by Ellen Klages
“Nobody did.” Jack shifted the Camel to the side of her mouth and took a step forward.
Jonesy put a hand on Jack’s sleeve. “Let it be.”
Jack shook her off and took a second step toward the couple.
The man put his arm out. “Keep away from my wife.”
“No problem, pal.” Jack ground the cigarette out with the toe of one black brogan. “Bony-ass gal,” she said, not quite under her breath.
“Ah, for crissakes, Jack,” Jonesy pleaded. “Shut your trap.” Jack had a temper when she was drunk, and from the looks of it, she was a couple of sheets to the wind already.
Too late.
“Why, you!” The man drew his arm back for a punch; Jack stepped around it, sending a quick right jab to the gut that dropped him like a sack of potatoes.
Sue Ann screamed and bent to one knee. “Bill? Bill, honey?”
At the sound of the scream, three things happened. The bartender flicked the switch under the bar, flashing the lights inside once, warning of the possibility of trouble. A siren sounded a block away. And Jonesy disappeared into the alley that led to the steps up Telegraph Hill.
Jack finished her drink. A black sedan pulled up at the curb. Sergeant Dan Reynolds, a ruddy plainclothes vice cop in his early forties, lumbered out of the car. He tipped his hat back on his head and put his hands on his hips. “You okay, sir?” he asked Bill, who was sitting up again.
“I certainly ain’t. That—freak—made a pass at my Sue Ann.” He glared at Jack, who leaned against the wall, her arms crossed.
Reynolds shook his head. “Jack, Jack, Jack. Now, why would you want to do that?”
“I didn’t.”
Bill sputtered. “Bet’cher ass she did. Then she hauled off and slugged me.”
Reynolds looked at Jack.
“He swung first,” she said.
“Sure he did.” Reynolds took a small notebook out of the pocket of his brown suit. “You want to press charges, sir?”
“Bet’cher ass I do. There oughta be a law against her kind.”
“There is.” Reynolds flipped the notebook open, licking the end of his pencil. “Name?”
“William Mast—” Bill hesitated. “Hey, listen. No one else gotta know about this, right?”
“You file charges, it’s a matter of public record, sir.” The pencil hovered over the paper. “The boys who cover the crime beat for the morning papers check every night.”
“The papers?” Sue Ann’s eyes went wide. “Bill, we don’t—”
Bill stood up and dusted himself off. “I’m in insurance. Back home. If my good name got dragged through the mud with—” He let the worlds hang in the air and looked at his wife. “Maybe we oughta go back to the hotel?”
“You want to get a punch in first, sir?” Reynolds asked. “I’ll hold on to her.”
Jack barked a laugh. “The hell you will.”
Bill raised both hands and clenched them into fists.
“Bill, you can’t hit a girl!” Sue Ann cried.
He turned toward Jack, glaring as if he could shoot bullets out of his eyes, then let his hands drop. “You’re right,” he said with a sigh. “Let’s go, Sue Ann.”
“Suit yourself.” Reynolds slipped the notebook back into his pocket. Jack stepped toward the door of the club.
“Not so fast.” Reynolds turned, fast for a big guy, and pushed Jack up against the wall before she could move. He hip-checked her, pinning her, then groped her shirt front with both hands, squeezing, hard, a smile on his face. “Tied down again, huh? No brassiere, that’s one.”
Jack clenched her jaw and said nothing. They’d done this dance before, and it was no good hitting a cop. That could get you six months, and last time she’d gone to lockup she’d come out with a black eye and a couple of loose teeth. “Come on, Reynolds,” she said in a voice as calm as she could manage. “I got another set to play.”
“Don’t think so. You’ve got men’s shoes on and I’m in a betting mood tonight, going for the trifecta.” He barred one arm across her chest and swiftly thrust his other hand into her trousers. He pulled up the edge of a wide elastic band. “Well, whad’ya know? BVDs. Too bad you got nothing to put in them—eh, Jacqueline.”
“Bastard,” Jack said. Her mouth was wet from the drinks and the word flew out in anger. A gobbet of spit landed on Reynolds’s tie. “Oh, shit. That was just an—”
“An assault on an officer? Yes, it was.” He let her briefs snap back and reached for his cuffs. “You just made my night, sweetheart.”
