She has a point. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends for as long as I can remember. A night out actually sounds like just what the doctor ordered. “Oh, alright. Let’s change into something fabulous.”
She grins wickedly. “This town won’t know what hit it.”
The melt-in-my-mouth steak dinner somehow doesn’t taste as good as my humble sandwich earlier in the day, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s the company that makes the difference. I push the last bite of potato around my plate, half listening as June recounts her latest melodrama.
“And so I told her… darling, it’s nineteen-twenty-seven, not the dark ages. Flappers are brazen by nature. Are you even listening, Mas?”
“Of course,” I say, looking up from my bone china. “You were traumatizing a saleswoman.”
June rolls her eyes. “Well, you could be a bit more enthusiastic. It’s bad for my ego when you sound so desperately bored of me.”
I release my fork and wipe the sides of my mouth with the linen napkin. “Not bored, never that. Just distracted.”
“You’ve got it bad, don’t you?” she asks, raising a glass of champagne to her lips. “Not that I can blame you. He’s absolutely delicious.”
“It’s not that, it’s the new club,” I say, which is only partially true. “It may be a feather in JD’s cap if Daddy hands the reins over to him, but it’s just a ball and chain for me. One more thing shackling me to this town.”
She perks up. “And what’s wrong with this town?”
She waves her hand toward the room around us, a room filled to the brim with boozy debs and their slick-talking daddies, with bearcats and bohunks, everyone dressed to the nines for an evening of decadent food and hot music. The city practically pulsates with the energy of the night, a living, breathing thing, mesmerizing and enchanting.
Once, what feels like a lifetime ago, I, too, had been under its thrall. But now when I look around, I feel outside of it, as if separated by a pane of glass. I can see it, but it no longer touches me the way it once had.
“It’s the city that never sleeps,” she continues, raising a toast, which I take part in, not because I feel inclined to do so, but more out of a sense of obligation.
The problem with never sleeping, as I’ve come to discover, is that the weariness eventually takes its toll. That’s what’s happening now. I’m weary of all of it.
“Come on,” I say, pushing my seat back from the table. “We’ll miss the show.”
We bramble arm in arm toward Broadway, stopping every so often to admire the latest offering in the shop window or to bum a cig from a passing Joe. When we finally get our tickets and wander into the theater, the lights are already down, the room dark as we fumble to find our seats.
The opening title card flickers to the screen.
In every living soul, a spirit cries for expression—perhaps this plaintive, wailing song of jazz is, after all, the misunderstood utterance of a prayer.
The film rolls on, telling the tale of a young fella eschewing the path his father laid out for him. After a severe beating, he runs away for the bright lights of California to fulfill his dream of being a jazz singer. He finds himself and makes a life he’s happy in until tragedy and longing bring him back to the streets of Harlem—and the father who disowned him. They make peace, of course, and while it’s not a happy ending, it’s at least one of hope.
It’s a shame the real world doesn’t offer the same opportunities for redemption and forgiveness. Normally the final frame brings me a kind of peace, as the young fella takes up the mantle his father had always wanted for him—leaving his own dreams in shreds for the sake of his family.
But tonight, my stomach rolls, a familiar desire rising inside me. The desire to burn it all to the ground—the business, the club, all of it. If I can’t escape the life, I can at least live it on my terms.
The film ends and June discards her ticket stub as we exit the theater, stepping back into the night air. Sliding her arm through mine, she grins wildly.
“Whaddya say, Mas? Night’s young and the whole world is our oyster. You up for getting into a little trouble?”
“I think trouble is just what I need tonight,” I admit, leading her down the street, through the crowds, and toward a certain burlesque club.
Despite having been here before, neither of us know the ever-changing password to gain entrance, but June manages to flirt with a couple of fellas who do and they lead us in. Once inside, we quickly ditch the boys and make our way backstage where a middle-age woman with grey curls stands with a signup sheet on a clipboard.
