Dollface

by Renée Rosen

  “Exactly how much is this necklace?” the man asked.

  As instructed, I opened my silver card case, and as I handed him Mr. Borowitz’s card, someone pinched my behind. I spun around, only to find half a dozen men within pinching distance who would look neither at me nor at my bottom.

  “Oh, sweetie,” said the woman to me, fisting up her napkin, “would you be a dear?” She placed her dirty cocktail napkin in my hand. I glanced at the napkin and back up at the woman, searching her heavy-lashed eyes, hoping she’d rethink the request. But all I got was a dismissive smile. I made my way to the opposite side of the room, pitched the napkin and snatched two canapés from a passing tray.

  The band continued to play as couples moved about the dance floor, spilling drinks and filling the air with clouds of cigarette and cigar smoke. It wasn’t in my nature to stand back and watch the others having all the fun. Time seemed to pass slowly but finally the party was over and I went downstairs to change into my work clothes, which always felt rough against my skin after I’d been clothed in real silk. I had replaced the good wool coat that I’d lost in the Five Star raid with a secondhand wraparound. It had a torn lining and a hole in the pocket that I kept forgetting to mend. I’d lost a lipstick that way, and my favorite hair comb.

  Upstairs in the lobby, Mr. Borowitz helped me off with the bracelet and the necklace. It wasn’t until I went to unclip the earrings that I realized one of them was missing. While Mr. Borowitz impatiently tapped his foot, the panic grew inside me. I scoured the floor and patted myself down from my ears to my hips, but the earring was gone.

  “You’d better hope to God you find it,” Mr. Borowitz called after me as I went to retrace my steps.

  I returned to the ballroom, frantically asking the waiters whether they’d seen the earring, checking with the musicians as they packed up their instruments. I went back to the chambermaids’ quarters. I checked inside my shirtwaist, inside my skirt. I shook out my wrap coat and emptied my pocketbook. I scoured every inch of the vanity. Sweat broke out along my forehead as I went back to Mr. Borowitz to explain that I couldn’t find it and apologize.

  “You’re damn right you’re sorry. Do you have any idea how much those earrings are worth? Two hundred bucks! I knew the minute I laid eyes on you. I should never have trusted you. You probably stole it, you—”

  “Hey!” My voice echoed off the marble floors and ceiling, loud enough to shut him up. I was so angry I was shaking. “That’s enough! I’m not a thief. It was an accident. I said I was sorry. You want to fire me? Fine. Go ahead and fire me. But don’t you dare accuse me of stealing. And besides, if I was going to steal your damn earring, don’t you think I’d be smart enough to take the whole pair.”

  I heard someone behind me clapping. “Well done, young lady.”

  I turned around and there was a man coming toward us. He was beautifully dressed in a double-breasted pin-striped suit with a gold watch chain hanging down. His dark hair was parted in the center and slicked back with brilliantine, revealing a lovely widow’s peak that pointed like an arrow toward his strong, straight nose.

  “This is between me and her. Stay out of it,” Borowitz said before turning back toward me. “You owe me two hundred bucks, girlie!”

  “I said it was an accident!”

  “I want my two hundred bucks!” Borowitz was going red in the face.

  “Two hundred?” asked the man with the widow’s peak. “Was that two hundred dollars you said?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash thick as a fist. I didn’t blink once, watching as he peeled two hundred-dollar bills off the top. Stuffing them into Mr. Borowitz’s breast pocket, he said, “I think that ought to cover it.”

  My jaw flopped open and before I could thank him, the man turned to me and said, “You seem like a nice girl. Go home.” He reached into his pocket again and put a five-dollar bill in my hand. “It’s late. Take a taxicab.”

  “But”—I held out the bill to him—“you’ve already done more than—”

  “Take the money.” He reached over and closed my fingers around it. “It’s cold out there tonight.”

  I stared at my clenched hand and when I looked up, the man with the widow’s peak was walking out of the Drake with his arm draped over the shoulder of a sensational-looking blonde. Lucky girl, whoever she was. She had a good man looking out for her. You just knew nothing bad was going to happen to her as long as she was with him. God, how I wanted to know what that felt like. This wasn’t envy; it was honest-to-goodness longing.