He led her to the sedan, pushing her onto the cracked leather of the back seat, and got into the front. “O’Shea’s on night shift. He’s going to have lots of fun with you,” he said through the grill. Siren off, he did a U-turn and drove off toward Portsmouth Square and the Hall of Justice.
Inside, the bartender flipped the lights back off. If there’d been more cops—a raid—she would have flashed them again, so Mona could open the back door to the alley. But not tonight. Tonight it was just Big Jack, drunk and unlucky again. She sighed. “Ah, Jack. You failed the three-garment test with a perfect zero, not a single piece of women’s clothing on you.”
A girl in a skirt and sweater reached for her beer and looked puzzled. “Huh?”
“The law says women can’t dress like men. If the cops check, and you’re wearing three bits of ladies’ duds, you’re in the clear.”
Haskel ran a hand down her own clothes. Pants and a shirt, but their labels would distinguish them: women’s slacks, a woman’s blouse. And her pendant, if jewelry counted.
“It’s easy enough to get around,” another woman said. Her hair was short and she wore a suit and tie, but pointed to her feet. “Black flats. That’s one. And there’s a little frill on my undies, top and bottom. No one sees that unless they’re invited.” She shook her head. “Jack’s too proud.”
“Jack was too drunk.” The bartender squeezed a lime into a drink. “Reynolds wouldn’t have come round if there hadn’t been a fight.”
“What fight?” A brunette in a cocktail dress asked. “I saw the lights flash.”
“Jack and a tourist, Gloria.”
“That’s a shame. She was on fire tonight.”
“Yep, she was.” The bartender smiled at Haskel. “Another round?”
“No thanks. I’m going home.” She lit a smoke as she headed out the door, then stopped, Viceroy in hand, when she saw Spike on the sidewalk, hands in her pockets, staring at her feet. Schoolgirl saddle shoes, Haskel noticed, her artist’s eye filing away the detail. Everyone else had gone back inside.
“Reynolds got Jack,” Spike said softly.
“I saw.”
“She’s in jail tonight. I don’t know where I’m going to go.”
“Why’s that?”
“We share a flat, and I can’t go home.” Speaking, the deep honeyed voice was gone, replaced with that New England drawl, now without a trace of arrogance or bravado.
“I don’t follow. Jack won’t be there.”
“No, but sweet little Nancy will. Jack’s new girlfriend. She earns her keep—how shall I put it?—entertaining gentlemen for cash. She’ll be at it all night trying to make Jack’s bail,” Spike said with a sigh. “And Reynolds knows it. He’ll be round with his goons about 3 a.m., and that’s a party I’d rather miss.”
“What will you do?”
“Sleep here, I guess. Mona’s a good egg. She’s used to waifs and strays, keeps a cot in back. I think it’s left over from the Great War.”
“Sounds uncomfortable.”
“So I’ve heard. But it’s either that or throw myself on the mercy of the mission, and I’m afraid I have no desire to be saved.”
Haskel was quiet. She had a neat and ordered life and liked it that way. She hadn’t thought much of this girl, at Franny’s. But now she looked like a lost pup, and Haskel couldn’t remember the last time anyone had moved her to tears. That song. That voice. She lit another cigarette off the glowing
end of the first and came to a decision. “Do you snore?”
“Not that I’ve been told.”
“I’m an early riser. I like to paint in the morning light.”
“I can tiptoe like a lamb in slippers.”
It was an odd negotiation. Neither said much, but each heard what she needed.
“I’ve got a studio in the Monkey Block, top floor. The couch folds out.”
“Won’t your husband mind?”
“He’s at sea. I haven’t seen him in a while.” It had been almost four years, and Len had shipped out on a freighter one step ahead of the cops, but she didn’t feel obliged to share those details.
“Oh.” Spike looked startled. “Well, then. Sure.” She glanced in at the clock over the bar. “Intermission’s over. I’ll find Bev, see if she can cover the piano for my last set.” She turned down the alley to the stage door, then stopped. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Haskel watched her go. What had she gotten herself into? Nothing. She was just a Good Samaritan. And that prickle at the back of her neck, the kind she hadn’t felt in—ages? Just a chill from the ice in her drinks. That was all. She took one last drag on her cigarette, tossing it to the curb, and went back into Mona’s.