“We’d like to dance,” I say boldly. June is at my side, giggling nervously.
She looks us over once, nodding in approval. “Your names?”
I glance to June before responding, “Lady Lola and Duchess.”
The woman raises one eyebrow, but scribbles our phony names on her sheet. With a wave, she leads us back into the dressing room. It’s obscenely hot inside, the odor of sweat and perfume mingling in a wet, sticky fog. Rows of mirrored walls reflect the bright lamp light, and a long table down the center of the room with chairs at each spot is covered with various bits of costumes, props, and makeup.
The woman points to the far wall and a set of trunks. “There are some costumes in there. You can use whatever you like. The fans are in the closet. You’ll each dance for one song—Lady Lola will go first. Dougie, the stage manager, he’ll tap on the far door three times before announcing the next girl. There’s only three ahead of you, so better get ready quick. If the crowd likes you, the door pays thirty-five cents. If not, you get nada. Got it?”
We nod in unison.
She folds her arm across her chest. “You gals ever danced before?”
June snorts. “Of course.”
The woman grunts her disbelief but releases us to the dressing room. There are a handful of other girls in various states of undress wandering the room. Three taps on the door sends one of the girls in a tall, black-feathered hat and long fur coat toward the door at the back of the room. Taking a deep breath, she throws it open and steps out onto the stage.
The crowd goes wild, cheering and whistling. In another moment, the music begins.
“Well, let’s find something to wear,” I say, releasing June and heading for one of the empty seats. I quickly deposit my hat and jacket, stripping down to my pink lace bra and panties. June heads straight for the costume trunks and pulls out a handful of long, beaded necklaces and a pair of white fishnet stockings and matching garter.
“For you,” she says, dropping them on the table in front of me. One of the other dancers slides a box across the table toward me as well.
“Don’t forget these, sugar.”
I quickly pluck out a pair of beaded, flower-shaped pasties and the small bottle of gum arabic with which to attach them before sliding the box to June.
“I can’t believe you agreed to this,” she muses, taking out a set of her own. “Considering the last time.”
I smirk. How could I forget? It’d only been a few months ago. On JD’s eighteenth birthday, she’d dressed up like a cabaret girl and popped out of a giant cake. I’d had to help her dress and apply the pasties, something I’d sworn I’d never subject myself to after having to help her remove said pasties later.
“Well, it sounds like a gas,” I admit. “Besides, I’ve gotten used to being on stage, commanding an audience, as of late. This is going to be old hat, really.”
“Just the same.” June hands me a delicate white feather mask, the sort that covers just the eye area. “Best wear this so your daddy don’t find out you’ve been parading around with the Follies. He’d tan you good, and probably Benny too, for not keeping a better eye on you.”
It’s only her last words that convince me to accept the mask from her fingers. Part of me hopes Daddy finds out—the careless, rebel part of me—but the other part—the part that wins the argument—only wants to keep my actions from reflecting on Benjamin,
especially when I’m about to ask to keep him as my full-time guard. Yes, better that Daddy never knows. After all, I will know, and really, that’s all that matters.
June and I dress quickly. She opts for a slinky chain-mail type of costume, a vaguely Egyptian-looking brazier and long skirt with slits all the way up both sides. She draws long cat eyes and piles on the rouge before choosing a set of peacock feather fans. When her knock comes, we are all but alone in the dressing room, the other girls having either performed and left, or have gone out to mingle with the clubgoers to make a few extra nickels.
I hear the stage manager announce June to the crowd, and a cheer rises. She offers me a flirty wink before opening the door and stepping out on stage. I can’t see what’s happening, but judging by the roaring crowd, she’s well earned her thirty-five cents for the evening.
I clench my fists. It’s not that I’m nervous, not really. It’s the same warmth spreading through me now that does every time I step on stage. When I stand under the bright house lights, singing, I’m baring much more than my body—and I feel just as naked then as I do now. Truthfully, the first time I’d sang in the club, I’d been so nervous I’d nearly gotten sick afterward. Then, it became more like a thrill, seeing how I could sway the crowd, how I could bring them to tears or to the very edge of ecstasy with only my voice.
