The Heavenly Fugitive

by Gilbert, Morris

  Amelia’s head jerked up, and her lips tightened. “I didn’t mean to dump all that on you, Dom. Nobody wants to hear about somebody else’s troubles.”

  “I guess not,” Dom said. He dropped his eyes, and Amelia thought she had offended or at least bored him. She was about to get up, thank him, and make her exit when he said abruptly, “Wait here a minute, kid.”

  Amelia watched as he stood up and walked across the room. He spoke to Louie and then picked up a phone and dialed a number. She saw him wait, speak briefly, then come back and take his seat. He took a card out of his pocket, wrote something on it, and said, “Go see this guy.”

  Amelia took the card and read Dom’s scrawl: Mickey Riley, the Green Dragon. Thirty-second Street.

  “Who is this?”

  “Riley owns a nightclub. It’s not the nicest in town, but it does a good business. I go there a lot, and he told me last time I saw him, the day before yesterday, that he needed a singer.”

  Amelia fell silent and stared at the card for a long time. When she looked up, she saw that Dom’s eyes were cautious. He shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Singing in a nightclub ain’t much, but you can work nights and look for a real acting job during the days.” When she still did not answer, he said, “A bad idea, I guess. A preacher’s daughter wouldn’t want to go into a nightclub.”

  Impulsively Amelia leaned over and put her hand over Dom’s. It was a big hand, strong and hard, with big knuckles. “Thank you, Dom. I guess I’m past making the easy choices. I’ll go see him.”

  “If you get the job,” Dom said, very much aware of her hand on his, “you don’t have to worry about guys getting funny. Riley fancies himself a ladies’ man, but I told him I’d tear his head off if he or anybody else fooled with you. There’ll be no funny stuff.”

  Amelia patted the big hand and said, “I’ll go right now, and Dom . . . thanks.”

  Dominic Costello rose and paid the bill. When they got outside he doffed his hat and said, “Let me hear from you. My number’s on the other side of that card. If you need anything, let me know.”

  Amelia felt so much better than she had a few hours ago. She smiled at him. “It’s good to know there’s one person in this town besides my family who cares about me. I’ll call you, Dom, and let you know how it comes out.”

  ****

  Mickey Riley was seated at a table in the Green Dragon and laid aside the newspaper he had been reading as Amelia approached him. Two men were busy sweeping out the club, and a piano player was competing with the clatter of dishes in the kitchen and two muted voices arguing about baseball. Amelia stated bluntly, “My name is Amelia Winslow. I’m a singer and I need a job.”

  Riley was a beefy-faced individual with the marks of a rough life on him. He had on a garish striped shirt and a pair of hideous green suspenders, but there was a shrewd look in his slightly bloodshot eyes. “Sit down,” he said. “Dom told me to give you a try. Tell me about yourself,” he said curtly as Amelia took her seat. He listened as she told her story briefly, his greenish eyes lighting up as she mentioned that she was from Africa.

  “Really from Africa? You mean where the lions and the tigers are?”

  “There aren’t any tigers in Africa, Mr. Riley, but there are lots of lions. I shot one myself once.”

  “No kidding! Well, I guess you can take care of yourself.” He laughed suddenly and slapped his beefy thigh. “Dom said he’d break my face if I put the moves on you. You don’t have to worry about that. Can you sing?”

  The question caught Amelia slightly off guard. Indeed, she did have a very fine voice, but now she said, “I can sing, but I’ve never been in a nightclub in my life. I don’t know what kind of songs they like.”

  “They like loud songs. Sometimes they like sad songs. Most of the time they’re so drunk they’re not even listening to the singer.” He turned his head. “Hey, Gus,” he hollered at the thin man with the sallow face sitting at the piano. “I want to hear this lady sing. Work out something with her, eh?”

  As Amelia stood and walked toward the piano she was caught by the voice of the owner behind her. “No hymns now. Just good modern stuff.”

  Her stomach was churning as she introduced herself to the piano player. “My name’s Amelia Winslow, Gus.”