“Bourbon. Rocks,” she said to the bartender.
“I thought you’d gone home.” She poured the jigger into a glass.
“I did, too. But I seem to have acquired a houseguest, so I’ll stay for another round.” She put some coins on the counter. “You see, I only have the one key.” She headed back for the second show.
Secret City
Emily woke in a room with robin’s-egg–blue walls, light streaming through a slanted glass ceiling. She yawned and stretched, turned over, and stared into the face of a hideous ebony fiend, its red tongue lolling from a mouth full of jagged, discolored teeth. Its crimson eyes bulged.
She gave a little shriek and sat bolt upright as her brain began to tick over, like an engine starting on a cold morning. Haskel’s studio. The pull-out sofa. Bracing herself, she looked again. It was a monster, all right, but a painted one, lying propped on the drafting table a few feet from where she lay.
When her breathing slowed again, she called out, “Haskel?” No answer.
She slid out from under the blanket, stood, and immediately had to pee. The toilet was down the hall. All she wore was her white shirt and panties. Her trousers were bunched at the end of the bed, stiff formal serge that required buttoning and fastening and the untangling of suspenders. Not a pair she could simply slip on.
“Haskel?” Nothing. She padded barefoot into the other room, where there was a neatly made bed, a wardrobe, and a bureau. Hanging from a hook on the wall was a tartan bathrobe. She reached for it, stopped. The night before, after the couch had been unfolded, they had exchanged formal, awkward goodnights, in the way of strangers who’ve come together by circumstance more than choice, and each gone to sleep.
Borrowing a bathrobe felt like an unwarranted invasion of Haskel’s privacy, a liberty Emily was in no way entitled to. Perhaps it was even the mysterious husband’s robe, which would be a different, more unsettling intrusion. But her bladder was more insistent than her sense of etiquette, and she put the robe on, belting it loosely.
Emily was five-foot-eight, a tall girl. This robe’s sleeves drooped over her wrists and the hem nearly brushed her ankles. She felt as if she were a child, playing dress-up in Daddy’s wardrobe again.
She was, however, decent, and went down the hall to the lavatory, returning a few minutes later, much relieved. Still no sign of Haskel. Emily walked to the drafting table and stood over the painting, done not in oils or watercolors, as she expected, but in pastel chalks, a dozen of which lay in a wooden tray.
For all its gruesomeness, it was beautifully executed—the colors vivid, the composition balanced, drawing her eye to both the horrific face framed in an open window and the rough, pencil-sketched form of a girl in the bed below.
“You intrigue me, Haskel,” she said aloud, as her stomach rumbled. Breakfast? She found a percolator, pushed the sleeves of the robe up to her elbows, and filled the coffeepot at the wide, stained sink. She set it on a hot plate, the metal housing spotted with bits of paint and what looked like glue. She was on the hunt for a can of coffee when the door to the hall opened.
“You’re up,” Haskel said. She had two paper sacks in the crook of one arm. “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”
Emily looked down at the robe. “The toilet’s down the hall, and I had a rather urgent—” She stopped, feeling herself blush with the effrontery of it. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not too much. It adds to your rescued waif-and-stray look.” She held up one of the bags. “If you were trying to make coffee, you’ll need this. I was out, and Graffeo’s roasts theirs fresh every day.” She set it down next to the carafe. “It’s spoiled me for Maxwell House, I’m afraid.”
“Smells heavenly,” Emily said. She scooped the dark oil-slick grounds into the filter and turned on the hot plate. “What’s in the white one?”
“Raspberry rings, from that little bakery on Columbus. I indulge myself whenever I sell a painting.”
“You sold one this morning?”
“Well, not yet.” Haskel smiled. “I don’t entertain often, but even I know that a proper hostess needs to offer something in the way of breakfast.”
“Even to waifs and strays?”
“Especially them.” She ripped open the bakery bag and made it into a makeshift platter for the rings—two flat plaited wreaths of flaky pastry, as big as saucers, with ribbons of red jam woven through them like streamers on a maypole. Each confection glistened with icing sugar. “Sleep all right?”
