A Girl Like You

by Michelle Cox

  Henrietta sighed as she stood up and quietly put her empty mug in the sink. They always needed more money. She already worked six nights a week at the Promenade, but maybe she could pick something else up besides. Maybe she should try another waitress job, she speculated, as she eased into bed next to Ma and Elsie, or maybe she should pick up the lunch shift at the Promenade on weekends as Mama Leone had hinted at. She had been eager to say yes, but was worried what Ma would say, so she had told Mama Leone she would think about it. She lay tossing and turning, worrying for what seemed like hours before she finally drifted off just as the sun was making its way over the horizon.

  It seemed to Henrietta that only a few moments had passed before she heard Ma’s voice calling. She opened one eye a tiny bit and quickly shut it again when she saw light streaming through a rip in the curtain that hung listlessly at the one small window in the room. After a few minutes, however, of wishing for something that simply wasn’t going to come, namely, a chance for more sleep, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She tiredly wrapped her thin robe around her and stumbled out to the kitchen, immediately picking up Donny, who sat crying on the floor. Eugene, just finishing up his toast and coffee, didn’t look up. Donny quieted enough as she held him for Henrietta to pour a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove.

  “You’re up then?” Ma said as she stood pressing wet clothes through the clothes wringer, lightly slapping Herbert’s hand whenever it ventured too close.

  “I work the night shift, Ma. Remember?” Henrietta put in irritably.

  Ma merely sniffed. “Mrs. Jonkovic says her young Jacek thought he saw someone who looks just like you coming out of the Promenade last night in the wee hours. He swore it was you, and don’t you know Ludmilla Jankovic was pleased as punch to tell me, the ol’ witch. Of course I said it couldn’t be you as you’re working the night shift at the electrics. Been named top solderer last month, too, I told her!”

  Eugene snorted.

  Top solderer? Whatever did she mean by that? Henrietta wondered, slightly mystified.

  “You better not be playing me for a fool, missy!” Ma said, waving the laundry stick at her.

  Something told Henrietta this had to do with Stanley somehow. What kind of nonsense was he feeding Ma now? Despite her annoyance, she bit back a smile. “Well, if I’m not at the electrics, Ma, you’ll be the first to know,” she said with forced disinterest. “And anyway, you should have asked her what Jacek was doing out in the wee hours in the first place.” She shifted Donny and lifted the sugar bowl lid.

  “It’s empty,” Ma said bitterly. “You’ll have to go down to the armory this morning. Ludmilla says there’s a truck coming in. Make yourself useful for a change.”

  “Not this morning, Ma,” Henrietta whined, “I’m supposed to go in early today!” She had decided in the night that she would try the lunch shift. They simply needed the cash. She would somehow have to come up with an excuse to leave the apartment early. “Can’t Eugene go, seeing as he’s got nothing else to do?”

  “I’m going down to the ice factory today, see if they’ve got anything,” Eugene said surlily, “if you must know.” He stood up abruptly. “I best get going. I can see when I’m not wanted. Might even try the Pioneer, see if they need someone,” he said, giving Henrietta a spiteful look as he slipped on his coat.

  “Eugene!” Ma called after him as he banged out. “You promised no billiard halls!” she called after him. When the only response was the sound of him stomping down the stairwell, Ma turned angrily to Henrietta, who had sat down wearily at the table by now. “Hen! Why do you pester him so? I’m fed up with it!”

  Henrietta sighed. “That was hardly pestering him, Ma. Asking him to go to the armory for a change when I’ve got a job and he doesn’t? He should never have quit school. That’s what he really likes, and he’s been a real sourpuss since then.”

  Donny began squirming, and Henrietta gently set him down, whereupon he toddled off to presumably find his twin. Henrietta smiled as she watched him go.

  The tension momentarily broken, Ma sighed and said in a rare confiding tone, “You’re not the only one that thinks that. Father Finnegan was here again asking.”

  “Tell him to shove off,” Henrietta said hotly.

