by Michelle Cox
“Come on, come on!” she heard Esther shout. “I gotta lead yeh lot out now. I got work ta be doin’ afore da gents come. Waste of me time, this is.”
As they left the room and filed down the hallway behind Esther, Henrietta turned her attention back to the rip and started planning out how she would tackle it when she realized she had no red silk thread. She was pretty sure Polly wouldn’t either, assuming she could find her sewing basket in the apartment. Not really wanting to go out and purchase a whole new spool, especially one that would be so costly, she tried to think of an alternative and realized that there was probably some in the sewing basket she had seen back in the dressing room. She stopped walking, the other girls pushing past her, and quickly calculated that she could probably make it back to the dressing room and still catch up with the group before they reached the front doors. She hurriedly turned around and ran back. The door was ajar as she slipped back inside. Esther had turned off the lights, and Henrietta decided against turning them on again. Gingerly she made her way toward the table where she had seen the sewing basket. She froze, though, when she heard a soft scraping noise coming from the back of the room.
“Hello?” she called out hesitantly.
“What you doing back ‘ere?” came what sounded like Larry’s raspy voice. Henrietta peered into the darkness and indeed made out the bent figure of Larry, pushing a broom at the back of the room. He must be the custodian as well as Mrs. Jenkins’ stooge, Henrietta surmised. Had he been there the whole time they were changing? If he had, why hadn’t they noticed him?
Larry stopped sweeping now and came toward her.
“I . . . I just came back to see if I could borrow some red thread,” Henrietta said, holding up the dress. “There’s a rip, you see, so I thought I’d just mend it, but I don’t have any thread this fine at home.”
Larry just stared at her and then at the dress as if not comprehending. A long line of ash from his cigarette broke off just then, spilling down the front of his dirty vest. Slowly he turned his attention to it and raised his hand halfheartedly to brush it off, not really succeeding, however. He looked back at her.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked, glancing back at the dress. Henrietta began to wonder if he were a simpleton.
“From Esther,” she said slowly in case her theory was correct. “I’m just going to fix it.”
“You’re not supposed to have that dress. That belonged to her,” he said without emotion.
“Well, this is the one Esther gave me,” she said deliberately, becoming more convinced of his mental handicap. “I don’t think there were any more left. I’ll just get the thread and be on my way, then. I must hurry before . . . ” She was going to say ‘before Esther notices I’m gone,’ but thought better of it and instead simply said, “I should hurry.” She gave him a wary smile as she moved to pass him.
“It’s in the basket. The thread.”
“Yes, thank you, Larry,” she said slowly and politely, though she was beginning to feel uncomfortable to be alone with him in the dressing room.
“I best get on,” he said, grinning, picking up the broom he had been leaning on. “Musn’t keep you. Mrs. Jenkins wouldn’t like that. No, she wouldn’t.” He made his way out the door, pausing long enough to add, “That dress ain’t a lucky one, though. It ain’t no good,” as he shuffled out.
Henrietta sighed at this unwelcome observation and hurriedly opened the basket, examining the contents. The interior was a disorganized mess, which Henrietta put down to perhaps so many women using it at once. She rummaged through bits of fabric, buttons, half-empty cards of needles and spools of thread before finding one of red silk. There wasn’t much left on it, she observed, as she held it up to the light weakly coming in from the hallway, but she thought it would do. Just as she slipped the spool into her pocket, however, she heard footsteps coming down the hall. She hoped it wasn’t already Esther back from escorting the other girls. She was sure she’d be annoyed at having to make the journey to the front of the theater all over again. Perhaps whoever it was would pass by . . .
Henrietta waited, listening, her stomach sinking when she thought she detected another set of footsteps that sounded surprisingly like Mrs. Jenkins’s heels clipping along toward what Henrietta now felt convinced was Esther’s slow waddle.
“There you are, Esther! I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” said the unmistakable voice of Mrs. Jenkins. She sounded irritated.
