An Orphan of Hell's Kitchen

by Liz Freeland

  “I expect I’ll be booted back to Brooklyn after I try to do my little scene,” she continued, bobbing on the balls of her feet, “and that will be the end of Anna Muldoon’s career in moving pictures.”

  “You’ll be terrific,” Callie assured her. “She’s playing the part of the kid sister who interrupts my beau and me when we’re canoodling on a settee. It’s a funny little bit.”

  “We hope it’s funny,” Anna said.

  My guess was that she was a little older than Callie, but her short stature and round-cheeked face did give her a youthful, innocent appearance.

  “I’m just so grateful everyone’s taken me under their wing like they have,” she said. “It’s like a little family, isn’t it?”

  Again with the family. “What is?”

  “Show business.”

  Callie snorted into her coffee cup, then glanced at the locket watch around her neck. “We’d better scoot, little sis.” She gave Anna a nudge.

  “Oh! Already?” For the first time, Anna looked flustered. Her anxious gaze met mine. “Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  Callie herded her protégée out the door. Someday we were going to finish the conversation we’d started about the inadequacy of this apartment. But the moment I heard the flat’s door click closed, exhaustion overtook me again, and I went back to my room again and collapsed on the bed. As I drifted off, a scent of jasmine reached me.

  It was Anna’s, I realized. A sweet smell. Too sweet.

  * * *

  A few scant hours of sleep later, I was up, dressed, and, following a hunch, standing across the street from the White Rose. I got there at an hour I hoped was early for lunch and stayed outside, scanning the street. Sure enough, Gerald Hughes came ambling up Sixth Avenue, case in one hand and using an umbrella as a cane with the other. Nearing the corner, steps away from the restaurant, he stopped to watch an elderly woman across the intersection fumbling with her handbag. His eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his homburg. He seemed to be calculating something.

  Was that look menacing?

  I also studied the old lady, who was standing about ten yards to my right. If there were any purse snatchers in the area, she would provide the perfect mark. She dug through the open bag, and dropped a handkerchief that blew onto the avenue without her seeming to notice. In the next moment, still searching for something, she stepped into the street.

  Hughes leapt to action. I wanted to shout a warning to the woman, but I was too slow—slower even than the man with only one real leg, who raced across the street in a flash. I don’t know what I expected—did I really think he was going to snatch her bag?—but instead he nearly threw himself in front of an oncoming delivery truck making a sharp left turn. My heart leapt to my throat. Hughes clearly intended to shield the elderly woman, but had the truck’s brakes been a fraction less strong, they both would have been run over.

  At the sound of squealing tires, the woman dropped her bag. Hughes scooped it up for her while the truck honked at them. Taking his time—maybe to spite the driver, who was now blocking traffic and being honked at himself—he returned it to the old woman and escorted her across the street. They exchanged a few words, he tipped his hat, and the woman continued on her way. He watched her for a moment, then turned and walked into the White Rose for his lunch. His limp seemed more pronounced now than before.

  My pulse rate had jumped, almost as if I had nearly been run down. Hughes had risked his life to help that woman. Another man might have yelled out a warning, or simply watched in shock, but the Galahad spirit was alive and well in him. Did that preclude his also being a killer? I doubted following the man on his rounds to more clothing makers would answer that question.

  Not wanting to run the risk of him seeing me and possibly remembering me from yesterday, I didn’t follow him inside the tearoom. A plan was forming in my head, but I needed someone to help me execute it.

  To that end, I spent the rest of the afternoon at Otto’s, playing cards, convincing him to again be my partner in crime—or crime fighting—coming up with a routine, and then catnapping in his chair while he played me selections from Double Daisy. I worked the night shift again, and once more found that Anna had stayed over in my room when I returned home. I tried not to let it bother me.

  It bothered me.

  The following day, Otto and I met at one o’clock at the White Rose. I managed to finagle a table near the back, where I hoped Gerald Hughes would be sitting. That he wasn’t there yet made me nervous, and preoccupied me while Otto told me all about Double Daisy’s latest woes.

