The Girls at the Kingfisher Club

by Genevieve Valentine

  It was all the evasion she could manage. She was numbed by everything that had happened since the morning. Even when she thought of her sisters, the panic wasn’t real; she worried for them the way you worried when you read in Photoplay that a screen siren and her paramour were parting.

  And though she couldn’t have imagined it as she ran out of her father’s house, the list of her troubles was growing.

  She hadn’t eaten a thing all day, she had no money, night was coming, and she had nowhere to go. What charmed a cop at sunset wouldn’t seem so sweet when they were making rounds in the park at three in the morning and she was frozen half to death.

  Jo wondered if their father had put the word out for them with the cops as well, or if he was still ashamed enough of himself to keep things quiet until he’d heard from Three Willows about how many of her sisters they’d managed to round up.

  Oh God, she thought. Please let them all have gotten out of the danger all right. Please let them be smart enough to avoid places where we might be known.

  Even as she thought it, Jo looked up and saw that she was only a block away from the Kingfisher.

  The worn-out brick and the chipped cement staircase looked more like home than anywhere Jo had ever seen, but she didn’t dare go closer.

  (She thought she’d been a careful person before this morning, but you learned something every minute, if you were smart.)

  A block past the Kingfisher was a little café with some outdoor seats. Just past that, a pair of men dressed for long exposure stood on the corner, glancing too often down the street toward the Kingfisher’s unmarked door.

  It could mean a lot of things, none of them good.

  Jo kept walking steadily, cut through one more block, then ducked down an alley to the next street.

  Their father knew where they had gone, of course. He could afford the man who’d told him; he could afford to hire a man or two to keep an eye on their second home.

  (She wished Jake’s boss could come to an agreement with the cops like a decent businessman. She needed all the help she could get.)

  So, scratch that. She looked down the street in both directions and wondered if there were any boardinghouses here that worked on credit.

  She’d need money, and soon, with some forward-thinking employer who didn’t mind a little disgrace in their shopgirls.

  She’d need a roof and four walls, before dark.

  She wondered if there was a restaurant where she could snatch a dinner roll off an empty table and make a run for it. Her hunger had spread to her limbs, and walking was getting a little tricky.

  Earlier, she had passed a market, but pride had stopped her from stealing. She was paying for it now.

  Jo passed a row of sweetly lit shops: Veronica’s Gowns for Ladies, a shoe store, a tailor’s storefront.

  She froze in front of the tailor’s window.

  Myrtle had owned a shoe shop. Myrtle, who had a worthless husband.

  Myrtle, who had been playing too close to home at the Kingfisher, who got picked up by the cops and bailed out by her husband’s girl on the side.

  If anyone would understand what it feels like to be in a pinch, Jo thought, she’s it.

  With the fever of the hungry and desperate, Jo canvassed the neighborhood, up one avenue and down the other, making a Jacob’s ladder across the side streets. Time was working against her now, on top of everything else—the air smelled like frost, and soon the shops would be closing for the night, and Jo would lose her chance.

  She was too panicked to go about her search some better way, too tired and wary to risk asking anyone else for help.

  (Jo hoped desperately that the others hadn’t all been forced to split up—that some still had each other.)

  Ten minutes later, just as the light was beginning to move from orange to purple, Jo stormed past Finest Imports Shoe Boutique, a tiny shop next to a candy store.

  Then she stopped.

  The smell slipping under the door of the candy store was sickening on an empty stomach, but after a moment she forced herself to snap out of it and turn back to the windows of Finest Imports.

  Lit up in the dusk, it looked almost as sweet as the candy shop, the front window lined with delicate tiers presenting one satin shoe each.

  (For a moment she thought, If only Araminta could see these. She’d never looked quite right in the sturdy catalog clompers.)

  At the very back of the shop there was a long wooden counter, and behind it stood a woman with a black bob and a velvet band; she was bent to her ledger now, but Jo had just glimpsed her face as she was passing.

  It was Myrtle.

  Jo brushed off her dress, ran her hands through her hair (already starting to tangle), ran her tongue over her teeth, and stepped inside.

  The store was scented with lavender—Sophie’s favorite, Jo thought, and had a pang of loss that stopped her in her tracks.

  Myrtle glanced up.

  There was no recognition on her face, which Jo thought was just as well, but there also wasn’t the sneer she’d expected, walking into a fine store, with her shoes dirty and her hair a mess.

  “Can I help you?” Myrtle asked. Her tone could have meant anything.

  Without thinking, Jo said, “God, I hope so.”

  Myrtle half-smiled.

  Jo felt suddenly very young, even though Myrtle couldn’t have been more than a few years older than she was; Myrtle looked like she was indulging a child.

  (Maybe Myrtle thought that was fair, Jo thought. In a lot of ways that might be fair, but not about this; not tonight.)

  “I need a job,” Jo said. “I remember you mentioned having a place here, a little while back. I wanted to see if there was anything that needed doing.”

  Myrtle blinked as though she couldn’t imagine how Jo would have come by this information.

