by Lee Martin
So it’s just me, here on the porch listening to the screech of clarinets, the rollicking notes of a piano, the blare of horns. I know I have to make myself do this or else I’ll lose my nerve and turn around and go home. I don’t even ring the bell. I open the door and step inside.
Vera is in the foyer wearing a flapper’s dress—sleeveless and covered with fringe. Strands of silver beads hang to her knees.
“Sammy,” she says, stretching out her arms to me. “Look at you. You’re a real cake eater.”
“Excuse me,” I say.
“A cake eater.” She gives me a wink and grabs onto my hand. “You know. A ladies’ man.”
I try to pretend that I could be exactly that, a man comfortable with the ladies, a man who might, as Cal came close to doing once upon a time, take up a life with Vera. I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. “Sister,” I say, “you ain’t bad yourself.” I see the twinkle in her eye, and for this brief moment I know what it’s like to be a flirt.
She shows me where to hang my coat. Then here comes Arthur, or, as he’ll be known tonight, the Big Lucky. Here he comes in his dark pinstripe suit, a gold chain draped from his vest pocket, his eyes shaded by the sloping brim of his white fedora, a fat cigar screwed into the corner of his mouth.
“Shammy,” he says, the cigar giving him a lisp. “You’re lookin’ schwanky. Where’s Maddie and your brother?”
“Homebodies,” I tell him, and Arthur shrugs his shoulders as if to say he won’t let it bother him, the fact that Maddie has chosen Cal’s company over his.
“So your brother’s given me the cold shoulder.” Vera helps me off with my coat. “You two. Look at you. Happy Mickey Finn and the Big Lucky.” She gently lays a hand against each of our faces, and she gets this look in her eyes as if she’s recalling what it was like to have a man in her life. “You big lugs.” She gives us each a pat on the cheek. “Go join the others. I mean it, boys. The game’s about to begin.”
The others are the Seasoned Chefs, some of them with lady friends. “Vamps,” they call them. Or “skirts.” Or as I hear one gent put it, his “sheba.” I turn toward that voice and see that it doesn’t belong to any of the Seasoned Chefs but to Duncan Hines. I recall the note he left asking me to call him, the note I tore up, and now I’m afraid to face him.
He’s all arms and legs in a three-piece suit, and he has a straw boater on his head, the sort I saw in Déjà New the day I went there with Vera to pick out my costume. I stand in the entryway, watching the other guests as they bunch together and chat—women in evening attire, white gloves running up to their elbows, cigarette holders waving like wands; men shouting hot socks and jeepers creepers and Now you’re on the trolley—and I wonder whatever made me think I could be one of them.
“Mr. Pope,” Duncan calls to Arthur. Then he slaps his forehead with his palm, reminding himself to speak the twenties lingo someone must have taught him. “Geesh, I’m sorry. Hey, Big Lucky. Come over here and check out the chassis on my sheba. But hold onto your dough. She’s a real gold digger!”
For a moment, I’m left alone, as Arthur—excuse me, the Big Lucky—joins Duncan, who’s now offering his sheba a drink from a silver hip flask. She’s coy, pretends she’s shocked, puts her hand to the flask and pushes it away. She’s a woman with short red hair, spit curls trailing along her temples and coiling over her cheekbones, hot with rouge. She’s a woman much older than Duncan, a woman my age. She wears a silver-beaded flapper dress and a black satin choker around her throat, a shiny brass button in the center. Duncan tips the neck of the flask toward her again, and this time, she shrugs her shoulders, giggles, and takes a sip.
Now that this piece of theatrics is complete, Duncan is embarrassed, not knowing how to continue. He caps the flask and slips it back in his pocket. He fiddles with his boater, taking it off and twirling it by the brim. Then he puts it back on, setting it far back on his head so the brim points up to the ceiling.
The woman with the red hair catches on that she’s gone too far with the acting. “Oh, come on, Duncan.” She takes his hand. “Can’t an old dame have a little fun on New Year’s Eve?”
Duncan lays an arm across her shoulders and gives her a clumsy hug. “Sure, Grandma,” he says, and I feel a flutter in my chest.