  “We’ve found a money man, but he thinks we ought to have a star.”

  I peeled my gaze away from the view of the street and took a sip of tea. “That would be good, wouldn’t it? Who could you get?”

  “I mean, he thinks we should get a star to play Daisy.”

  Alarmed, I crashed my teacup into its saucer. “That’s Callie’s part.”

  “I know.” He drooped miserably. “What am I going to do?”

  “Didn’t you tell him that you have your Daisy already? You wrote that part for Callie.”

  “I can’t just put the kibosh on the whole musical because they won’t give my girl the part. She’s not even my girl. That at least they’d understand. They might not cast her, but they’d understand my wanting to.”

  Biased as I was, I could still see his conundrum. There were more people than Otto invested in the show, and Callie’s only experience on Broadway so far had been limited to one bit part and a show that had closed in its first week. Not exactly a track record that would lead investors to gamble thousands on.

  “Callie will be heartbroken,” I said, and then wished I could unsay it. Otto looked more depressed than ever.

  Having been Otto’s friend for ten years, and watched him struggle to try to transform himself from butcher’s assistant to Broadway wunderkind, I understood what was at stake for him. Songwriters needed hits. Shows were vehicles for creating song sensations. He had poured six months of his life into this show, while Callie had been making movies and pursuing other projects.

  “What am I going to do?” he moaned.

  “You have to think of your own career,” I said, unable to believe how quickly I was turning from my roommate’s advocate to his. They were both my friends, though. “Callie can audition for every show in this city, but this is your show. You can’t give up on it now because she might be disappointed. You have to live.”

  “Yes, but I also have to live with myself,” he said. “I promised her.”

  “Callie’s not a fool. She’s been in the business longer than you have. She’ll understand how these things work.”

  I hoped.

  My mind was so full of anguish for Callie—for both of them—that it was a few moments before I glanced to my right and saw Gerald Hughes being seated a table away, by the window. Take your mind off the task at hand for one minute . . .

  I straightened and said in a louder voice, “I don’t know why you care so much about what happens to that woman.”

  Otto’s face twisted in confusion. “Huh?”

  Under the table, I gave his shin a sharp tap with the toe of my shoe.

  It took him a moment to catch on. He pulled his shoulders back, shifting gears. “What are you complaining about?” he growled. “We’re not married.”

  I made my voice as quavery and woebegone as I could manage. “But we’re engaged, Otto. If you love this other girl—”

  “Did I say I loved her? Can’t a man talk without some woman putting words in his mouth?”

  “I’m not just some woman. I’m your fiancée. It’s been three years. The family keeps asking questions . . .”

  His sneer almost frightened me, it was so realistic. “Your family never seems to question how I’m supposed to support you once I do take you off their hands.”

  “I told you I’d keep my job.”

  “And we’re supposed to live on sixteen d
ollars a week? Can’t you find something better?”

  “Doing what?”

  “I dunno—you’re the one who’s supposed to have the imagination. You’re not bad to look at. If you’d try a little harder, maybe someone in that building would take notice of you.”

  “Oh, Otto. It almost sounds as if you want me to seduce these men just to get ahead.”

  He snorted. “Well, isn’t that how most women operate?”

  We had the ears of most of the restaurant now. I lowered my voice out of self-consciousness. Gerald Hughes would still be within earshot.

  “If that’s what you think of me, then I’m not sure I’d want to wait another three years.”

  He threw his head back. “And if you’re going to be so clingy and stupid, I’m not sure I’d want to stick it for another three hours.”

  I gulped.

  “Oh, don’t start blubbering now.”

  I yanked the ring I’d borrowed from Callie’s jewelry box off my finger and tossed it on the table.

  Laughing, he swiped it up and put it in his pocket. “You’ll be calling me tomorrow begging for it back.”

  “Just go.”

