High Spirits [Spirits 03]

by Alice Duncan

  I truly believe Billy’s new-found interest in improving his health sprang directly from the influence of Spike who, being a dog and not beleaguered by the prejudices we humans have, loved Billy and me uncompromisingly, was never persnickety or depressed, and never looked down on Billy because he was crippled. Or me because I was a medium, God bless the beast.

  What’s more, Spike was a most discerning doggie. He’d actually piddled on Sam Rotondo’s shoe the first time they met. You’ve got to love a dog like that.

  Anyhow, back to the porch where Billy, Spike, and I awaited Harold’s arrival. I was as nervous as a prairie dog in a cage full of rabid coyotes but didn’t dare let my anxiety show. Billy didn’t know where I was going that evening. If I had my way, he never would know, either.

  When Harold pulled up in front of our house, Spike announced his presence with gusto. Billy condescended to allow me to roll his wheelchair down the ramp Pa had built for him so he could admire Harold’s jazzy automobile. Billy was always polite to Harold even though he didn’t like him, and he was wild about motorcars.

  I’d recently purchased for the family’s use a perfectly splendid, closed-in, battery-operated Chevrolet sedan with a self-starter and a driver’s-side door as well as one on the passenger’s side, as a replacement for our old 1909 Model T Ford that had given up the ghost right around Christmas time. We all loved the Chevrolet, but it sure wasn’t a bright-red Stutz Bearcat.

  Before the war, Billy had been primed to become a motorcar mechanic. The automobile industry had become a huge employer countrywide, and mechanics who could work on motorcars were much in demand. Billy had always been fascinated by automobiles and was a crackerjack mechanic. He’d been all set to start work at Hull Motor Works when he came home from the war. Thanks to the Kaiser, my husband’s mechanical skills with automobile engines had become moot. The war had left him with a paltry pension, a ruined body, a generally bad mood, and a beleaguered wife.

  Poor Billy.

  Poor me.

  “Beautiful machine, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “Call me Harold,” Harold said to Billy. He winked at me to let me know he doubted Billy would take him up on the offer.

  I knew my husband, though, and was pleased when Billy proved me right. “Thanks, Harold. I’m Billy, as I’m sure you already know.”

  “Yes, indeed. I hope you don’t mind that I’m in love with your wife, Billy.”

  Billy let that one pass, and I tapped Harold lightly on his shin with the pointy toe of my left shoe. Harold winked at me again. Billy ran his hand over a glossy painted fender. “This is a real beauty, Harold. I used to like working on machines like these.”

  “It’s a whiz to drive.”

  As for me, I wasn’t all that interested in motorcars, although I was pleased that Billy and Harold were talking. That didn’t last long. After Billy had looked his fill at the machine’s outsides and inspected the motor, which enthralled him, he bade me a short farewell and wheeled himself back to the porch, Spike trotting at his wheels.

  Harold opened the passenger’s door and I climbed into the motorcar, hoping my hat wouldn’t fly off. Harold must have anticipated this problem because he presented me with a scarf with which I tied it down.

  “I don’t want to do this, Harold,” I muttered, not sure the words could be heard over the racket the motor was making.

  They must have been because Harold said cheerfully, “Everything will be fine, Daisy.”

  “Hmm.” I was glad I’d worn my black wool coat. Even though the night wasn’t yet cold, the breeze whipped up as the auto sped south on Marengo was chilly. I watched gloomily as lawns and houses seemed to fly by, becoming sparser the farther south we went. Harold turned right on Glenarm Street, then south on Fair Oaks Avenue, and my heart started thumping out a funereal dirge in my chest. I felt as if I were headed to my own execution—and not your quick beheading, either, but a slow, painful death by torture.

  The winter night, while moderately mild, was black as the pit from pole to pole. The electrical streetlights ended approximately a mile north of where Harold finally parked the Bearcat. I saw nothing but trees when he and I set out to cross Fair Oaks Avenue, unpaved since this part of the street was well south of Pasadena’s city limit. I think it was close to Cawston’s Ostrich Farm because I detected the faint aroma of poultry in the air. Actually, it was more of a stench.

  The new moon grinned at us. Stars twinkled innocently down from the heavens. Innocence sounded like a good idea to me, but it was too late. I think I must have groaned.