“I can’t be ever where at once, yeh know,” grumbled Esther. “Just getting’ da new girls settled, like. Not very promisin’, I’d say,” she said, more to herself than to anyone. Henrietta strained to hear better and silently crept toward the slightly open door, hoping to hear what else they had to say about the “new girls,” if anything.
“Never mind that!” hissed Mrs. Jenkins. “He wants Iris tonight. You know what to do,” she said just above a whisper.
“Aye. What room?”
“The usual, of course! My God, you’re dense. Someday, I swear . . . ”
“All right, all right! No need to get all high and mighty wit me, missus. I’ll get it all ready. Yeh sure it’s Iris he’s wantin’? She’s awful young seems ta me.”
“Just do as you’re told!”
“All right, all right,” she said, starting to shuffle closer to the dressing room. “It’ll be ready. Blood’s hard to clean, though.”
“Be quiet!” Mrs. Jenkins hissed again, but there was no answer from Esther. Henrietta felt beads of perspiration on the back of her neck as she sensed Mrs. Jenkins was now hovering just outside the dressing room door. It was too late to creep back to the table that held the sewing basket, so she froze there, holding her breath, hoping Mrs. Jenkins would go away. If only she could control the beating of her heart, which she was sure they could hear even on the other side of the door.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Mrs. Jenkins clipped away, and Henrietta breathed a sigh of relief just as Esther made her way into the room. When she saw Henrietta standing there, she cried out. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What da hell do yeh tink yer doin’ creepin’ round in da dark like dat? Nearly stopped me heart beatin’.”
“I’m sorry . . . ,” Henrietta began.
Esther’s eyes narrowed, “What’re yer doin’ back ‘ere anyway?”
“I . . . I just came to borrow some thread,” she said holding it up shakily. “You know . . . to mend the dress? I didn’t think anyone would mind. Larry thought it’d be all right,” she added hastily.
“Larry?” she asked, disconcerted. “What’s he got ta do wit it?”
“He . . . he saw me take it. He didn’t say not to, anyway.”
Esther looked at her carefully. “Yeh didn’ hear anythin’ in da hall, den, did yeh?” she asked suspiciously.
“No! . . . No,” she tried to say calmly. “I was just getting my things together is all.”
Esther continued to stare at her for a moment more and then sighed deeply. “Come on, den. I’ll show yeh da way out, like. As if I ain’t got nuttin’ better ta be doin’ besides bein’ a glorified dog, runnin’ backwards and forwards,” she was mumbling to herself now, waddling back down the hall.
“Oh, no! I can find my way, Esther. It’s no trouble, really,” Henrietta urged, breathing a sigh of relief that the woman had accepted her fib.
“And risk yeh nosin’ about? Think I’m an idjit, do yeh?” she grumbled. “Yeh seem the nosin’ type, yeh do. Nah, I’ll take yeh down. But don’t yeh make a habit of gettin’ left behind, hear?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll try,” Henrietta said, dutifully following Esther to the front. She was eager to get out of the maze, almost frantic, actually, and once deposited outside the front door, which Esther then locked from the inside, Henrietta felt inexplicably relieved, gulping in huge breaths of the cold, frigid air as she began her walk home.
CHAPTER 7
It was only four in the afternoon when Henrietta descended from the streetcar, having ridden i
t north from downtown to Polly’s Lincoln Park neighborhood. It was only a few blocks walk now, and Henrietta looked forward to a hot cup of tea while she mended the dress, now folded and lying in the bottom of the old carpetbag she had “borrowed” from the Promenade. She was famished as well, but she wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do about that. She was trying to remember whether she had seen a tin of biscuits on the counter that Polly had left behind or whether she had just imagined them. She was trying to keep her mind on the biscuits or the tea, or anything besides the conversation she had overheard at the Marlowe. It had plagued her all the way home. What did “he wants Iris” mean exactly? She hoped it wasn’t what she imagined it might be, but then again, what about Esther’s comment about the blood? She shuddered as she thought about it. And who was he? Neptune? Was it the man in the seats next to Mrs. Jenkins at the auditions, the one whose eyes never left her?
