy Bottles Rickey.”
After she delivered the newly doctored drinks to the customers, who didn’t seem to have noticed either the wait or the change in recipe, she stood quietly by the stairs, keeping an eye on the room. The Signora had at last returned to her salon, and Gina felt she could relax. Ned had stopped playing and put a record on the spinner. She saw Marty moving about the room, but she hadn’t interacted with him since their exchange outside the Signora’s salon. He hadn’t worked the last few nights, and she got the feeling now that he might be avoiding her. Every time she had moved in his direction, he seemed to be moving the other way.
Sensing a large presence next to her, she looked up to find the ever-stoic Gooch looking out over the room. Seizing the moment, she spoke to him. “So, Gooch. Mr. Gucciani. You knew my papa from the old days?” she asked.
Gooch grunted.
Not deterred, Gina continued. “He sa
id he got in a bunch of scrapes. That’s why you called him Frankie the Cat, right?”
Still no response.
“You must have known my mama?”
At last a flicker. “Sure, kid. We all knew Molly. Real sweet girl.” He seemed like he was about to say something else, but instead he glanced first at his watch and then at the beaded entrance to the main room. His tone changed. “Where are those girls? Where’s Fingers?”
The floor was still full of customers dancing and hanging on to each other, doing their high-spirited drunken best to dance the Charleston. Usually, Gina had learned, the customers knew to clear the dance floor for the girls and other performers when Ned tinkled a delightful little overture. However, Ned was not at his customary place at the piano, and indeed was nowhere to be seen.
The girls had appeared in the beaded doorway, dressed in their fabulous feathers and beads. In their hands, they were carrying bananas, of all things. Bananas?
Then Gina realized what they were planning. “If you clear the floor, I’ll put the record on,” she said to Gooch.
Hoping she had guessed correctly, Gina laid down her tray on the bar and, with a quick review of the wax records stacked inside the gramophone, found the disc she was looking for. She held it up to Jade, who nodded curtly. She waved to Gooch, who gave a piercing whistle. “Make room for the dancers,” he said in a tone that was both loud and menacing.
Startled, everyone cleared the dance floor immediately, standing around the room, sitting on the bar stools, or taking chairs by the tables along the wall. His command was not one to be ignored. Giggling a little to herself, Gina quickly removed the other record, replacing it with “Yes, We Have No Bananas.”
The girls flounced through their routine, which contained a number of suggestive gestures that made the audience roar and clamor for more drinks. When they were done, the girls raced off to change, not wanting to miss out on all the good tipping that was sure to follow.
Gina was left alone again. Seeing that Ned had still not returned, Gina placed another record on the gramophone, and “Flapper Walk” began to play, to great squeals from the women in the audience, who jumped up and began to dance together in pairs.
“Good choice,” Billy Bottles said. “This crowd’s ready to stay hopping—oh, no!”
Gina turned around to see one of those hopping coeds fall violently against the gramophone. The next moment the record began to skip, to a collective groan from the others. Gooch came over and, with a strong arm, escorted the woman and her companion out of the Third Door, Jade following behind them.
Faye had gone over to inspect the gramophone. “Needle’s broken,” she said. “Spare me these simpleton Bettys.”
“Is there another needle?” Gina asked. “Maybe I can fix it.”
“Hey, girls, how about some drinks first?” a customer called out.
Gina waved Faye and Lulu away. “Go, take care of their drink orders. I’ll see if there’s another needle.”
“If not, there’s always the Radiola. Get some dance music out of New York,” Lulu said.
“Do it quick,” Faye ordered. “Before we lose all our customers.” Indeed, a few patrons had already started to walk up the stairs, murmuring about heading over to the dance emporium on Walnut.
“Good luck getting a stiff drink there,” Billy Bottles muttered. “Everyone knows that place waters down their drinks. It’s all rotgut there.”
Gina looked around. Where was Ned, anyway? Well, no time to worry about that now. The most important thing was to get the music playing again. She was surprised that the Signora had not come to find out what was going on by now.
Unable to find a second needle inside the gramophone cabinet, Gina pushed it back into the corner, while Billy Bottles mopped up the offending vomit. “Where’s the Radiola?” she asked.
Billy pointed behind to the door behind the bar. “Back there. I’ll roll it out. I think it’s busted, though.”
“Oh yeah? What’s the matter with it?”
Billy shrugged and went into the back room to push out the Radiola. A moment later, they had it plugged in. When they turned it on, though, a harsh buzzing sound filled the air. Gina listened to it for a second, then turned the dial. “Let’s try a different channel.”
She twiddled with the dial again, and they heard the same harsh sound. “Sounds like a capacitor needs to be fixed.” She pulled the radio away from the wall and looked for the release that would allow the back panel to swing open.