The novelty of it all had faded fairly quickly, though. As good as I am on stage, performing isn’t my true love. I find I’m much happier alone in my room reading philosophy or poetry than standing in the spotlight with all eyes on me.
Even as I think it, the song ends and the crowd roars. The stage manager knocks, then announces me, the mysterious Duchess, to a round of applause. Tying the mask across my face, I straighten myself and open the door, taking my place behind the red curtain.
When the lights dim, I step out, covering myself completely with the creamy white ostrich feathers, then the house lights come back up, red and white and fixed so brightly on me that at first I can’t even see the audience. The first slow beats of music fill the air and I let myself move to the rhythm, swaying and flicking the fans in turn, revealing just a bit, just a tease, of my body beneath.
Finally, as I move, the crowd becomes clear, and in that moment, I know I’ve captured them. There’s no cheering, no whistles, just face after face of abject awe. Wide eyes, open mouths, person after person, both male and female faces leaning forward in their seats, straining to get a better look. I spin gently, waving the fans to expose my mostly bare backside, then step forward, sauntering with each footstep accentuating the strike of the piano, each hip punctuating the beat of the drum. Their energy fuels me, and each sway becomes more confident until I melt away, leaving behind a living flame, all my inhibitions burned away in a blaze of desire—mine, theirs—the energy of life.
I haven’t felt this alive in a very long time.
I wave and spin, each motion giving them a little more, and a little more, building to a crescendo of raw need. Finally, as the last notes soar through the air, I reveal myself, but only for a moment, smiling suggestively before covering myself once more.
The audience goes crazy, leaping to their feet, shaking the walls with their enthusiastic cries.
Another sound cuts through the madness. Before I can make sense of what’s happening, June and a fella I recognize as Benjamin’s friend Dickey, rush the stage, dragging me back through the curtain.
“It’s a raid,” he yells over the chaos, taking my arm. June pushes us toward the fire exit.
“Wait, our clothes,” I say, struggling against them. “We can’t go out in the street looking like this.”
Dickey curses under his breath. “You two go, I’ll get your stuff and meet you.”
“You don’t know what’s ours,” I say, planting my feet indignantly. “I’ll go.”
June cuts in, taking my other arm. “Are you blotto? You want your daddy to have to come bail you out of the clink looking like that?”
I sigh. She’s right, obviously. “Fine.”
They release me and I follow June out the exit, spilling onto the street with nothing but my feather fans to cover me. She drags me down the street into the dark shadow between two buildings. Shivering against the night air, I watch the door, silently praying that Dickey can escape with our clothes before the Johnnies bust him. As soon as I see him spill out the door, I sag in relief. June steps into the street, waving him toward our location.
He stuffs a pile of clothes at us. “Here. I wasn’t sure what was yours so I just grabbed everything I could carry.”
“Great,” June says, taking the clothes and waving her fingers at him. “Well? A little privacy?”
He snorts. “Not to be uncouth, but I just saw both of you in nothing but your birthday suits. I think the time for modesty has passed.”
She narrows her eyes, and he turns his back to us with a sigh.
Unfortunately, none of the clothing was, in fact, ours. Still, we slide into two dresses that must have belonged to the other dancers and quickly discard the fans and beads down the alley.
Once we’re fully covered, June sighs deeply. We both dissolve into a fit of nervous giggles.
“I’m glad you find this amusing,” Dickey says, turning back to us. “What on earth were you doing in a place like that, anyway?”
“Probably the same as you, just looking to have a little fun,” I say, adjusting my hair. Then another thought seizes me. “And if you breathe a word of this to anyone…”
I don’t have to complete my threat. He raises his hands in surrender. “Don’t worry. No one would believe me anyway.”