  “What do you want to sing?”

  Amelia was baffled for a moment. She knew all the latest songs, for she had a collection of gramophone records at her apartment. She had sung along with them until she had mastered most of them. “How about ‘Yes, We Have No Bananas’?”

  “Sure. Let’s try it.”

  Amelia turned as Gus’s fingers flew over the keys expertly. The song was a popular hit, a novelty song that was easy enough to sing. She actually had a clear contralto voice with tremendous power when she cared to use it. But on this one she simply sang the song as she had a thousand times beside her Victrola at home.

  “Hey, that’s good, kid. Now try something sad. See if you can make me cry.”

  “Do you know ‘Rose of Washington Square’?” she asked.

  Gus did not answer but played the opening notes and then whispered, “There it is in your key.”

  “Rose of Washington Square” had also been a recent hit song. Amelia had Fanny Brice’s recording of it and had imitated her and then had come up with a style of her own. One of her friends had told her once, “Every time you sing those sad songs, I want to bust out crying.” Now she went through it, and when she ended and Gus’s fingers were still on the keys, she heard Riley say, “Come over here, lady.” She moved quickly and stood beside the table. Riley did not get to his feet. “Bring a list of songs you know tonight. Gus knows ’em all and he knows what the customers like. Come back about eight. I’ll give you a tryout. If they like you, we’ll talk turkey. Okay?”

  “Thanks, Mr. Riley.”

  “Oh, I’ll pay you thirty bucks for tonight.”

  At that instant an odd sensation came over Amelia. The face of the poor woman to whom she had given the money flashed in her mind. She saw the tears, and she heard her say, “May the Lord repay you a thousandfold.” Somehow she knew that meeting up with Dominic Costello had not been an accident. Is this God’s doing? she wondered.

  “What should I wear, Mr. Riley?”

  “Something sexy.”

  ****

  For just a moment Amelia hesitated. The streets were dark now except for the streetlights, but a noisy crowd was filing into the Green Dragon. Taxis continually stopped and let people out, then pulled away. All afternoon Amelia had struggled with herself. Singing in a nightclub—that’s not show business. Singing for a bunch of drunks? That can’t be for me. Surely it’s not what God wants! But despite her uncertainties, she knew she was going to do it. She had chosen her outfit carefully. It was her one fancy dress she had picked up on sale at Macy’s. It was a close-fitting taffeta evening gown. A décolletage was formed by wide crossed-over ribbon lapels, finishing at the waist in the front. She didn’t know if it fit Riley’s definition of sexy, but she had no interest in dressing provocatively. She just wanted to look her best while she sang—that was all.

  She entered the nightclub with a knot in her stomach at the thought of what she was doing. A hard-faced man stopped her. “Can I help you, miss?”

  “I’m the new singer. Mr. Riley told me to be here. My name’s Amelia Winslow.”

  “Sure, Amelia, go on back. Cut to your left over there, and you’ll find the dressing room. Got a good crowd tonight. Belt ’em out, eh?”

  Her heart was beating rapidly as she moved through the crowd. Seeing Gus already at the piano, she went over to him and said, “Hello, Gus. I’ve got a list of songs for you.”

  Gus looked up, and his bloodhound face seemed fairly cheerful, much more so than when she had seen him earlier. He looked over the list and nodded. “These’ll do. We got a little combo here—a drummer, a guitar picker, and a fellow that calls himself a horn tooter. They’ll follow me, and I’ll follow you.”

&nbs
p; “Thanks, Gus.”

  Amelia made her way to the back, where she took off her overcoat and hat. She saw a door labeled Dressing Room and knocked on it. When no one answered she stepped inside and turned the light on. It was barely large enough to turn around in, but there was a small dressing table with a mirror. A single bulb dangled from a cord overhead. She sat down and began nervously arranging her hair. Thankfully it had a natural curl and was not easily mussed up.

  She was startled when a voice said, “Well, you did come back.” She turned to find Riley grinning at her. He was wearing a tuxedo, and he said, “Stand up and let me take a look at you.”

