by Ellen Klages
“Thanks. So maybe a couple of rubes go home believing a girl like me can do more than cook noodles and washee-washee laundry.” She made a face. “Are Charlie’s jokes funny? No. But I get paid to dance and Dottie gets to sing. Unless it was some bullshit ching-chong sing-song, dressed up like little fragile dolls, no place else would hire us.”
“Like Jack at Mona’s,” Emily said.
“Pretty much. All of us are fantasies to them. Sexy and exotic.” She laughed. “Hah. Exotic Coos Bay. That why I speekee pretty good English, you bet!” She drained her drink. “What the hell, it pays the bills.” The house lights blinked on and off. “Time for act two. I need to go change.”
Emily looked around. “Where’s the dressing room? We didn’t see any performers on the way in.”
“You wouldn’t. It’s up the stairs from the alley, out back.” She stood, waved to another girl, and disappeared down a hallway behind the bandstand.
The second show was similar, but not identical, to the first. Acrobats replaced the magician, Charlie made different “yellow” jokes, and the Chinese Ethel Merman belted out “Anything Goes.” Helen and Eddie jitterbugged to Benny Goodman’s “Stompin’ at the Savoy,” and nearly brought down the house.
Haskel and Emily danced during the next interval. “How ’bout we stay here forever, just like this?” Emily murmured into Haskel’s neck.
“I’d rather go home and find out what’s under that starched shirt of yours.”
“Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“I’d like to see it again. Besides, you don’t need anything more to drink.”
“’Tis true.” When the song ended, she took Haskel’s hand. “Let us weave our way homeward.”
Out in the lobby, a line of people waited to get in for the late show. They squeezed by and went downstairs.
“Did you have a pleasant evening, sir?” the doorman asked.
“Extremely.” Emily tipped a finger to her temple in what she hoped was a posh salute.
A dozen people stood on the sidewalk, waiting for their rides or trying to flag a taxi on the busy one-way street. “Friday night, Grant’s going to be a circus,” Haskel said. “Let’s go up Stockton and walk through the tunnel.”
They’d gone about thirty feet when, out of the shadows of a shuttered storefront, stepped a man in sailor’s blues, his round cap low on his forehead, his left cheek striped with three raised welts.
“I knew there was another guy,” he shouted. “You lyin’ bitch!”
“Len!” Haskel’s voice cracked in surprise. “What are—?”
“Followed from your place. But the Chink in the monkey suit wouldn’t let me in the damn door.” He took a swig from the neck of a bottle protruding from a paper bag wadded in his fist. His voice was loud enough that two people in front of the nightclub turned to see what the commotion was.
Emily took Haskel’s arm. “Let’s go back. We’ll get a cab.”
“No you don’. You’re not going anywhere with my wife.” He reached for Haskel’s other arm.
She pulled away toward the building behind her.
Without thinking, Emily stepped between them. She lowered the timbre of her voice and growled, “Stay away from her.”
“Yeah? You gonna make me, rich boy?” Len put his fists in the air, pistoning them back and forth like a cartoon boxer.
Emily raised her own hands. She didn’t want to fight, but she’d scrapped with boys before and knew how to defend herself. At least she used to.
Len swung, a big roundhouse that barely grazed her sleeve. He spun halfway around with the momentum, and dropped the paper bag. It hit the cement with a wet pop!
“Now see whad’ya made me do!” he yelled. He turned, his eyes wild, and swung again. Emily pivoted, taking most of the weak blow on her shoulder, and caught his wrist. She thrust him away using his arm as leverage.
Len stumbled backward. His foot hit the edge of the curb and twisted under him. Arms flailing, unable to regain his balance, he fell into the street. A Yellow Cab, its light off, barreled west down Sutter. Brakes squealed, too late. It clipped Len in mid-tumble.
He flew over the taxi’s hood and landed on the asphalt. He lay sprawled, still. A red stain began to spread across his white cap.
Time stopped.
Emily and Haskel stood on the sidewalk in shock.
Two buildings over, the crowd began to react.
A woman screamed.