  He pushed back from the table, his chair legs screeching against the floorboards. “Good riddance. At least I’ll never choke down any more of your aunt’s goulash.”

  It was a detail too far—Otto’s aunt Bertha was the one who made the awful goulash. I had to lift a napkin to my face to hide my struggle to keep from laughing. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gerald Hughes’s pitying gaze pinned on me.

  Otto turned and stomped out, even slamming the door upon his exit. For him, this show of callousness was especially impressive. It proved what a little exposure to theater people could do.

  Now I was on my own. The waitress, the same one from two days ago, realized at once what that meant. She was at my table before the door had closed behind Otto. “See here, we don’t like arguing in my establishment. This isn’t the Automat.”

  I dabbed my eyes with the napkin. “I’m sorry,” I said feebly.

  Her gaze took in the full table in front of me. “And who’s going to pay for all this food now? I hope you have money.”

  “I . . .” I looked down at my purse. “Oh . . .”

  The waitress crossed her arms. “This isn’t a charity.”

  “I left my house with just enough for the streetcar,” I said.

  “You ought to have thought of that before you sent him on his way then.”

  A strained silence stretched, with all the patrons of the little restaurant staring openly at the showdown between the waitress and me. In fact, they seemed more curious about this than they had about my argument with Otto.

  “I’ll cover the young lady’s lunch,” Hughes said at last.

  My Galahad. I’d begun to worry I’d misjudged him.

  “Thank you,” I said, “but I couldn’t possibly accept your generosity. You don’t even know me. If this lady could just wait until tomorrow . . .”

  The waitress scoffed. “And what’s to keep you from scarpering out of here and never showing your face again?”

  “Nonsense,” he said, although I couldn’t tell who the comment was directed to. “Of course I’ll pay. It’s the smallest thing.” He smiled at me, and there was nothing at all wolfish in his eyes. Part of me wanted to clear him as a suspect right then. Just reach into my purse, pull out a dollar, and end the whole farce. But Ruthie had taken his passport, and he might be the only one of the passport men I’d ever get a chance to speak to.

  “Bring her plate to my table, Cora,” he said. “She’ll be my guest.”

  “And the young man’s meal?” the distrustful Cora asked.

  “I’ll pay for that too.” He looked at her and laughed. “Unless you don’t think I’m good for it.”

  Cora jabbed her thumb at me. “The trouble is this one. I’m not sure what she’s good for.”

  Before she could talk Hughes out of his charitable impulse, I grabbed my plate and moved to his table by the window. “Thank you very much, sir.”

  Hughes was a little late to pull my chair out for me, so he brought my teacup over. “The pleasure is all mine. My name is Gerald Hughes, by the way.”

  I smiled. “I’m Louise F—” Too late, I remembered I was supposed to be someone else. Blurting out one’s name is so instinctive. I was just able to salvage something of my disguise at the last minute. “Frobisher.”

  “And what is it you do, Miss Frobisher, besides breaking hearts in tearooms?”

  “I work as a secretary at a publisher’s.” This was almost true—I’d worked at a publisher after first coming to New York. Better, I decided, to keep my fake persona’s life story somewhat close to my own.

  “Fascinating work, I imagine.”

  “If you consider typing and making coffee fascinating.” I smiled. “Oh, and answering the telephone. Enthralling!”

  “I’m sure you do it very well.”

  If I had really needed bucking up, Gerald Hughes would have been a good man for the job. His voice was deep and had a pleasant burr to it. His manner came across as kind and conscientious without being fussy. He wanted to put me at ease, but I sensed his interest in what I had to say was genuine. It was something about the eyes. They were, as Lena had said, deep, dark brown. Kind eyes. Not the eyes of a murderer was my first thought. But first impressions like that were unreliable. Probably some of the biggest villains of history had kind manners and faces women deemed trustworthy. Bait for easy prey.