  Obediently Amelia stood up and turned around self-consciously but was gratified when the owner said, “You look great. Some of those clowns out there may give you a hard time, but Dom’s out front. He said he’d break anybody’s neck if they got funny with you. I guess he’d do it too. Good luck, kid.”

  Amelia had always believed in plunging right in. She remembered the time she had tried to get up the nerve to jump off a high diving platform when she was thirteen. The only way she had achieved it was by quickly climbing the ladder to the platform, then running and flinging herself off into space. She did the same thing now.

  She left the dressing room and went out into the main room. A small platform, no more than six inches high, served as the stage, and when Gus saw her, he motioned. She went over to him.

  “Okay. You ready, Winslow? That your name?” Gus said.

  “Just Amelia is fine.”

  “Okay, Amelia. We’ll start out with ‘Way Down Yonder in New Orleans.’ That’s a nice peppy thing.”

  Amelia moved over to the microphone, and out of the darkness of the room a light hit her right in the face. She blinked but was thankful she could not see the customers too well. She could hear them, though, and she relaxed a little at hearing Dom’s voice shouting out encouragement from the front table. Suddenly Riley was there, pulling the microphone over. “Folks, we got a brand-new songbird tonight. A fine-looking lady from Africa. Her name’s Amelia Winslow. Let’s hear it for Amelia!”

  Amelia heard the applause and instantly the music started. She had always liked the song “Way Down Yonder in New Orleans” for its snappy meter, and she forced herself to smile and sing it with all the gusto she could. Despite her bravado, she was actually trembling inside, and her knees felt weak. As she finished she was not sure whether or not the crowd would boo her. But she was relieved to hear loud applause and a few raucous voices calling, “That’s great, sweetheart, do it again!”

  Next she sang a song that Al Jolson had made a hit, “Toot, Toot, Tootsie.” It was an easy song, usually performed by a male singer, but Amelia’s voice was strong enough to fill the place. This time the applause was even stronger, and some man cried out, “That’s even better than Jolson, kid!”

  Amelia went from song to song for twenty minutes. She closed the first set with, “I’ll Be With You in Apple Blossom Time,” a plaintive melody, and here for the first time the audience grew still. Amelia threw herself into it. She had practiced singing like this and gesturing accordingly, and although she could not know it, her face caught the sorrowful quality of the song.

  When the song ended she bowed, and there was dead quiet for a moment. Her heart sank—then she heard the applause. People clapped loudly and shouted out her name, and Amelia knew then she could do this job. She bowed several times, thanked the musicians, and left the small stage.

  Riley intercepted her, grabbing her arm and enthusing, “Hey, kid, you done good! I never saw ’em applaud like that for a newcomer.”

  “I’m glad you think so, Mr. Riley.”

  “Go take a break. It’ll be a long night. Hope your pipes hold out.”

  Her “pipes” did hold out, and Amelia found herself looking forward to performing the second set. Gus tried a few fancy licks with her, and she picked up on them immediately, improvising her own variations as well. Finally she sang a haunting song, “All by Myself,” written by the well-loved American songwriter Irving Berlin, and again the crowd applauded lustily.

  Finally Gus said in a loud whisper, “Close it out, sweetie!”

  What possessed her in the next few minutes Amelia Winslow would never know. She grew still, closing her eyes in thought as an urge began to build within her, and she felt a silence fall over the nightclub. She knew there were people out there drunk, despite Prohibition, and she feared what might happen if she spoke aloud what was in her heart at that moment. Clutching her skirt in her hands to steady herself, she blurted out, “My father would hate the idea of my singing in a nightclub.”

  The silence became deathly. She caught a glimpse of Riley, who was in her line of vision near the stage. He had drawn himself up absolutely still, his brows knit together.