“That young guy hit him. Knocked him right into the street,” said a man.
The doorman blew his whistle, three sharp bursts.
“Len.” Haskel stared, her hand to her mouth.
“I didn’t—” Emily started.
“I know.” Haskel’s face was pale. She looked into the street, closed her eyes. Then she took a deep breath. “Go find Helen. Change back into a girl, fast.”
“I can’t just leave you—”
“I’m his wife. The cops will find me. It’s better if I wait here.” Haskel pointed in the direction of Stockton Street, away from the nightclub entrance. “Go. Now. Before the cops get here.”
“I’ve got three garments on.”
“It won’t be vice that’s coming, Em. If they get a hold of you—” She shuddered. “You know how they treated Big Jack.”
“Yes. Okay.” Emily began to walk. She looked back over her shoulder. “Where do I—?”
“Franny’s. I’ll come when I can. Just go.”
Peeling off the mustache, Emily continued to the corner. She moved slowly, as naturally as she could. She wanted to break into a run. She wanted to go back and put her arms around Haskel and never let go. She wanted to turn the clock back a hour, so none of this ever happened. Instead she strolled to the mouth of the alley. It was dark except for a pool of light spilling down from an open door on the second floor, where a young Chinese man lounged in his trousers and undershirt, smoking.
Emily climbed the stairs. “Helen Young? It’s an emergency.”
He looked her up and down, then stepped aside to let her in. “She’s dressing,” he said. “I’ll get her.”
Helen appeared a minute later in a thin robe. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything. Haskel’s—” Emily trembled as she gave her the short version. “The cops will be looking for a man in tails. I need to ditch this suit and borrow other clothes.”
“Come with me.” Helen took her back to the women’s dressing room, raising a few eyebrows from the chorus girls who were changing for their last number. “Auditions at Mona’s,” Helen explained. That got two nods, a smile, and a wink.
Helen’s clothes were too small; a taller girl named Patsy loaned her a dress. “I’ll walk home in my costume,” she said. “It’s only four blocks.”
Ten minutes later, Emily stood in front of the mirror, goggling at herself. She wore a green dress with a pleated skirt, a beige cardigan, and a string of pearls. Helen had used makeup to age her a few years, applied lipstick in a subtle shade of red, and toweled the Vaseline out of her hair, fluffing it to give her a soft halo of curls. She added a brown hat with a pale gold feather. “There. You could walk into a tea room in Pacific Heights and no one would look twice. No one will recognize you.”
“Including me,” Emily said. Only the shoes were her own.
She looked nothing like the young man who had fought with Len.
She looked nothing like Spike.
What was unsettling was that she didn’t look like Emily, either.
A girl who dressed as a boy, disguised as a woman.
“Breathe,” Helen said. “I’ll hang up your suit with the men’s costumes.” She patted Emily’s shoulder. “I’m done for the night. I’ll put on my street clothes and go wait with Haskel. If it’s as bad as you think, this could take all night, and it wouldn’t hurt for her lawyer to be present.”
“Thanks,” Emily said. Her voice was barely audible. She was numb, as if this was all a bad dream. Nothing felt real.
“Edd
ie’ll walk you over to the St. Francis. There’ll be people around, and you can catch the Powell-Hyde cable car. Get off at Green. It’s only a couple of blocks to Franny’s. I’ll phone from here, let them know you’re coming.”
“Glad someone can still think,” Emily stood and hugged Helen. “Thank you.”
“People like us, we help each other.” She walked her to the back stairs.
Eddie took her arm as if she were his date, and escorted her down the alley. They took Post Street over to Union Square, and stood across from the elegant entrance to the St. Francis Hotel until the cable car arrived. Emily got on, paid her fare, and watched behind her as the car climbed slowly up the steep grade of Nob Hill, its bell clanging, and the rest of the world disappeared into the fog.
Tundérpör
Haskel called from a pay phone a little before ten the next morning. Franny answered. Yes, Haskel said, they’d questioned her all night, first a beat cop on the curb, then a pair of homicide detectives down at the station. Too many witnesses willing to swear it wasn’t an accident. “Let me talk to Em.”
“Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m tired. They let me go half an hour ago.”
“What did you tell them about—”
“The other fellow? As little as I could.” Haskel’s voice was hoarse and she was exhausted. She lit a cigarette, exhaled. “That he’d asked me to dance and we struck up a conversation. He lived somewhere down the peninsula. I didn’t get his name. He was a gentleman, walked me out to hail a cab when—” Long pause. “Cops didn’t like that at all—a married woman picking up a man at a nightclub.”
“I’m so sorry,” Emily said. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Defended yourself? And me? Look, Len didn’t deserve what happened, but he did swing first. The rest was a stupid, goddamn accident. No one to blame.” There was a long pause, static crackling on the line. Haskel imagined Emily’s face, her hands white-knuckled around the black receiver. “I love you,” she said. She never thought she’d say that again. Hell of a time.
“Me too,” Emily whispered. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“No, stay put. Two of the witnesses were sober enough to give decent descriptions of the young guy who threw the punch. There’ll be a sketch in the afternoon papers.”
“I want to see you.”
“Tonight, I’ll want that more than anything, but right now I need a stiff drink or two and some sleep. I’ll call when I can think straight.”
“After I get off work, then.”
“Mona’s,” Haskel said. “Damn, damn, damn.” She blew a cloud of smoke, filling the inside of the phone booth.
“What?”
“The papers. If the sketch is any good—”
“—someone might recognize Spike, and the jig’ll be up.” Emily sighed, deep and long. “Alright. I’ll call Mona from here. Laryngitis. Always a good excuse for a singer. Might be a few days, the doctor says.”
“Good thinking. By then this’ll be yesterday’s news.”
Emily hung up the phone, but before she could dial Mona’s number, there was a knock downstairs.
“It’s like Grand Central Station,” Babs said. She went down to see who it was, and came up a minute later with Helen. The dancer’s face was pale, dark circles under her eyes. She slumped onto the couch.
“Coffee?” Franny asked. “Something stronger?”
“Both,” Helen said. “There’s a problem.”
“Christ, now what?” Franny poured a cup of coffee and added a jigger of brandy.
“The cops might have a link between Mona’s and the ‘young man’ Haskel was with.” She frowned. “Imagine the headlines. Deviant Wanted in Sailor’s Death. That’d sell some papers.”
“How? Oh—” Emily snapped her fingers. “The dressing room.”
Helen nodded. “One of the girls told Charlie Low. I don’t know if he passed it on to the cops, but we’ve got to assume they’ll be watching both clubs.”
“Shit,” Franny said.
“On a shingle.”
Emily walked over to the window and stared out at the bay, the same deep blue as the sky, today. She watched a ship steaming toward one of the piers, its wake a frothy white, and made a decision.
“I can’t let Mona or Mickey or the other girls get hurt.” She turned. “Can I use the phone?”
Mona wouldn’t be at the club yet, not this early. Emily dialed her at home. “Mona? It’s Spike. Sorry for no notice, but it’s my sister in Los Angeles. Her baby’s coming—a month early. Uh-huh.” She listened, drumming her fingers, then responded. “No, I’m at the train station now. I’ll be gone a week, maybe two.” More drumming. “Really? Gladys Bentley’s singing there? Sure. I’ll try.” She nodded. “Thanks. You’re a peach.” She hung up the phone.
“That will buy you some time,” Franny said.
“And throw the cops off the scent. If anyone at Mona’s recognizes you from the papers, they’ll say you’re down south.” Helen drained her coffee and held out the cup for a refill.
The phone was silent for a few hours. When it rang, late that afternoon, Babs got up from the kitchen table, where the five of them sat around a plate of crackers and cheese and Italian salami, barely nibbling.
“Haskel’s awake,” she said to Emily. “She’d like us to send you home.” She returned to the table. “Besides us, who knows you’re staying there?”
“No one. I use the club as my address, and as far as the other girls know, I’m still rooming at Big Jack’s.”