  “There are no openings at the moment, I’m afraid. I’ve just hired someone.”

  Her husband’s mistress, probably.

  “Is there anyone you know who might need someone? I’m willing to work nights, or cleaning, or anything.”

  “Sorry, hon.” Myrtle closed the ledger, flicked off the light on the desk. “Nothing doing.”

  Jo’s palms were clammy (hunger or panic), and her mind swam. It was impossible that this was all for nothing, a chance like this. There had to be something she could do, however small.

  “Are you going to the Kingfisher?”

  Myrtle looked over sharply, narrowed her eyes. “Beg pardon?”

  Jo knew how she sounded. She didn’t care.

  “If you’re going back to the Kingfisher, could you bring a note for Jake? I can’t go myself. I’ll pay you, as soon as I have money.”

  There was a long silence as Myrtle froze, frowned, and looked Jo over in the dim light.

  Finally she said, “What do you think you know about my going out?”

  Now was no time to be coy.

  “I know your husband has a doll who pays your bail money,” she said, “and that maybe you understand what it’s like to be out of options.”

  Myrtle’s silhouette tilted its head. A moment later, Jo heard a click, and the lamp flickered back on. Myrtle was still frowning, but a smile was pulling just at the corner of her mouth.

  (She looked like Doris, whenever Doris was trying hard not to be impressed.)

  Myrtle looked her over—no purse, no coat, old shoes worn down almost to nothing.

  “What sort of trouble are you in?” Myrtle asked.

  “More than you think.”

  “Shouldn’t you be talking to a cop about all this?”

  “They’re one of my troubles,” Jo said.

  Myrtle raised both eyebrows.

  Then in a series of practiced movements, she turned off the lamp and plucked a cloche and coat off the rack behin
d her.

  “I need to stop by the chemist,” she said. “It’s a short walk, so I’d say you have two minutes to give me a good story before I start to get insulted that you hold on to drunk-tank gossip. Hold my hat for a moment, would you?”

  • • •

  Jo hadn’t spent much time doing anything as domestic as this; she was a strategist, not a storyteller. She didn’t know how to make things sound more exciting than they were, and her story lacked some of the tension and flourish it would have had if Ella had told it.

  On the other hand, if there was one thing Jo knew how to do, it was deliver information with conviction.

  The walk to the chemist’s turned into a sandwich at a coffee shop, almost without Jo’s noticing.

  But she kept things as short and swift as she could, cutting out real names, pinning only what mattered most. By the time the bill came, Jo was going full sail.

  “—and after I’d shouted for them to get going, my father hit me. I got free before the truck came. But now I don’t know what my father told them, or what he’s told the police, and I don’t dare go anywhere we’ve gone that might be raided. That’s why I’m asking for your help.”

  They were back on the street now, and Myrtle paused in her tracks.

  She hadn’t said a word since they’d left her shop, except to motion for coffee and sandwiches. Now it took her a moment to manage any.

  “What—about your sisters?”

  “They all ran for it.” Jo crossed her arms despite herself. “There’s no knowing for sure, I guess. I warned them nothing was safe, so even if they all made it, I don’t think I’d see them around.”

  “You think they all made it?”

  Jo shrugged. “They know how to get out of a tight spot.”

  “All except you?”

  Point taken.

  “Can’t win them all,” Jo said. “Besides, being a jailbird has come in handy since then.” And, after a beat, “I hope.”

  Myrtle blinked. Then a pack of cigarettes materialized in her hand, and she shook out one for each of them.

  “The real problem, it sounds like,” Myrtle said after her first drag, “is that there’s no way of knowing what your father is up to now.”

  Or ever, Jo thought, recalling an office door that was almost closed but never quite.

  “Assume the worst,” Jo said. “That’s probably about right.”

  Myrtle didn’t argue it. “And you don’t have any other friends here?”

  I had one, she thought, but I sent him away.

  “Jake,” Jo said. “He tends bar at the Kingfisher. He helped me once already, when I was desperate. I hope he’d be willing to help again.”

  “He’d probably be willing to help you with plenty,” Myrtle said, with a glance up and down at Jo, “but you should go in and tell him yourself.”

  “I can’t risk it. My father’s watching the place, and he won’t hesitate to call the cops. If I get pulled in this time, I’ll end up in the Willows or back at home.”

  Myrtle made a face.

  After a moment she shook her head. “You know, I always thought my father was cruel because he told me my shoe store would never make it in a city where they had a Macy’s.”

  Jo, softened by the cigarette smoke, only smiled.

  Myrtle dropped the butt of hers, ground it decisively into the pavement with the toe of one shoe. Jo admired the deep-green velvet before she remembered that, of course, what else was Myrtle going to wear?

  “I feel for you,” Myrtle said. “That’s a tough story. But I’m not sure what I can do. It’s not like I’m a police sergeant, if you get me, and the help you need is more than I can manage. I’m on my own now, and money’s tight. I don’t have room for charity cases, and I don’t have the means to hire you.” She fastened and unfastened her purse twice. “I have a friend who might have a place for a shopgirl. I can ask her, maybe.”