  ENTER IZZY SELTZER

  I lined my eyes in front of the mirror, making them dark like the models in the fashion magazines. Evelyn and I were getting dolled up for a Saturday night on the town. It was my first day off in a week after taking a new job working the late shift as a switchboard operator. I made seventy-five cents an hour and had Saturdays and Sundays off. Because I had to work Monday night—and that was New Year’s Eve—Evelyn and I decided we’d bring in 1924 a few days early.

  Evelyn took a roll of bandages from her bureau drawer and wrapped them around her breasts, smashing herself down in front. Thank God I was flat-chested. I would have hated doing that. I couldn’t have worn that rubber reducing girdle of hers, either. The ads said it melted away excess pounds, but all it did was make her sweat. And really, Evelyn wasn’t fat. She just had those big boobs, but she didn’t need to wear a rubber girdle.

  While Evelyn brushed out her long brown curls, I smoothed down my bangs and combed through the blunt ends of my bob. Puckering my lips, I painted them a deep bloodred, making them look like a cherub’s. I slipped into a frock and wrapped the strand of pearls around my neck that I’d borrowed from Barbara Lewis down the hall, a perky little blonde with a gap-toothed smile. Nothing rallied Barbara’s support like a date or special occasion. Eager to help, she’d send you off in a dress or lend you a hat. She’d even let you borrow her jewelry and evening bags, too. Barbara was the one you went to for clothes and I was the one the girls turned to for makeup tips. I had a knack for it and showed them how to line their eyes and apply their rouge. Even Helen next door, with her bad overbite and ruddy complexion, managed to look pretty when I was finished with her.

  “How’s this?” Evelyn turned to face me, holding the black grease-stick liner in her hand. “Did I make them even this time?”

  I tilted my head and studied her dark brown eyes for a moment. “Almost.”

  She frowned and looked again in the mirror.

  “It’s not bad,” I told her, reaching for the liner. “Let me just get the outer edges for you.”

  By the time we were ready to leave for the night, Evelyn and I looked right in fashion, just as long as you didn’t get too close to see a mismatched button here, a loose thread there, or the safety pins holding up our hems.

  We rode a crowded el car, holding on to the leather ceiling straps for balance until our stop at Lawrence, where we got off and walked over to Broadway. When we arrived at the Green Mill, the hostess stood in the doorway ushering us inside. It was early, but the place was already stomping. The Green Mill had the best jazz in the city and I’d heard it was the place to meet eligible men. That was a plus since Evelyn was still hoping to find a date for New Year’s. We’d barely gotten our coats checked and already a young man with a neat little goatee came over.

  “How’s about a dance?” he asked, looking at me.

  I could tell by the way he snapped his fingers that he had no rhythm. “Maybe later,” I said. “Mama needs a cocktail first.”

  “Well, let me take care of that for you.”

  Even though they weren’t the kind of fellas I was looking for—no flair, no charisma, no sex appeal—I never had a problem meeting men when we went out. Not like Evelyn. It was harder for her. Usually I’d bring the guys over and introduce them to her. That’s how she met Izzy Seltzer. She can blame that one on me.

  I wasn’t even finished with my first drink when Izzy came up to me, twisted his pinkie ri
ng and said, “You’re a doll, you know that? A living doll.”

  He did have those movie-star looks with his strong jawline and cleft chin, but I wasn’t falling for his charms. He was just like that Tony Liolli, and something told me I couldn’t trust him.

  But Evelyn couldn’t take her eyes off him. “Who was that?” she whispered when he walked away. “Do you know him?”

  After watching her follow him around the room with her puppy-dog eyes, I finally went and got Izzy and brought him over to her.

  “What are you girls up to tonight?” he asked, turning toward me, looking at my mouth first and then my body and then my eyes.

  “Just out for a little fun,” answered Evelyn. “What about you? What are you up to?”

  “I gotta get a drink,” he said, still looking at me. “You girls need another?”

  Evelyn and I held up our full glasses.