“Good.” She cut a slice of Gouda. “The papers will be on every newsstand by now. We need to get you into the studio without being seen.” She looked over at Franny and raised an eyebrow in question.
“I prepared one yesterday,” Franny said. “Fortunately it was foggy last night.”
“Prepared what?” Polly asked.
“A temporary short cut.”
“Franny’s a—” Helen groped for an acceptable word, failed. “Apologies. My brain’s a bit fogged with lack of sleep.” She shrugged. “—A sort of witch.”
“Hrumph. I am a woman of exceptional abilities.”
Polly frowned. “You’re all pulling my leg.”
“Not at all, child. There are—powers—that run in our family. It is—” She stopped and shook her head. “It is a conversation you and I will have to have in some depth, but not right now.”
She went over to a shelf and picked up a small red paper bird, folded in sharp angles, handing it to Emily. “The short cut. Just before you get to the end of the lane, pull the wings gently outward.” She circled each thumb and index finger and mimed. “When you’re safely inside the studio, burn it and blow the ash out the window.”
“Right,” said Emily. “Thank you.” She stifled a smile. Franny and her hocus-pocus. “You’re good friends,” she added, feeling ungracious, and kissed her on the cheek.
Opening the front door, she stepped out into the shadow of the enormous banyan tree whose branches nearly covered the length of Caligo Lane. She walked two houses west, stopping just short of the street. “Okay. Magic trick, take one,” she said under her breath. She pulled the paper wings and turned the corner.
“Holy Joe! It—” Emily was not on Jones Street, not on Russian Hill at all, but at the intersection of Montgomery and Washington, at the rear door of Haskel’s building, nearly a mile from Franny’s. She walked up the back stairs in disbelief, her heart pounding, gripping the tiny bird with shaking hands.
She knocked on the studio door with an elbow, afraid of letting go of the paper wings.
Haskel opened it, wrapped Emily in a hug. “You look different.”
“You noticed.” She looked down at the pleated dress and cardigan. “I need a match.”
“What?”
“Franny.” She held up the bird. “She really is a—”
“Yes. It’s startling the first time, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say.” Emily lay the tiny sculpt
ure on the windowsill. She lit one edge and watched until it was no more than a pile of gray ash, then blew gently. It drifted out over the courtyard in the warm summer breeze.
They sat on the couch and held each other for what could have been hours—or moments—each murmuring about how glad she was the other was safe. Emily finally stood and stretched, heading for the bedroom. “I need to change into my own clothes.”
Haskel followed. “How about no clothes?”
“That would be even better.”
It was dark when Haskel went out to buy sandwiches and a jug of wine. They picnicked on the floor, filling each other in on the events of the last twenty-four hours.
“You can’t risk being seen. What are you going to do, cooped up here for a week or two?”
Emily thought. “Work on a story, maybe.”
“Will I be in it?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.” She poured more wine. “You?”
“Not sure. Start a new painting, at least make some sketches.”
“Monsters?”
“No. Seeing Len like that put me right off horror. Landscapes. Or nudes.” She smiled. “If only I had a model.”
Late the next morning Haskel went out for raspberry rings and the Sunday Chronicle. The sketch was startlingly accurate, mustache and all, but was buried on page four. Emily read the book reviews and did the acrostic, Haskel critiqued the drawing style of the funnies. They tried to pretend they were an ordinary couple on an ordinary weekend, and nearly succeeded.
The illusion was shattered early Monday afternoon with a knock on the door. Haskel stiffened, and motioned Emily into the other room. “If it’s the cops, hide inside the wardrobe,” she whispered.
It wasn’t. It was Helen. She was in her lawyer suit, holding a briefcase, and her face was grim.
“What’s wrong?” Haskel asked.
“You might want to sit.”
Haskel sat. Emily stood in the bedroom doorway.
“They’re stymied, down at the station, no leads on the mystery man, just crazies calling in. They’ve got plainclothes watching the train station and Greyhound.”
“You said they would.” Haskel lit a cigarette. “How long will they keep it up?”