“Nancy,” Arthur says to her. “It’s been years and years.”
I know that I’m looking at Nancy Finn, and I can’t for the life of me imagine getting through the evening.
So I turn away to find Vera, to tell her I must have my coat. I must go home—suddenly I miss Maddie with an ache that almost brings me to my knees—and then I hear someone calling my name—Mr. Brady—and before I can make a move, Duncan is tapping me on the back and I have no choice but to turn to him and say hello.
“Mr. Brady,” he says. “Long time, no see. Didn’t you get my note?”
I play dumb. “Note?”
“I stuck it between your front door and the frame. There’s something I need to tell you.”
“The wind must have got it.” I try to make a joke. “Or maybe Stump ate it.”
It’s enough to distract Duncan. “He’s quite a dog. Still sailing the high seas?”
“Aye,” I say, eager to stay anchored in this good-humored small talk.
Duncan hooks his thumbs in the watch pockets of his vest. “I’m a G-Man,” he says, and I understand that he’s once again assuming the character that Vera assigned him for the evening. “Melvin Purvis. I’m here to get to the bottom of things.” His shirt collar is too loose around his slender neck and his bow tie droops a bit. “Now what’s your name, fella, and what do you know about John Dillinger’s missing doily?”
I remember the character sketch that came with Vera’s invitation. Happy Mickey Finn, I’m supposed to say. I was playing piano for Mr. Dillinger that night. He was necking with that doll. Here, if I were really saying this, I’d point to Vera and use her character name. That Lotta Love. They were getting chummy, and Mr. Dillinger had just run dry of gin. “I’m outta coffin varnish,” he said, and I told him I’d make everything copacetic. Then I went to get him another drink.
But I can’t bring myself to play the game. Duncan looks at me with such expectation and hope, his eyes opening wider. I could say, at least, my name is Happy Mickey Finn, but I can’t even manage that. I stick my hands in my trouser pockets, imitating the way Duncan stands with his thumbs hooked in his vest pockets, thinking this will make me appear at ease, but instead it makes me feel too guarded, so I take my hands out of my pockets, and I’m surprised to see that I’ve taken out my coin purse.
“Don’t think you can buy your way out of this,” Duncan says, still in character.
I stuff the purse back in my pocket and then fiddle with my sleeve garters. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Parties are difficult for me. So many people. So much noise.”
“Then come say hello to my grandma. She’s visiting from Indiana.” Duncan puts a hand on my back and starts shepherding me toward Arthur and Nancy. “I bet the two of you haven’t seen each other in forever.”
The last time I saw Nancy Finn, she was working uptown at Beal’s Newsstand. It was the first Christmas after Dewey died, and Arthur had joined the Navy. I’d seen his picture in the Daily Mail, a formal portrait taken when he was in uniform, his hair cut close to his scalp, his spine ramrod straight, his jaw set. He seemed like someone I didn’t know anymore, someone who was moving out into the world, a world that had barely taken notice of what had happened to Dewey.
That Christmas, I stepped into Beal’s and there was Arthur. He was leaning against the counter, flipping through a Saturday Evening Post, while he chatted with Nancy, who stood behind the cash register. She was a pretty girl with a narrow face and that red hair she kept in curls. She fetched a package of Lucky Strikes from the cigarette rack behind her and took a fifty-cent piece from Arthur.
He was on leave, he told her, but soon he’d be overseas.
“Golly,” she said. “Aren’t you s
cared?”
“No, darlin’.” He reached across the counter and laid his hand on her hip. “Life’s too short for that.”
She didn’t move away from him. She let him keep his hand right where it was, and I thought it was the most amazing thing, that he could touch her like that. By this time, everyone knew she was sweet on Grinny Hines, and he wasn’t the sort who would take kindly to Arthur touching his girl like that. It wouldn’t be long before Grinny and Nancy would marry and end up, so Snuff Finn would tell my father, living in Detroit, where Grinny had established what Snuff called “a little business.”