  “Don’t be frightened, Daisy. This will be fun.”

  Harold was all set to enjoy himself, at any rate. As for me, I had grave doubts about the evening’s agenda. For one thing, I lied to Billy, and I hated doing that. But if you think my husband would have countenanced my visit to a speakeasy, even to do something as blameless as conduct a séance, you don’t know my Billy. Well, of course you don’t, but ... Oh, you know what I mean.

  I muttered, “Sez you.”

  “I’ve always wanted to visit a speak,” Harold went on, his relatively high-pitched voice even squeakier than usual due to his state of excitement. “Del won’t go to one with me, even though I have the passwords to a dozen of them in Los Angeles. He’s very religious, you know.”

  Del was Delroy Farrington, Harold’s boyfriend.

  That sounds odd. Perhaps I’d better explain. You see, Harold and Del were what my husband and Sam Rotondo called “faggots.” I called them friends.

  They were both perfect gentlemen: kind hearted, generous, well behaved, and well dressed—and Del even had a religious streak. Both were employed at high-paying jobs (Harold worked in the moving pictures, and Del and another gentleman had saved the Kincaid bank when Harold’s father ran off with a pile of bearer bonds). Both men had exquisite taste in home decoration.

  But did Billy and Sam ever mention those pertinent facts? Facts that would, if they didn’t know about the one little eccentricity Harold and Del shared, have lifted the two men out of the realm of masculine mediocrity and to the heights of respectability and praiseworthiness?

  Of course not. Men are like that. One little thing reduces two exemplary fellows to the status of freaks in a sideshow.

  Okay, so maybe it’s not exactly a little thing to prefer people of one’s own sex to those of the opposite one, but golly, I thought Harold and Del were both swell, and Harold had saved my own personal hide more than once. I resented it that Sam and Billy overlooked all of their sterling qualities and concentrated on that one blot, if it can be called a blot, on their characters.

  But that’s neither here nor there. Harold had agreed to go with me to the speakeasy, a condescension I truly appreciated. In spite of that, I was scared to death.

  Not only had I lied to Billy, but I was going to work for a bunch of vicious criminals, one of whose progenitors had been murdered. My imagination, which is sometimes too vivid for my own good, had already created hundreds of scenarios for the evening. They all ended with me lying dead in a pool of gore, the victim either of gangs of rival bootleggers or overzealous policemen.

  Perhaps I hadn’t really lied to Billy. I’d told him I was going to do a job for Mrs. Kincaid, which was the absolute truth. But I’d committed a sin of omission at the very least, and the criminal part still held true. If Billy had known what I’d intended to do that evening, he’d have pitched a fit. And I wouldn’t have blamed him.

  I dug in my heels. “Harold, I don’t want to do this. I’m scared. I don’t care what you say. This is an awful place, it’s run by a bunch of murdering hoodlums, and we could get arrested. Or even shot.” I squinted across the expanse of dirt road at what looked like a large bunch of trees, probably sycamores since there were a lot of them down that way, although it was too dark to tell for sure. “Besides, I can’t even see it. Maybe it’s not there after all. Maybe they moved it.” That was an almost-comforting thought, and it lasted approximately five seconds, until Harold spoke ag
ain.

  “It’s there. You’re not supposed to see it, sweetie. It’s illegal. They try to hide them.” He tugged on my arm, but I didn’t move.

  “Oh, Lord, Harold, I don’t want to do this!”

  “You’re such a pessimist, Daisy. Can’t you look upon it as an exciting new experience?” Harold laughed merrily.

  I didn’t. “No. I almost wish there was another spiritualist medium in Pasadena. Maybe your mother would have hired her to do this instead of me.”

  “No she wouldn’t. You’re the top of the line when it comes to spiritualists, my dear, and Mother would never hire another one. You’re the epitome. Top of the trees. A mistress of your art. Why, even your name is perfect. Desdemona Majesty.”

  I rolled my eyes and said, “Huh.”

  “Nonsense. You’re brilliant at your line of work, Daisy!”

  “Yeah, you’ve said that before.” I know I sounded grouchy. I felt grouchy. “But I don’t like breaking the law, whatever I am. Especially for your sister’s sake.”