The patrons’ thirst momentarily quenched, Lulu and Faye had returned to hover anxiously over her.
“Do you even know how to fix it?” Faye asked, tapping her foot in annoyance. “What’s the holdup?”
“Just gimme a sec,” Gina said, still fiddling with the dials, trying not to feel irked by Faye’s bossy manner.
“Oh yeah, your dad fixes radios,” Lulu said. “I remember.”
“Yeah, he did.” She stopped, not wanting to say anything else about her papa. “I need needle-nose pliers.”
The women looked uncomprehending.
“A tool kit?” Gina asked a bit more impatiently.
“I know where one is,” Lulu said, retrieving a small box of tools from behind the bar and handing it to Gina.
“Hurry up,” Faye said. “This crowd wants their tunes.”
Gina didn’t hesitate, applying the tools to the vacuum tubes and other parts of the Radiola.
“Sure hope you know what you’re doing,” a man said from behind her. She looked up to see Roark scowling down at her.
Although she ignored him, he continued. “Hope you don’t go electrifying yourself.”
To her chagrin, she found herself double-checking that she had indeed unplugged the cord from the electric outlet on the wall. He chuckled.
“You’re in my light,” she told him.
“Alright bearcat, I’m just here to help.” Unexpectedly, he pulled out a flashlight from the toolbox and swung the light so that she could see. “What’s the diagnosis, Doctor?” he asked, crouching awkwardly down beside her. His tone seemed to be more interested than mocking now.
“Could be a filter, could be a blown tube. I can’t tell right now if it’s the loudspeaker or the radio itself.” She glanced at him, registering the change in his expression. “Shine the light to the left, would you?”
He stayed silent as she carefully twisted the wire by the capacitor back into place. “Big Mike needs to get those capacitors changed,” she muttered to herself.
Awkwardly he stood back up. “Learn that trade during the Great War, did you? When all of us men were off fighting?”
Gina could hear the bitterness in his voice, and she knew exactly why he was angry. So many men were. They had fought hard for their country, often getting injured and maimed, to return to what? Scorn, poverty, humiliation, and unemployment. Her brother could easily have been one of the thousands of disillusioned and bitter men. If, of course, he had returned.
Ignoring Roark, she shut the panel and plugged the radio back in. Fiddling with the dials, within a few seconds she had dance music broadcasting from New York City.
Only then did she look back up at Roark. “I’ve learned my father’s trade because he has no son to support him, and he no longer has the capacity to fend for himself. I’ve done what I need to do. If you’ll excuse me, I gotta get back to work.”
She handed the toolbox to Billy Bottles. “Nice work, doll,” he said.
“Nothing to it,” she said, giving him a little wink. As she slipped the straps of her tray around her neck, she glanced back at Roark. He was still standing by the radio, looking thoughtful.
CHAPTER 6
Gina yanked impatiently at her stocking as she hurried to the drugstore for her shift, hoping to keep the bandages covering her blisters intact. Her feet were still aching from the long night before. Eventually Ned had returned to his piano, bleary-eyed and looking dismal. Lulu had whispered to her that he’d been found by Little Johnny asleep i
n the alley, having tossed back one too many before he went on break. Whether he’d gotten in trouble for his wrongdoing was difficult to say. Even blotto, Ned was still a fine piano player.
The sky was already darkening a bit as the late afternoon sun went behind a cloud. It was only four in the afternoon, but as the Signora had instructed, she was to work at the drugstore for two hours before heading down to the Third Door for her shift.
As she opened the door to Rosenstein’s Drugs, she noted a bold sign in the window. RUBBING ALCOHOL ONLY. She chuckled and went inside, a bell above the door jangling as she entered the store. An odd mix of aromas tickled her nose, sweet scents of vanilla and malt alongside the more pungent smells of ground-up herbs and medicines.
The store was bigger than she expected, with a soda counter and stools to her left. The center held wooden shelves full of canned foods, soaps, talcs, and other sundries. At the right she saw the pharmacy counter, with rows of bottles and jars containing medicines and remedies.
Evidently having heard the bell, a stout and balding man, wearing spectacles, a neatly pressed white coat, and an equally neat bow tie stepped into view, grinding something with a mortar and pestle.
“Mr. Rosenstein?” Gina asked. “I’m Gina Ricci.”
“What may I do for you?” Like nearly everyone else’s on the near West Side, Mr. Rosenstein’s speech contained a trace of an accent, although his English was impeccable. Yiddish, she guessed. He held out his hand. “You have a prescription to be filled?”
“I’m working here today.” She gave him a meaningful wink. “The Signora sent me.”
“The Signora…?” His brow cleared. “Benny will show you around. Benny!”
A young black man stepped out from one of the aisles, brushing his hands on his white apron. He was perhaps in his early twenties. “Yes, sir?” he said to the pharmacist.
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