That day at Beal’s, Nancy and Arthur both looked up and saw me standing just inside the door, my hands balled up in the pockets of my corduroy coat, snow melting on my sock hat.
Arthur winked at me, and that wink said he had the world on a string. He turned back to Nancy. “Darlin’,” I heard him say again. “You’re about the sweetest thing I’ve seen in a good while. Hon, you’re one sweet piece of cake.”
I’m thinking about that moment as Duncan pushes me toward Arthur and Nancy, and, when I’m here, standing right in front of her, I can’t help but hear again the sound of her sobbing the night my father and I went to the Finns’ house to see if there was anything we could do.
“Sam Brady,” she says. She even reaches out and takes my left hand in hers. “Sammy, it’s been such a long time.”
It amazes me, no matter how old I get, how little it takes to make me feel I’m still fifteen. A door opens and I step through it; even here at the end of the year, I go spinning back to the night I listened to Nancy and her mother and sisters wailing with grief because Dewey was dead.
“Nancy Finn,” I say, and that’s all I can get out.
She squeezes my hand, and I look in her eyes, and I understand there’s no words for what happened to us when Dewey was no longer in our lives.
“We’re putting another year to bed,” she says.
I nod. “Where do they all go?” I look beyond her, taking note of all the men at the party, trying to figure out if Grinny Hines is one of them. “Is your husband with you this evening?”
“My husband? I’m afraid I’m a widow. Grinny passed early on in our marriage.”
“And you never remarried?”
“There was another man in my life. Henk—that’s what I called my second fella. We never married, but we were sweethearts a long time before he died just a few years ago.”
“Granny moved to Evansville then,” Duncan says. “That’s where my folks live.”
“Where did you live before that?” Arthur asks.
“Henk and I were in Michigan,” she says.
“Detroit?” I ask her, but before she can answer, Arthur interrupts.
“Boy, I could eat a whale,” he says.
Nancy ignores him. It’s as if he and Duncan and all the others have vanished, and it’s just the two of us talking.
“One look at you,” she says, “and I’m right back in Rat Town. You know what I mean, don’t you, Sammy?”
I tell her I do, and that’s how we acknowledge Dewey without ever saying his name.
Arthur reaches out and touches his finger to the brass button at the center of Nancy’s choker. “Where did you get this button?”
He pulls his finger away, and Nancy puts her hand to her throat. “This? Oh, I found it in some of Henk’s things when I moved. I sewed it on this satin band just to complete my costume.”
She takes her hand away, and I see that the button has a flag engraved on it, unfurled and split at the end like a snake’s tongue.
“Don’t you know what that flag means?” Arthur asks. “That’s the White Star Line, the cruise line that the Titanic was part of.”
“The ship that sank?” Duncan says.
“They’ve been recovering relics from the site for a good while.” Arthur raises his eyebrows and looks around at all of us. “Nancy,” he says, “that just might be a piece of history.”
“From the Titanic,” she says. “Now where in the world would Henk have gotten something like that?”
Then Vera is here, taking Duncan by the arm. “Mister G-Man,” she says. “It’s time for you to get things started.”
“Twenty-three skidoo,” he says, and together they move toward the grand dining room, leaving Nancy and Arthur and me behind.
Nancy puts her hands on her hips and acts peeved. “Looks like I’ve been deserted.” She takes Arthur’s right arm, and on her other side she takes my left. “Gents, I need an escort,” she says, and I have no choice but to go with them into the dining room where the ragtime coming from a stereo gets louder and Vera instructs everyone to find their place cards at the table. “Quickly now,” she calls out. “Get a wiggle on. The fun’s about to begin.”
Arthur pulls out Nancy’s chair. “What a gentleman,” she says, allowing him to seat her. He grabs the chair to her right and I’m left to sit next to him.
Here we are in a line, and Nancy leans across Arthur and says something to me. The music’s so loud and the other guests are shouting out things like, Don’t be a dumb Dora. Or: Aw, go tell it to Sweeney. The noise is such that for a moment I’m not sure what she says. Then I realize it’s, Are you happy? She reaches across Arthur and points to my name card. “Are you Happy?” she asks, and I know now she’s referring to my character. “Yes,” I tell her. “I’m Happy.”