  “Do you think he’s coming back?” Evelyn fretted after he’d walked away, craning her neck to keep an eye on him.

  “Relax. He’s just at the bar. And when he does come back, don’t act so eager.”

  Evelyn nodded, still looking at Izzy.

  “Just relax.”

  Izzy was skirting his way through the crowd with his drink in hand and I cringed when Evelyn waved him over. “Hey, Izzy!” she called out. “Over here!”

  So while Evelyn jabbered away with Izzy, I watched a group of loudmouths at a front table playing a drinking game that involved four cigarettes and three matchsticks.

  The one dealing out cigarettes saw me staring. “Wanna play?” he asked.

  “What’s the object?” It seemed to me that no matter what the outcome, they all took a drink anyway.

  “To get as drunk as you can, as fast as you can.” They cracked up laughing and started in on another round.

  “Sounds swell, but I think I’ll just watch.”

  As I fished an olive out of my martini, I looked up and noticed a short, round man coming through the doorway wearing a canary yellow overcoat, cuffed trousers, and a homburg. He was accompanied by two men considerably taller than him.

  As soon as she saw him, the hostess was on her feet. “Well, if it isn’t Snorky! How ya been, Al?” She held a sprig of mistletoe above his head and planted a big kiss on his mouth. She didn’t bother with the other two men. Draping her arm across the short man’s shoulder, she led him to the center booth that had remained empty all night despite the packed club. Obviously it had been reserved for him.

  The table of loudmouths dropped it down a notch or two when he walked by. I overheard one of them say, “Yeah, that’s him. That’s Al Capone.”

  “What’s he doing up here on the North Side?” the one fellow asked.

  “Capone’s a big jazz buff. He’s a regular here.”

  I glanced back over my shoulder. I saw the faint scars on his face, the thick cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth. Wow, that was him, all right! I had no idea this place was Capone’s hangout. He looked younger in person than in his newspaper photos. I remembered seeing one of him taken at a White Sox game where people were lining up to shake his hand, have their picture taken with him.

  Not long after arriving, Capone seemed to notice something with a start. He got up, flanked by the two big guys. My pulse jumped when I realized he was heading for Izzy.

  Removing his cigar, Capone said, “What’s the matter? You and your girls get lost tonight?” He gazed over at Evelyn.

  Izzy propped a cigarette between his lips and struck a match against the underside of the bar. “Just thought I’d see what you palookas were up to.”

  “Too bad you can’t stay long enough to finish your drink.”

  Izzy took a drag off his cigarette and exhaled in Capone’s face. I couldn’t take my eyes off his scars. One ran from his ear to the side of his mouth. The other was etched along his jaw.

  “Either show yourself out or I’ll have my boys here do it for you.” He gave Izzy the kind of look you didn’t argue with.

  Capone went back to his booth, but the two tall guys stayed with us. I glared at Izzy, wondering what the hell he was waiting for. In my mind, I was already halfway out the door.

  Finally, Izzy flicked his cigarette to the floor and ground it out beneath his heel. “This place is dead. C’mon, let’s go where the real action is.”

  “Was that really Capone?” Evelyn asked as Izzy led us outside.

  “Shhh.” I gave her a look.

  Obviously Capone didn’t want Izzy sticking around the Green Mill and I wasn’t sure I wanted Izzy sticking around us, either.

  “Ev.” I pulled her aside as we followed Izzy down the street. “I don’t think we should go with him.”

  “Oh, c’mon. Besides,” she said under her breath, “I already blew my taxicab money and at least he can give us a ride home later.”

  “Here we are,” Izzy said, pointing to the motorcar parked out front. It was a real sharp tan-and-black touring car with velvet upholstery. As soon as she saw it Evelyn gave me a look, her red lips growing as big and round as her eyes. We’d never ridden in a motorcar like that and while I may not have liked Izzy Seltzer, I was madly in love with his automobile. When he opened the car door I climbed into the back and Evelyn slid into the front seat, sitting as close as she could to him.

  I glanced out the window as we whipped past the streetlamps, empty sidewalks and darkened storefronts. It was late; the city had turned in for the night but we were just getting started.