She pulled her coat about her tightly and glanced behind her. It was if she could still feel his eyes on her, and she wondered, with a tightening in her stomach, if she were being followed. Instinctively she quickened her steps, hoping to reach the corner where several people were standing, waiting for a motorbus, feeling she would be safe standing amongst them. She got up the courage to look behind her, but she didn’t see Neptune, or anyone menacing, for that matter, but she still felt uneasy. She walked faster, keeping her gaze locked on the people at the bus stop. She was almost there now! But before she could reach the little group, however, she suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder and couldn’t help but let out a little scream as she dropped her bag and turned to face her assailant . . .
There stood Stanley, breathless, bent over now with his hands on his knees.
“Stan!” she cried. “You gave me a shock!”
“Didn’t you hear me callin’ you?” he panted.
“Obviously not,” she said, annoyed, her heart still racing.
“You okay, Miss?” asked a gentleman passing by. Henrietta saw that several people had come over, having heard her scream.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” she said to no one in particular. “I was just startled. I’m fine, really. Thank you.” The crowd’s attention was taken up then by the approaching motorbus, and the man who had asked after her gave Henrietta a last look before he, too, made his way over to the bus, reluctantly abandoning her to Stanley.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Henrietta asked, addressing Stan once they were left to themselves.
“Oh, Hen, what are you doing? All the way downtown, you’ve been.”
“You haven’t been following me all day, have you?” she asked, exasperated.
“Well, Hen, I had to! When I heard what happened at the Promenade, well I was worried sick!”
Wearily, Henrietta bent to pick up her bag to continue on her way, knowing that nothing good could come of the conversation Stan meant to have just now.
“Here! I’ll get that,” Stan said, reaching down quickly and grabbing the handle of the carpetbag before Henrietta could get to it.
Henrietta sighed and kept walking. “Suit yourself.”
“Hen! The Marlowe ain’t no place for a girl like you!” he whined, hurrying to keep up.
“Stan, I’m not a girl; I’m a grown woman. You don’t need to follow me about. I can take care of myself, thanks very much.”
“What were you doing down there, anyway? That’s a bad part of town, Hen.”
“It’s not a bad part of town, Stan. And anyway, if you must know, I’ve got a new job.”
“Doin’ what?” he asked suspiciously.
“Never you mind!” she said, trying to put him off.
“You know I’ll find out, so you might as well tell me.”
Henrietta realized this was probably true. “All right, I’ll tell you, but don’t make a scene.” She cleared her throat. “I got a job as an usherette at the Marlowe,” she said with a toss of her hair.
“Henrietta Von Harmon!” he squeaked. “You’ve gone too far this time! This really is the limit! That’s a gangster’s hideout and all that! Oh, Hen! I’m beggin’ ya this time.”
“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, Stan. Anyway, you’re just a kid. What would you know of gangsters? Why don’t you go hang about Elsie? She’s sweet on you, you know.”
“Elsie?” he said, befuddled. “Aw, don’t try to confuse me! We’ve got to get you out of this mess before it’s too late!”
Henrietta couldn’t help but smile at Stanley’s pleading eyes and nervous habit of biting his lip as if the world were about to explode at any minute.
“This isn’t a laughing matter, Henrietta!” he said, thoroughly annoyed now. “Why can’t you just go back to the Promenade? It’s back open now, you know. I’m sure you could get your job back!”
“Is it?” Henrietta was surprised that they had reopened so quickly. They must have located the owner, Mr. Mercer. She wondered if the inspector was any closer to finding Mama Leone’s killer. Why hadn’t he contacted her? she fretted. And anyway, how was she supposed to find him to tell him she had made it through the audition and had gotten the job? She had reached Polly’s building now, and she was eager to be rid of Stan. She needed time to think and to mend the dress.
“This is my stop, Stan,” she said, reaching out and taking the carpetbag from him.
“Here?” he said, looking at the building, distracted. “I wondered why you got off in this neighborhood. Who lives here?”