  “It’s not for Stacy’s sake, sweetie. I don’t like her any better than you do, but I do love my mother, and the poor dear is worried sick about Stacy.”

  “I know, I know.” What I wished was that someone would drive a stake through Stacy’s heart and rid the world of a blight. Sure, her daughter’s death would make Mrs. Kincaid sad for a while, but ultimately I’m sure we’d all be better off. Problems are seldom solved so handily, however, and I didn’t expect Fate to stick an oar in and help me out with Stacy. Fate wasn’t exactly my bosom pal. Nevertheless, I gave in and resumed walking.

  My persona couldn’t be faulted, considering I was a soon-to-be felon—unless it was a misdemeanor to frequent speaks. I was dressed in a dark green silk suit that I’d made for Christmas. It had satin edging around the collar and a low waist with a satin belt that tied on the side at my hip. It complemented my dark red hair and was gorgeous, and I usually felt good when I had it on. I’d decided to wear it that evening, knowing I’d need all the help I could get in the feeling-good department. The dress wasn’t working.

  “Well,” Harold said, continuing our conversation as we walked through a sycamore grove (they were sycamores) in the dark, “at least you won’t have to do this more than once.”

  “Sez you,” I retorted crossly. Not only was I stumbling over roots and leaves and things, and probably snagging my best pair of black silk stockings—thanks to the rum-running gangsters’ need for privacy—but I had no faith whatever that Mrs. Kincaid would let me off the hook after only one séance. I did, however, have infinite faith in her daughter’s ability to thwart anyone who attempted to help her. Therefore, I feared Mrs. Kincaid’s entreaties that I appear at the speakeasy were destined to continue. The notion filled me with a sensation I still find difficult to describe. Dread and terror come close, with a liberal dose of resentment thrown in. “Where the heck is this place, anyhow?”

  “It’s in this grove. An old ranch house, I understand.”

  “I don’t like breaking the law, Harold.”

  He laughed. Big help. Suddenly I saw, tucked away among some trees, a faint light shining from a lamp mounted on the pillar of a porch attached to what looked like a barricaded building.

  It turned out to be an old ranch house, just as Harold had predicted. Its windows had been boarded up, and the porch looked rickety. I’d have been willing to turn tail and run away and tell Mrs. Kincaid that Jinx and his cronies must have moved quarters, but Harold remained undeterred. Retreat probably wouldn’t have worked anyhow since Stacy would have pointed out my mistake. I supposed it was as well to get it over with tonight; surely I’d be able to think of an excuse to get out of coming here again.

  As if he’d done this before, Harold led me along a path through a jungle of weeds and to a back porch that looked to be in an even sorrier state of disrepair than the front one. He tripped agilely up the scarred wooden stairs and rapped on the door as if he belonged there. I followed in his wake, looking over my shoulder, expecting to see uniformed coppers following us with their guns drawn.

  No such luck. I heard something that sounded like a bolt being lifted, and a gimlet eye appeared at a small hole in the door. A gruff voice said, “Yeah?”

  Harold whispered, “Oh, you kid.”

  The eye disappeared, and the door opened. My heart was heavy when I trailed after Harold into the house.

  Golly, what a difference between the outside and the inside! I’m not sure what I expected, maybe a continuation of the shabbiness exhibited by the exterior of the place. Instead, I stepped into what looked like a bordello designed by a color-blind seventeenth-century French courtesan. Not that I know what that would look like, but it’s the closest I can come to describing my impression of the place.

  Red-and-black flocked paper covered the walls. Plush red carpeting had been laid upon the floor beneath our feet. The decor was undoubtedly meant to impart the impression of opulence, but it gave me a queasy feeling in my tummy (although that might have been a result of my state of trepidation). Crystal chandeliers with dangly ornaments were supposed to shed light on all below, but the cigar and cigarette smoke was so thick, everything looked merely fuzzy. A jazz band blared away in the main room, which lay straight ahead of us. I remember my footsteps dragging; I didn’t want to go forward.

  Harold grabbed my hand and yanked, and I had no choice. “Come along, dearie. Let’s see what my sister finds so fascinating about this place and these people.”