  “Easier said then done, Hen,” she said, looking up from the wringer. “It’s hard to say no to a man of the Church. Maybe Eugene really does have a vocation.”

  “Hardly, I would think,” Henrietta stood up to pour the dregs of the pot in her mug. “Ever ask Eugene himself?”

  “I tried, but he won’t talk about it. Says it’s none of my business and storms off.”

  Henrietta made a note that if she had ever spoke to Ma the way Eugene sometimes did, Ma wouldn’t have hesitated to slap her across the face.

  “I don’t know what’s to become of him. I really don’t,” Ma said, her voice wavering uncharacteristically.

  “I’ll have a word with him,” Henrietta said.

  “He won’t listen to you.”

  “Sometimes he does, if I catch him in the right mood.”

  Ma did not respond, so Henrietta stood up and put her mug in the sink. She looked at the back of her mother, bent over the laundry, scrubbing. Henrietta longed to put her arms around her, but she knew from experience that Ma would shake her off, annoyed, so she didn’t. “I’d better get going, then, if I’ve got to go to the armory,” she said, walking into the bedroom to change. Ma didn’t say anything to stop her but simply kept on scrubbing.

  By the time she was on her way to the Promenade, it was already a bit past eleven, the time when the Promenade opened for the day. Mama Leone liked the girls to arrive about fifteen minutes early for their shifts, and Henrietta needed even a bit more time than that each day so that she could hurriedly change clothes. She was sure she would catch hell from Mama Leone, unless, of course, she had forgotten that she had suggested that Henrietta show up for the lunch shift. It had been late last night when she had pulled her aside, her breath more than usually heavy with whiskey.

  Henrietta was the first in line to jump off the streetcar, where she had sat eagerly in the very first seat, irritated at its slowness and all the while practicing what she planned to say when she finally got to the Promenade. She headed down Sedgwick toward the gritty brick building on Lincoln Avenue near Armitage that was now a ballroom, though it had started out life humbly enough as a small shoe factory. It was nothing, of course, compared to the elegant Aragon Ballroom over on Lawrence Avenue. Whenever she had a chance, Henrietta listened to WGN’s one-hour broadcast from the Aragon, where all the big bands played, but it was a rare treat because she was usually working during it. She had always wanted to see the inside of the Aragon, but tickets were expensive and a strict dress code was maintained. Nothing she owned seemed fancy enough.

  She stared now at the back of the Promenade, having decided to exit the streetcar at the top of Sedgwick, near Dickens, and walk down, hoping to sneak in the back door in the alley before Mama Leone could notice her. She hurriedly crossed the alley and slipped through the doorway, which oddly stood open. She lingered momentarily to let her eyes get adjusted to the dark interior and to listen for Mama’s whereabouts. Not hearing her heavy footsteps or heavy breathing, she quickly headed for the little dressing rooms. So far so good, she encouraged herself, looking over her shoulder to see if anyone was behind her, but as she turned back around, she ran right into Polly, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

  “Ow!” Henrietta exclaimed, rubbing her head. “Oh, Polly! It’s you! Thank goodness!” Henrietta whispered.

  Something in Polly’s face, however, told Henrietta that all was not well. “What’s wrong, Poll? Did she notice already? I’m just a little bit late, but I’m sure no one’s even here yet, anyway. Hey!” she paused, listening, “Why’s it so quiet? Why isn’t the band playing?”

  “Oh, Hen,” Polly said, her voice oddly emotional. “She’s dead!”

  “Who?” Henrietta
asked, startled.

  “Mama Leone!” Polly whispered. “Someone stabbed her!”

  “No! Are you sure?” Henrietta asked, leaning against the wall, her mind racing. “What . . . what happened? Did someone call the cops?”

  “Of course someone called the cops!” Polly sounded almost hysterical. “Didn’t you see the squad cars in front?”

  “No . . . I came in the back so Mama . . . ” Her voice trailed off. Mama Leone dead! It couldn’t be! She was obviously not Henrietta’s favorite person in the world, but still—murder! But why would anyone want to murder a fat old dance hall matron? Actually, Henrietta speculated to herself, she could think of several reasons.