“My friend Polly, if you must know. From the Promenade. You remember her, don’t you?”
“Oh, your pal? The short hair?”
“Yes, that’s her. This is her place. I’m keeping some things here for a while. You know, ‘cause of Ma. Anyway, Polly . . . Polly had to leave town just now, so I’m keeping an eye on the place for a bit. Until things get settled at the Marlowe, anyway.”
Stanley looked carefully up and down the street as if assessing its degree of safety. An old woman sat on the front steps of a building halfway down the block, and down the other way, two boys were attempting to fit a box onto a set of wheels to make a sort of scooter, while a girl with a dirty pinafore and what looked like her younger sister looked on. “Looks like a nice enough neighborhood . . .” he said hesitantly. “It’s getting dark, though. I’ll just make sure you get in safe,” he said, taking back the carpetbag.
Henrietta sighed, knowing it wasn’t worth arguing with him. “Come on, then,” she said, making her way toward the alley and the back stairs. A cat scurried under the fence that ran along the back of the alley.
“Why we goin’ up the back?” he asked, closely following her.
“The front door sticks,” Henrietta said, slowly climbing the steps to the third floor. At the top, she bent down and reached under the coal bucket, scooping up a key.
“You didn’t go and put the key there, did you?” Stan asked incredulously. “Anyone could find it there!”
Henrietta turned back to face him. “Well, that’s where Polly keeps it,” she shrugged. “Do you always worry this much? How do you sleep at night? And anyway, shouldn’t you be skipping off home by now?”
“All I’m saying, Hen, is that you should keep the key . . . ,” he broke off suddenly, watching as the door in front of Henrietta creaked open at her touch before she even had a chance to place the key in the lock.
“That’s odd,” Henrietta said, pushing it open further and stepping into the apartment. “I could have sworn I locked it this morning.”
“Henrietta, no!” hissed Stan, following her and trying to grab her arm, but it was too late.
Before she knew what was happening, a hand reached out and grabbed her, pinning her, while another hand pressed itself over her mouth, making it impossible to scream. Panicking, Henrietta tried to bend and twist away from her capturer, but the man held her tight. She looked back desperately at Stan, only to find that the same had happened to him.
“Listen, sister,” came a rough voice very close to her ear, his breath smelling
of beef or maybe cigars. “I’m gonna take my hand away from your mouth, but if you scream, your friend gets it, understand?” he said calmly, cocking a pistol and waving it in front of her. Same goes for you, pipsqueak,” he said, looking at Stanley. “You got it?” the voice asked her again. Terrified, Henrietta nodded. The man released her, then, and she gasped for breath as he pushed her into the middle of the room, pointing the gun at her.
“What about him?” said the other man, who still held Stan roughly, one hand over his mouth and one hand twisting Stan’s arm behind his back.
“See what he’s got on him.”
The man let go of Stan with a little shove.
“You keep quiet or she gets it,” snarled the first man as the second man searched Stanley’s pockets, removing only a thin wallet.
“Just this,” he said holding it up.
“Keep it for the boss.”
“Hey, you can’t keep that!” said Stan indignantly.
The second man hit him in the head. “Shut up, kid!”
Stanley bent over in pain, trying not to cry.
“Leave him alone!” cried Henrietta.
“So, you decided to come back, eh? We thought you would. Just a matter of time, just like the boss said.”
“I . . . I think there’s been some mistake,” pleaded Henrietta. “I don’t live here, I just stopped by.”
“Sure, sister.”
“Hey, look at this,” said the second man, who had decided to pick through Stanley’s wallet. He held up the little calendar Stanley kept hidden there. “Look at all these dates circled in red. What’s this mean, Mickey?”
“Mickey? I’m not Mickey!” Stan squeaked.
“Look at this, Charlie. Even got the date circled that that fat broad at the Promenade got done in. What’s these dates mean? Payouts? Knock-offs?”
“I . . . I don’t have to tell you anything,” said Stanley, still rubbing his head. The man stepped toward him, and Stan gave out a little cry, backing away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he insisted.