“Much better than on Mona’s army cot,” Emily said. “Although I did have a bit of a fright, seeing that first thing.”
“‘The Gargoyle’s Kiss.’ Cover art for Weird Menace. Assuming I get it finished, you’ll see it again on the newsstands in two months.”
“Can’t wait.” Emily eyed a raspberry ring but heard her mother’s voice—now darling, it’s the hostess who offers food—and didn’t reach for it. Her stomach rumbled again. She never ate much before a show, and yesterday afternoon’s egg salad was a distant memory. She looked back at the painting. “You’ve got real talent, you know. Why do you paint such hideous things?”
“They pay the rent.” Haskel cocked her head. “Why do you sing at Mona’s—Spike?”
“Touché.” She leaned against the edge of the table, rolling and tucking the sleeves of the robe, hoping they’d stay put. “I’m an odd duck, I suppose. Always have been. Unsuited for any respectable job.”
“We have that in common. I wouldn’t last ten minutes as a secretary.” Haskel blew into two china mugs and, when nothing flew out, poured coffee into each.
“Nor I.” She took the proffered mug. “Imagine doing that, day after day?”
“I can’t. I’ve always worked on my own schedule, and dressed as I choose.” She picked up one of the raspberry rings and nudged the paper in Emily’s direction. “Breakfast is served.”
There was nowhere to sit except the edge of the bed, and Emily didn’t want to be the sort of guest who leaves crumbs in the sheets. She took the pastry and perched on a windowsill, one leg on the floor, the other bent in front of her.
“Is all your work for—?”
“The pulps? It is now. It’s steady. I do covers for three different titles—and the new one you saw at Franny’s—Diabolical Dr. Wu Yang. White slavery, Oriental fiends in opium dens, that sort of thing.” She bit into her ring; a flaky shower of crumbs as delicate as snowflakes fluttered to the tabletop. “Don’t know how long it will last, but ninety bucks a cover is nothing to sneeze at.”
“Ninety!” Emily’s leg dropped to the floor with a thump. “Ye gods and little fishes. Even sharing tips, I’m lucky to clear fifteen a week.” She turned and stared at the monster with a look of awe and respect. “How fast do you
work?”
“I can do two a month, if I get the assignments. There are a couple other artists vying for the same titles.” She finished one last bite and reached for her cigarettes. “The fat months cover the lean. You know how that is.”
“Do I ever. Before the fair opened again in May, Mona’s was half empty. No tips, no groceries. Barely covered the rent. I’m trying to sock away as much as I can before the lean and hungry autumn.”
“I thought you came from money.”
“I did. Before I was thrown from the nest and cut out of the will.”
“Black sheep?”
“Baaa,” Emily mumbled through a mouthful of pastry.
“You trained to be a singer?”
“No, an English major. I thought I’d write for the New Yorker for a year, then produce a slim volume of jewel-like short stories.” Emily put a dramatic hand to her forehead and saw Haskel barely suppress a laugh. “I know. One of those. Alas, ninety bucks does not fine literature pay.”
“So how did you end up—?”
“Girls’ school. Chapel and lots of jolly singing. Amateur theatricals, too. With my register, I got all the boys’ parts. Turns out I can carry a tune.”
“I’ll say.” Haskel ground out her smoke in an ashtray. “You were head and shoulders above the others last night.”
“Aw, shucks, now.” Emily felt herself starting to blush again, the ginger curse, and bent to examine a last bit of raspberry with the care a lepidopterist would give to a new species.
“Haskel!” a voice called from the hall door. “Open up. I have fish heads.”
“Most buildings only have the milk delivered,” Emily said.
“I don’t have an icebox.” Haskel put down her mug and headed for the door. “Besides, I take my coffee black.”
Standing in the hall, holding a stained, newspaper-wrapped bundle dripping from one corner, was Helen Young. “Sorry,” she said. “I tried to cover them, but they—” she stopped in midsentence when she saw Emily, barefoot and bathrobed, perched on the windowsill. “Well, well, well.”
Both other women shook their heads. “It’s not what you think,” they said at the same time, then looked at each other.