  “What happened?” she asked, incredulous.

  “No one really knows, I guess. Oh, Hen,” she whispered, looking around nervously, “I’ve got to tell you something.”

  “And what would that be, ladies?” came a voice behind them, and a uniformed man appeared out of the shadows of the darkened hallway. It was one of the cops! Henrietta and Polly stared at him, frozen.

  “Tell you what, why don’t you two come along with me. You can tell the boss all about it.”

  “Why? What have we done?” Polly asked nervously.

  “I didn’t say you did anything. Just follow me,” he said as he pushed past them. “Please,” he added with exaggerated politeness. “The inspector wants to talk to all the girls.”

  Henrietta looked nervously at Polly, who gave her a grim look and turned to follow the cop down the hallway toward what had been Mama Leone’s little office. Henrietta had always hated going into the cramped room where Mama Leone had sat in her throne behind a grimy little desk that looked surprisingly like a plant stand to dole out the evening’s earnings. The room was dingy and always had a stale odor about it. Henrietta always tried to hold her breath during the whole exchange, but she would inevitably have to breathe at some point, expelling air as she did so. Out of habit, she held her breath now but loudly sputtered it out when she saw that it was none other than Clive Howard who sat behind the “desk,” calmly looking through stacks of papers scattered everywhere.

  “I was wondering when you would turn up,” he said matter-of-factly. There was no trace of a smile now, however, as he continued looking over Mama’s disorganized mess.

  “It’s you!” Henrietta said incredulously. “You are a cop! You lied to me!”

  Slowly he looked up from what he was doing. “Well, if we’re being precise, I’m not a cop, I’m a detective inspector. And anyway,” he said, standing up and coming around to the front of the desk, “don’t look so hurt. I’m sure you would have lied about your age if I’d pressed you hard enough to tell me.” He casually leaned against the desk now, his arms folded.

  Henrietta looked away.

  “Oddly, you look different than I remember,” he said, his eyes travelling up and down her.

  Henrietta looked down at her factory overalls and blushed, having caught the slightest hint of a smirk on his face. It irritated her beyond belief. She was about to speak, but thought better of it.

  “Sit down, ladies,” he commanded them, nodding toward two chairs that the cop from the hallway had arranged. “Thank you, MacKenzie,” the inspector said to him, as MacKenzie moved back into position by the door. The girls reluctantly sat down, Polly looking petrified.

  “Now, then. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Your names?”

  “But we haven’t done anything!” Polly said nervously.

  Inspector Howard looked at her carefully. “I didn’t say you did. Just a few routine questions, that is, unless you’ve something to tell me or something to hide, either one.”

  “That one was whispering she had something to tell her,” MacKenzie interjected, pointing from Polly to Henrietta.

  “Did she now? Well, we’ll get to that in a moment,” the inspector said, putting his finger up to his lips, as if running the possibilities through his mind. “Name?”

  Polly hesitated briefly and then said, “Polly. Polly Smith, for what it’s worth.”

  “Got that, Jones?” the inspector said over his shoulder to the officer standing behind him, scribbling furiously on a notepad.

  “And this one is Henrietta Von Harmon, if I remember correctly,” he said, looking at her for confirmation, which she gave with a slow nod. She couldn’t stop staring at him. She couldn’t believe he was really a cop! But then again, she had suspected it, hadn’t she? Somehow she felt sad—betrayed—but that was silly, wasn’t it? It had just been a dance. Get a hold of yourself, she told herself angrily.

  “A little after one, I think . . . ,” Polly was saying. Henrietta hadn’t been listening to the question.

  “How about you?” Inspector Howard asked Henrietta. “What time did you leave last night?”

  Henrietta struggled to concentrate on last night. “Yes, a little after one, I’d say.