I poke him in the chest. “I mean it. Not a word to anyone.”
Now he grins. “Oh, I get it. You don’t want me to tell Benny. Well, that’s gonna cost ya.”
June cuts between us, batting her eyelashes. “What’dya have in mind?”
He looks past her to me. “Well, I was thinking, how about a promotion?”
I sigh. With men, it almost always came down to one of two things, ambition or sex. I can’t help but be glad he’d chosen the former. “Done.”
He grins, holding his arm out to June. “In that case, how about I escort you fine ladies home?”
The next day, I replay O’Hara’s threats over and over in my head as I make my way toward the penthouse to pick up Masie.
“Seems like you undersold your position in the Schultz organization,” he hisses.
I shake my head, frantically trying to think up an excuse for what he’d just witnessed. “No, sir. I’m still just a bodyguard, as I said.”
“Miss Schultz seems to have taken quite a shine to you.”
I frown. “Oh, no, she’s just…” I wrack my brain for some way out of this conversation. “Flirtatious.”
“Even so, this is a great opportunity for you, son.”
“How so?” I ask, not really wanting the answer.
“You have unprecedented access to the family. You’re bound to hear things… If you should decide to share those things with me, well, I’d be very grateful.”
I stop walking, turning to face him fully. “As I’ve told you, I’m not privy to any information that might help you. I don’t know anything about their business dealings. I’m sorry.”
He grabs my arm, pulling me in close. “Maybe not yet. But you will get me the information I need. If you don’t…well, let’s just say a fella with a record like yours is likely to reoffend. And it’d be a damn shame if something were to happen to your family while you were behind bars again.”
Something inside me snaps at his words. “Are you threatening me? My family? What kinda cop are you?”
When he answers, his eyes are dead, void of emotion, his voice matter of fact. “The kind of cop who will go to any lengths to get scum like Dutch Schultz and his ilk off the streets. And you’d do well to remember that, Benny.”
Releasing me, he steps back, a sour grin spreading across his face. “Now, you just keep yourself close to
that ripe tomato, and I’ll be in touch to hear what you can ferret out. Oh, and just so you know, Schultz keeps a ledger of his business dealings. Anyone who might come into possession of that ledger could be in for a big-time reward. You keep that under your hat, though.”
I clench my jaw against the memory as I hop the trolley uptown. The real question is should I come forward with what happened? Would Dutch see it as a betrayal, see me as a potential rat? Would my honesty earn me a reward, or a one-way ticket back to the loading docks, far from Masie and any secrets I might learn? And even worse, if I don’t give O’Hara something to use against Dutch, would he make good on his threat to have me thrown back in the clink?
My head aches with questions. By the time I reach the penthouse door, the only thing I’m certain of is that no matter what I choose, someone I love could be hurt. There must be a way out of this pickle, but it’s going to take time to figure it all out, so until I do, I resign to say nothing.
I fully expect Rudy to open the door, so when it’s Dickey’s face I see, it takes me a minute to recover myself.
“Dickey, what are you doing here?” I ask, looking him over. His trousers are wrinkled, his shirt askew, half untucked, one suspender up, the other dangling haphazardly at his waist. His hair is a mess, his eyes rimmed in red.
Basically, all the signs he’d gotten blotto, then fell into bed and passed out. Only, why had he done so here?
“Oh, Benny, what time is it?” June calls from across the room.
I follow the sound of her voice and find she’s lying across the sofa, Masie half sprawled in her lap. Their faces are flushed, eyes drooping, still in the clothes they must have worn last night and looking all the worse for the wear.
My gaze swings back to Dickey, who is looking at the girls and smiling slyly. I slug him in the arm.
“Mind telling me what you got up to last night?” I demand.
Dickey shrugs, fixing his other suspender and running a hand through his hair before answering. “Not much really.”
I lower my voice. “You know I’m supposed to be looking after Masie. If anything happened that I should know about…”
The Canary Club Page 17