  I was glad for the chance to observe him up close. Hughes looked every one of his thirty-eight years. The corners of those brown eyes had deep lines, as if he’d spent a decade or two of his life in the sun. Not what I would expect from a salesman from England.

  “I’m sorry you had to have your lunch interrupted by that scene Otto made,” I said, sensing he was waiting for me to speak on that subject. I tried to think what a long-suffering secretary would say about a ne’er-do-well beau. “He’s not usually like that.”

  “Don’t make excuses for him. I saw what kind of man he is.”

  “He’s had . . . disappointments.”

  Gerald wasn’t moved. “Nothing excuses acting boorish in public, especially towards a lady.”

  “You’re from England, aren’t you?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I grew up around Manchester.”

  “That’s in the North.”

  He smiled. “Right in one.”

  “Everything I know about England I learned from novels. Mrs. Gaskell.”

  “North and South. A good book. Haven’t run across many here who’ve read it.”

  “Oh, you should meet my aunt. She loves the Victorians. She named her dogs Dickens and Trollope.”

  “Sounds to me as if quite a bit of your whole life revolves around books,” he observed.

  “Too much, sometimes. I often find myself wanting to live life instead of just reading about it. I bet you’ve seen things, traveling as you have.”

  The grooves that lined his forehead grew deeper. “Yes, I’ve traveled.”

  “Where?” I leaned forward eagerly. “I’d love to hear about some of your adventures. I don’t even know what you do for a living, do I?”

  “Right now I’m a representative for a business in Manchester. A mill, as a matter of fact.” He smiled again, acknowledging the North and South parallel.

  “Like Mr. Thornton?”

  “I’m not a mill owner, just a salesman.” He added quickly, “But I started adulthood as a soldier.”

  “In India?” I asked. “That’s where the British sent most of their soldiers, isn’t it? Before the war, I mean.”

  He shook his head. “In my day it was a different war. Africa. I joined up during the second fight against the Boers.” His mouth tightened. “I was wounded.”

  No elaboration on how badly he was wounded. “I’m sorry.”

  “I was luckier than some. That’s what war shows you—as long as you’re br
eathing, you’re luckier than the lads who never saw home again. Who never got a chance at life, really. There will be even more of them this time around.”

  More casualties than the Boer War, which dragged on for years? I doubted that. “This war can’t last, can it? Everyone says it will be over quickly.”

  “When has ‘everyone’ ever been right?” he asked.

  “But conflicts can’t go on and on nowadays, with the whole world reporting every movement. Everything is blasted across the world instantly via telegraph, and with pictures. Film, even. Men can’t wage war for long with the whole world watching.”

  A bitter laugh escaped him. “There have been witnesses to wars who’ve written down their impressions going all the way back to the Greeks.”

  “Yes, but this is the modern age. We’re not barbarians.”

  “And we’ve found more modern ways to do battle.” He shook his head. “No, Miss Frobisher, I fear this will be a long, costly conflict. My only regret is they won’t let me in it.”

  Was he mad? A long and deadly conflict, and he wanted to be in the thick of it. “Surely you’ve seen enough fighting in your lifetime.”

  “Who better to continue than the men who’ve fought before? But of course, it’s hopeless.”

  He looked truly unhappy about his ineligibility for service. Did that show an honorable if overactive sense of duty, or a lust for violence? My mind whirred. A frustrated soldier. He felt left behind, far away from home when the war broke out in August. Had he taken his disappointment out on Ruthie?

  Hughes smiled. “Not doing a very good job cheering you up, am I?”

  For a moment I almost forgot what he was talking about. “You’ve helped me immensely. I never thought it was your job to cheer me up.”

  “But I did, and still do. I hope you’ll allow me to see you again. This evening, perhaps?”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . .” I grasped the first excuse that popped into my head. “I’ve taken such a long lunch, I’ll have to stay late at work. And I promised to visit with my aunt this evening.”

  “I see. Tomorrow evening, then?”

  The timing might be a little difficult to work out, but how could I pass up this opportunity?