  I’d never before wanted to do anything Stacy Kincaid did, so Harold’s reasoning left me cold. But it was too late to back out now. I’d already committed myself. Nodding, I would have followed Harold, except that the man who’d opened the door to us, a bruiser of a fellow in a yellow-checked suit who must have been nearly seven feet tall and almost as wide, stopped us by the simple expedient of holding out an arm as big around as a tree trunk. We couldn’t move.

  “Hold it a minute.” He sounded as if somebody had sandpapered his vocal chords. “I gotta tell Jinx youse guys is here. Wait a minute.”

  Harold and I exchanged a glance. “Um … sure,” I said.

  The noise was ghastly. While we waited for the monster to deliver his message and return to us, I gazed glumly into the main room. A long bar had been built parallel to the far wall, behind which stood what looked like a battalion of bartenders mixing and shaking and handing out drinks, all of which I presumed contained alcohol. A huge mirror backed the bartenders, reflecting the revelry going forward in the main room. Girls in skimpy outfits, net stockings, and shingled hair walked here and there with trays strapped to their shoulders that were supplied with cigarettes and cigars and matchboxes.

  Leaning close so that I could whisper directly into Harold’s ear, I asked, “Where does it all come from?”

  He shrugged and shouted back. “No sense whispering. Nobody can hear us anyway.”

  He was probably right, but I didn’t want to raise my voice. I was scared, darn it. “Where does all the liquor come from?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Oh.” Since he didn’t seem to know any more than I did about the mysterious world of speakeasies, I let my question ride and stared some more, wondering if any of the scantily clad cigarette sellers were girls I knew from school. None of them looked familiar, and I was glad. I’d be done for if anybody besides Harold and Stacy recognized me.

  Approximately three hundred people swarmed around the place, dancing to the music, laughing, chattering, and screaming. I think they were only screaming because it was the one way they could make themselves heard over the band, which was playing “Honolulu Eyes.” Almost everyone who wasn’t actively dancing held both a drink and a cigarette or a cigar. Most of the ladies (I use the word loosely) used holders for their cigarettes. I guess that was supposed to be sophisticated. I knew for a sinking certainty that I was going to smell like an ashcan when I got home.

  The atmosphere was supposed to be festive, but it appeared only
sordid to me. Maybe that’s my Methodist upbringing talking, but I don’t think so. I doubted that any of those people were truly happy. Then again, neither was I, so I guess I shouldn’t talk.

  Whatever the mood of the attendees, you should have seen their clothes. I’ve never beheld so many beads in my entire life. Or so many rolled stockings and knees, most of which were rouged, I’d bet. In a couple of years, a dance called the Charleston was going to sweep the country, but most of the people in that room were foxtrotting. I think. Whatever dance they were doing, they were doing it with an air of devil-may-care abandon.

  All the band members were dark-skinned and appeared a good deal happier than the people dancing and drinking, although that impression, too, might have been colored by my sense of unease. I surveyed the band in wonder, until I got to one particular face.

  Then I gasped, grabbed Harold’s arm, and cried, “Good heavens, Harold, that’s Jimmy, Mr. Jackson’s son!”

  Squinting into the melee, Harold said, “Who? Where?”

  “That one, playing the trumpet. Over there.” I didn’t want to make any large movements—God alone knows why—so I jerked my chin toward the band.

  “There are five men playing trumpets, Daisy,” Harold pointed out.

  “Maybe, but there’s only one who looks like he’s ten years old.”

  “Oh, yes. I see him now. So he’s Mr. Jackson’s son, is he? Who’s Mr. Jackson?”

  “Who’s Mr. Jackson?” I stopped gaping at the band and gaped at Harold instead. “He’s your mother’s gatekeeper, for heaven’s sake! He’s manned the gate at your mother’s estate for years.”

  “Oh.” Sheepishly, Harold muttered, “I don’t keep close tabs on Mother’s servants.”

  I shook my head. “It’s got to be against the law for a boy that young to be playing the trumpet in a place like this.”

  Harold shrugged. “It’s against the law for all of us to be here, if you want to get picky.”

  I could tell Harold didn’t share my outrage. But Jackson was a friend of mine. He’d instructed me in many aspects of Voodoo and Caribbean spiritualism. I liked Jackson a lot, darn it, and I wondered if he knew about his young son’s career as a trumpet-player in a speakeasy jazz band.