  We left together,” she said, inclining her head toward Polly. “Like we always do.” Henrietta suddenly remembered, however, that last night Polly had excused herself and gone back in, saying she had forgotten something, while Henrietta had waited for her outside. She wasn’t about to tell that to the cops, though! She glanced nervously at Polly.

  “What is it, Miss Von Harmon?” the inspector asked astutely. “Something you remember?”

  “No, I . . . nothing,” she said, forcing herself to look into his eyes.

  He stared at her for a few moments. “You do realize this is a murder investigation?”

  “Yes, I . . . I do,” she said, bravely managing to hold his gaze for a few more moments before she looked away.

  The inspector leaned back and took a deep breath. “Listen, girls, we can do this here or we can do this down at the station, so I suggest you cooperate. Understand?”

  Both girls nodded.

  “Now, let’s go back to the beginning. How long have you two been here?”

  Henrietta spoke first. “About two months. Just like I told you last night. I didn’t lie about that,” she couldn’t help add. She read the challenge in his eyes, but he didn’t respond.

  “And you? Miss Smith?” he said turning his attention to her.

  “About two years, I suppose. On and off.”

  Officer Jones began scribbling again.

  “Then you’ve been here long enough to know if this Leone woman might have had any enemies?” the inspector asked Polly.

  Polly shook her head slowly, as if in a trance. “I couldn’t really say.”

  Henrietta involuntarily let out a dry little cough, causing the inspector to direct his attention back to her. He raised an eyebrow for her to continue.

  “Well, everyone hated Mama Leone!” she said, exasperated. “I know she’s dead and all, but that’s the truth, isn’t Polly?” she said, looking over at her for confirmation.

  Polly nodded. “It is, yes.”

  Why was Polly acting so strangely? wondered Henrietta. She would have to get to the bottom of this later. Obviously something had gone on last night. Maybe she knew something. But why not tell the police, then?

  “Yes, but enough to kill her?” the inspector asked. “Had she argued with anyone in particular last evening? Think. It could be important. A regular, maybe? One of the girls? A bartender?”

  Polly drew in her breath.

  “Go on,” Inspector Howard urged.

  “Well, she did argue with the band last night, with Artie and Al, that is.”

  “Polly!”

  “Well, she did!”

  “She has a run-in with them every night; you know that! Them and half the place!” Henrietta argued in defense of Artie. She glared at Polly, but Polly kept her gaze fixed on the edge of the desk in front of her.

  “And who is this Artie and Al?”

  “They’re brothers. Karzan’s their last name, but their band’s called the Rhythm Section. They play here almost every night,” Polly said, picking up speed, as if relieved to have something to say.

  “What
did they argue over?”

  “Money, of course.”

  “What do you mean?

  “They always argued over money. Mama Leone never wanted to pay them, see? She kept stringing them along, always saying she’d pay them the next week. Last night, I guess they’d had enough. Started screaming, they did. Said they weren’t comin’ back anymore if she didn’t pay up. Said she’d be sorry then.”

  “Getting all this, Jones?” the inspector asked, not taking his eyes off Polly.

  “Yes, sir,” Jones answered, scribbling away.

  “What happened then?” the inspector asked Polly.

  “Mama Leone screamed back at them. Called them every name in the book, but then took both of them back here, said she’d pay them since they wouldn’t stop their bawlin’.”

  “They both came back here with her?”

  Polly nodded. “I think so.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know. I left then.”

  “Anyone else around?”

  Polly paused for a moment. “Just Henrietta, here. We walked out together like we always do. And Mickey, the bartender. He was countin’ the till like he always does, then he and Mama usually lock up.”

  “What time was this?”

  “About one, maybe one-thirty, right, Hen?”

  Henrietta shrugged her acquiescence, though she was burning with anger at Polly and felt dangerously close to an outburst. “It wasn’t Artie!” she said suddenly, no longer able to contain it.

  The inspector turned his gaze to her. “And why do you say that?” he asked calmly.

  “’Cause he just wouldn’t. He’s not like that. I . . . I don’t think he could kill anyone.”