  I ran my hand along the velvet upholstery, the leather trim. I had no idea where Izzy was taking us, but by now my reservations about him were replaced with expectations for an exciting night on the town.

  • • •

  Izzy took us to a place called the Meridian on the north side of town. It was a huge limestone building with a big red awning and a circular driveway filled with expensive-looking automobiles.

  As soon as we stepped inside, I felt underdressed in my jersey frock. The women were all in beautiful fringed and sequined dresses. Some wore jeweled turbans, and others had plumed headdresses. The men were just as stylish in three-piece tailored suits. There was a big band up onstage and the place was jumping. Between the Christmas tree and the holiday lights sparkling about the room, it already felt like New Year’s Eve in there.

  Evelyn tugged on my sleeve and pointed. “Vera, look!”

  “Oh my God! That’s Charlie Chaplin!” He was sitting at a front table, less than three feet away. Without his funny mustache and bushy eyebrows he was a handsome man with thick, wavy dark hair and surprisingly somber-looking eyes.

  We started for his table, hoping to get his autograph, but a couple of photographers cut in front of us to take his picture. Their flashbulbs popped like firecrackers, sending clouds of smoke hovering above their cameras. I stood there, unable to take my eyes off him. I couldn’t believe it. First Al Capone and now Charlie Chaplin. Capone may have been a gangster, but he was famous, too. I was a believer in signs, and I took this as a big one that things were about to change for me.

  After a round of drinks, Evelyn took off with Izzy while I danced with a college boy from the University of Chicago. He wore two-tone shoes that kept perfect time with my toes. While he shuffled me from side to side, other couples on the dance floor were kicking up their heels and shaking their shoulders and behinds, keeping a perfect beat with the music.

  “What do you say we mix it up a little?” I said.

  “Sure thing.” He twirled me and lost what little rhythm he had.

  In the middle of that number I broke away from him and started doing a crazy little dance step, snapping my fingers and swaying my hips. I kept my eye on the boy as my borrowed pearls swung to and fro and my bobbed hair swished to the left and then to the right. The trumpeter gave me a wink, and people turned to watch as I circled around the college boy, who stood there like a maypole.

  When the number was up, I thanked him for the dance and headed to the bar. As I was catching my breath, some
one leaned in close and whispered, “You always dance like that in public?”

  I turned and nearly lost my balance. Standing before me was the man with the widow’s peak from the Drake Hotel. I hadn’t expected to ever see him again and my heart took a leap forward. He reached across the bar for my drink and placed it in my hand.

  “Well, fancy seeing you here,” I said, trying to play it cool by giving his martini glass a clink with mine. “You really helped me out of a jam. I never got to thank you for—”

  “Not necessary.” He smiled. “Just please tell me you’re not still working for that schmendrick. You know what it is? A schmendrick?”

  I nearly spilled my drink. “You know Yiddish?”

  “What Jew doesn’t?”

  I looked him up and down. “You’re Jewish?”

  “You sound so surprised.”

  He was nothing like the Jewish boys I’d grown up with. For one thing, he didn’t look Jewish. He had a strong chin and a slender nose. His hair was dark, almost black like mine, and he had that widow’s peak that I found sexy in a strange sort of way. I decided he was nice-looking. Maybe not handsome like that Izzy Seltzer, but he had a certain something. There was an elegance to him and he was wearing another expensive-looking three-piece suit. He had style—no doubt about that. He smiled and it sent a ripple of excitement through my body.

  “What’s your name, Dollface?”

  “Vera. Vera Abramowitz.”

  “Well, there you have it. We Jews have to stick together, don’t we?” He rocked back on his heels, showing off his spats.

  His name was Shep Green. He was older, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six. Turned out that Izzy worked for him.

  “He works for you, huh? Doing what?” I couldn’t help but think about Izzy’s run-in with Capone earlier. If Izzy knew Capone, chances were so did Shep.

  “Izzy’s my right-hand man. He helps me run things around here.”

  “Here?” I searched around the room.

  “The Meridian,” he said with an easy hand gesture. “I own the club.”