Vera escorts Duncan to the head of the table. She nods to one of the Seasoned Chefs, and he turns off the compact disc player that’s been blasting out the ragtime. “Gals and gents,” she says in her bright Vera voice, and everyone falls quiet. “Welcome to Very Vera’s Vice and Vamp Valhalla.”
“You got a swell gin-mill here, baby,” Arthur calls out. At the same time, his hand slides from the table, to his lap, and apparently to regions beyond because Nancy squeals and says, “Go chase yourself, goof.” She lifts his hand and puts it back on the table. “The bank’s closed.”
Everyone laughs, and then Vera says, “Easy, there, Big Lucky. It’s time to cut the static and get down to brass tacks.”
She nods to Duncan, and he clears his throat. He reaches for his water glass and takes a long drink, getting ready, I assume, to deliver the speech Vera has given him, to become the G-Man, Melvin Purvis.
“Here’s the goods,” he finally says. “I’m here to find the rat who made off with John Dillinger’s doily because once I find him, I’ll be one step closer to Dillinger himself. All I need is a little help from you. So I’ve asked Vera here to prepare a little feast, something to put you more in the mood to spill the beans.”
Vera claps her hands together twice, and the servers, young men and women, in black trousers and white shirts and long white aprons tied around their waists, carry gleaming silver serving dishes to the table. Steam rises from the dishes, and several of the guests lean over the table, taking a deep breath through their noses, smelling a meaty spice.
“Hoppin’ John,” Vera says as if she’s reading a new recipe on her radio program. “A zippy mix of rice and bacon and black-eyed peas to bring you luck in the new year. And oh, yes, just enough crushed red pepper to give it some zing.”
“Zing-a-ling-a-ding,” says Arthur.
Duncan clears his throat again. “Cool your heels. Have a good dinner. Pretty soon we’ll be talking turkey.”
Again, Vera claps her hands and this time the servers carry out meat platters. “Campeche Turkey Filets,” she says. “Turkey breasts tossed in olive oil and rubbed with cilantro and cumin and served over corn tortillas with fresh slices of mango. Feliz año nuevo.”
“You’ll have to mind your potatoes,” Duncan says, and Vera announces the baked potato skins sprinkled with paprika and served with sour cream. “Then, when you start to talk, you’ll know your onions.”
“Glazed onions,” Vera says with a sweep of her hand toward the servers. “Garnished with mint leaves and grated cheese.”
The food keeps coming: fruits and salads and breads. “Enjo
y the grub,” Duncan says. He walks around the table, lingering behind the guests. “But remember I’m keeping my eye on you. Especially this one.” He stops behind me and lays a hand on my back. “Happy Mickey Finn,” he says. “A sly one with the knockout drops. If I were you, I’d think twice before I asked him to make me a drink.”
“That’s right,” says Arthur. “He’s a tricky one.”
“Tricky Mickey,” says Nancy, and as everyone laughs, I feel the heat and blush come into my face.
Duncan returns to the head of the table where Vera waits. She leans over and whispers something to him.
“Right,” he says. “I almost forgot.” He takes another drink from his water glass. His Adam’s apple slides up and down his long throat. “The thing is,” he says. “The most important thing.” Suddenly, he seems nervous. He hooks a finger inside his shirt collar as if it’s too tight and he’s trying to get more air, but as I’ve already noted the collar is too loose the way it is. He clears his throat again, leans over with his palms flat on the table. He takes off his straw boater and fans his face. “What you see,” he says, “isn’t always the clue you think it is. There’s always another clue you’ll have to find. And remember, you’re all suspects. You’re all hiding something. But sooner or later you’ll talk. You won’t be able to help it. You’ll get scared. You’ll come clean. You’ll tell your story just to hear your own voice, just to know there’s someone out there listening. So you’ll know you’re not alone. Oh, you’ll talk all right. Like you, Big Lucky.” He points the straw boater toward Arthur. Then the boater swings toward me. “And you…”