  “He’s a preacher, a missionary in Africa,” Amelia rushed on before she could lose her nerve. “I owe him and my mother everything, so I’m going to close with his favorite song. I hope you don’t mind.” Without accompaniment, she lifted her voice—quietly at first, then with growing confidence—filling the nightclub with the strains of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” She had sung only two lines when she heard the piano come in behind her and then the drums and the trumpet, muted but hinting of power. As she sang she thought of her father and mother and of her uncle Barney and her aunt Katie. She thought of her grandmother Lola and all of her family who so loved God, and it pained her that she did not. Unaware that tears were streaming down her face, she ended the song and turned blindly away, leaving the stage in a stunned hush.

  Riley caught up with her and muttered, “Don’t know what got into ya, kid. This sure ain’t the place for that.” Riley had actually enjoyed her last song but would not have admitted it. He was a hard man, always looking out for himself, and was pretty certain he’d just lost a lot of business with Amelia’s surprise ending.

  But even as Riley spoke, applause began. It rose and filled the place like thunder. A voice called out, “You stick with your folks, kid! They got the right idea.”

  Riley’s dour expression did a complete turnabout. He grabbed her arm and shouted, “Hey, go back out there and take a bow, Amelia. They know a good thing when they hear it. They love you!”

  Amelia returned to the stage, alone in the spotlight, and threw a kiss to the audience. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you all.” She stepped down, and Riley led her to the dressing room, where she found a handkerchief and wiped her face. “I don’t know why I sang that hymn. It just came out.”

  Riley shook his head over what had just happened in his nightclub. As he’d watched the face of the young woman singing her father’s favorite hymn, he too had felt what the whole crowd had. Here was someone different, someone fresh and unspoiled. She had a fine voice, to be sure, but it was the sight of tears streaming down her cheeks that had grabbed them all. He reached over awkwardly and patted her shoulder. “I think it was good, kid. You do it every night.”

  “You mean I have a job?”

  “As long as you want one, kiddo. You’re the real goods!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Always a Fugitive

  “I knew I couldn’t keep you here long, kid, and I’m happy for you. Always like to see young folks moving up in the world.”

  Amelia had come to say good-bye to Mickey Riley, and now he stood there pumping her hand up and down, a regretful smile on his broad Irish face.

  “You’ve been so good to me, Mickey. I will never forget you.”

  “That’s good to hear, kid—real good! When do you start?”

  “Opening night’s tomorrow.”

  “Well, anybody that sings at Eddie’s is on their way up.”

  Amelia thought for a moment of how suddenly things had changed for her in just a few days. She had been singing at the Green Dragon for three months now, performing several nights a week and always drawing a big crowd. When she sang this past Tuesday night, someone had told her that Eddie Johns, the owner of
the most popular nightclub in New York City, was in the audience. She had thought little of it and had performed her act exactly as usual, but afterward he had come back to see her in her tiny dressing room. He had introduced himself, and she had immediately recognized the name. “I’m so glad to meet you, Mr. Johns.”

  “I caught your act tonight, Miss Winslow. I liked it a lot.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “I’d like to hire you to sing at my place.”

  Amelia remembered the shock that had run through her. Eddie’s Place was still a nightclub, but it was a giant step forward on making her way in show business. She knew that some very successful musical and comedic stars had gotten their start in nightclubs, and she had replied without hesitation, “I’d love to work for you, Mr. Johns.”

  Now as Amelia stood facing Mickey Riley, a regret came to her. “I hate to leave you like this, Mickey. It makes me seem ungrateful.”

  “Nothin’ like that.” Riley waved his thick hand in the air. “This was just an on-the-way stop for you, and so will Eddie’s Place be. You’ll be a hit there. The next thing you know your name will be up in lights on Broadway right along with Fanny Brice and Al Jolson.” He grinned brashly and then shook his head with admiration. “You keep on singin’ that church song at the end of your act, ya hear me? That always gets ’em. It’s good show biz.”

  Amelia was not at all certain of this. She always concluded her act with a hymn. She felt like a hypocrite, since she was so far away from God, but Mickey Riley had insisted she include it. “It may do some good. Ya never know,” he had said. “Guys and dolls in places like this, they need all the help they can get.” Besides, it appeared to be very good for business.