  She looked worried enough that Jo was beginning to believe her.

  Myrtle pulled five dollars from her purse. “This should put you up for a night or two at a half-decent place and keep you from starving. I hope the worst will have blown over by then.”

  The street around them seemed to slow down.

  In a way, in some world far away where none of this mattered, it was a fair deal: Myrtle had been helped in a time of need by a half-sympathetic woman with a little money. This would clear the slate.

  (It was impossible for Jo to tell her that she had needed the sympathetic ear more than she’d ever needed money, that the hardest thing about facing all of this was having to do it alone.)

  The fear of losing Myrtle now because she took five dollars froze Jo cold, but still it took all Jo’s pride to keep her hands at her sides. She didn’t have a penny, and she knew what five dollars would get you.

  “Getting a message to Jake wouldn’t cost you a dime,” she said finally.

  She didn’t dare say, That’s what a friend would do.

  Myrtle startled.

  Then she laughed.

  “No, I suppose it wouldn’t,” she said.

  After a moment of holding the money, she tucked it back in her handbag with an expression Jo hoped was impressed.

  Then Myrtle pulled a little notebook and a pencil from a pocket of her bag and held them out instead.

  Jo hesitated only a moment, making some quick guesses and gathering the courage to commit to the plan she was making.

  (Things were changing every minute; there was no going back on anything after this.)

  By the time Myrtle said, “All right, let’s have it,” Jo was already writing.

  • • •

  The man at the door of the Marquee knew her face by now, and when she turned to go upstairs rather than into the dance hall, he didn’t question her.

  Jo had never wanted anything more in her life than to go inside right away and strap her aching feet tighter into her shoes, and Charleston across the floor with someone until she couldn’t think anymore.

  (She would, if she’d ever be able to forgive herself for dancing while her sisters were gone.)

  The door was unlocked, and she thanked every saint there was that Tom had been too distracted or angry to cover his tracks as they left.

  (That was probably how he’d ended up in trouble in his old line of work, too.)

  The little studio still smelled slightly of whatever fourth-rate moonshine had fallen. The effect was vaguely antiseptic.

  Jo didn’t mind. The last thing she needed was to run into some lingering cologne that would remind her of Tom.

  She freshened up as best she could and wished she could get a little sleep. Had it been two days? Three? She could hardly remember. It felt like one long string of panic and sadness between then and now.

  Jo was too tired for tears, but she struggled for breath the more she thought about it, slipping back into the hushed silence of the cab that first night; walking into the Salon Renaud with Lou’s hand held tight in her hand; the first song they had ever heard live, played as if it had been waiting just for them.

  What were the chances all ten of them had gotten out? Were they safe? Would she ever find them all again?

  Where were they now?

  Beneath her feet the music was playing sharp and bright, like the night of the next-door party, when Jo had been brave for the first time in her life and taken her sisters out dancing.

  When Jo passed the second doorman with a nod and entered the Marquee proper, the band was launching into a Charleston, and she watched the dancers laugh and take hands and start with flying feet.

  It wasn’t home, yet, but it was dancing, and tonight that was close enough.

  (Watch out for any princesses, she’d written to Jake, in her fit of bravery. Not safe for them there. Send them to the Marquee. Wish me luck.)

  The bar
was nearly empty. Before she could even ask for a drink, Henry (the blond bartender with the staunch jaw, no older than Rebecca) was setting a glass in front of her.

  “Are you alone tonight, Princess?” he asked, disbelieving. A second glass had materialized out of nowhere, and he was still holding the bottle, looking over her shoulder for the others.

  She ignored the pang, the urge to turn.

  “I am,” she said.

  Henry raised his eyebrows.

  She rested her folded arms on the bar and gave him a smile that felt startlingly real.

  (Sometimes, once you start being brave, it’s easier just to go on that way.)

  “Tom Marlowe sent me,” she said. “I’m here about the job.”

  Henry, flummoxed, offered her a half smile back.

  “What job?”

  Behind them, the music had picked up in earnest, and the room was going wild.

  She said, “The one you’re going to give me.”

  twenty

  My Regular Gal

  Doris would never have become Jo’s lieutenant on purpose, not in a hundred years.

  Doris remembered when Jo’s feet didn’t reach the floor if she sat on her bed; she remembered how Jo had sometimes fudged the passages of a dance she didn’t know for sure.

  She and Ella and Lou understood what “General” meant to the younger ones—there had to be a General if they were ever going to manage—but the three of them knew Jo too well for it to stick.

  When they began to take over the second and third cabs, it was only because Jo ran a tight ship, and they knew what they were expected to do.

  (“It’s strange,” Doris said to Ella once. “I don’t think she was always like this, but really, she must have been. You can’t become a General out of nothing.”

  “Poor Jo,” said Ella.)

  They hadn’t had time to think what might happen to them otherwise.

  As Jo went up and down the stairs to speak to their father, and even as Lou departed, they had the vague but comforting sense that Jo would handle everything, somehow, and they need never become like her in the process.