Homeland

by John Jakes

  Fanny befriended Rosie and steered her away from rough or tightfisted customers whenever he recognized them. He listened to Rosie’s plans for herself—a singing career leading to marriage with a wealthy man, age not a factor. As a new and loyal friend, Fanny declared that Rosie was sure to make it.

  By the first week in December, she was already a little restless at the Alhambra. Too many months had gone by with only tips and trips to the mattress in a nearby hotel to show for it. One Wednesday night Rosie came in at her usual time. Outside a snowstorm was brewing. It was a typically boring evening until half past eleven. Then, just as Fanny and his colleagues concluded their specialty dance on the small stage, Rosie heard a commotion at the front door. Serving a crowded table, she craned to see what it was all about.

  Stitch Meyer was effusively greeting a new arrival. A tall, pink-faced fat man with jowls. He wore a beautiful gray overcoat with a black fur collar and carried a shimmering black topper under his arm. Melting snow glistened in his dark hair. He seemed to be recognized by quite a few patrons, whom he hailed as “sport” or “old fellow” in a deep, booming voice.

  Meyer personally escorted the fat man to a choice table. Professor Spark rushed to shake his hand, bowing as if he were royalty. Fanny was at the bar, sipping from a beer stein. Rosie worked her way through the crowd with her serving tray, handed her order slip to the barkeep, then ran down to the end to speak to Fanny.

  “Who’s that swell? Everybody but me knows him.”

  “Everybody south of Forty-second Street,” Fanny agreed in that mellow contralto voice of his. “That’s—”

  But Stitch Meyer took care of it, leaping to the stage, raising his hands for quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Alhambra is honored tonight by the presence of one of its favorite guests. Right down here in front, America’s musical man of the moment—the nonpareil composer and showman—Mr. Paul Dresser. Paul, take a bow.”

  The genial fat man heaved to his feet and waved. A pinky diamond flashed on one hand. His suit and satin cravat with sapphire stickpin were as fine as his overcoat and silk hat. He was wearing a special holiday vest of red satin with green piping and little gold bells sewn on. Rosie’s heart raced at the sight of such elegance. But the man’s name meant nothing. She said as much to Fanny.

  “Aw, come on. Paul Dresser? He wrote the biggest song hit of the year. ‘Just Tell Them That You Saw Me.’ ”

  “Sure, I know that one.” She’d heard it all over Chicago and New York, a tearful ballad presumably sung by a young woman who’d wrecked her life on the rocks of passion. Street organs cranked out the tune. Newsboys whistled it. She’d seen a large souvenir lapel button bearing the title. “Just tell ’em that you saw me” was a catchphrase of the moment.

  “Half a million copies of the sheet music and still selling,” Fanny told her. “I don’t know when Dresser writes them, he’s in bed with a woman most of the time.”

  “What woman?”

  “Any one he fancies. He’s got plenty. I’d get on the list but I’m afraid he’d be disappointed when he pulled down my bloomers.” Rosie laughed. Fanny lit a short thin cigar. “They say he’s had clap, but who knows? If ever there was a man could help you get what you want, it’s Broadway Paul.”

  “Say, Rosie, these ain’t gonna keep till sunrise,” the barkeep yelled. He shoved a tray of drinks to the front of the bar.

  “Be right there, Kippie. Oh, Lord, Fanny—how do I get him to notice me?”

  Fanny had no ready answer. As Rosie rushed to serve her customers, she could hardly keep her eyes off the songwriter, whom she guessed to be around forty. He’d ordered a bottle of the finest house whiskey, and in two minutes she saw him toss off two shots and pour a third. His face grew all the redder.

  “Say, Paul, play us something,” a customer from a nearby table called. People applauded, whistled. The composer affected a shy modesty, shaking his head. The applause grew louder, helped by Professor Spark’s rapping on his upright piano and gesturing to the stool he’d just vacated. Still maintaining that reluctant air Rosie spotted as a complete fake, Dresser stood up. A woman waved her blue kerchief.

  “Paul, play us some of that fast new stuff.”

  Dresser lost his air of good humor. “That raggedy-time coon crap out of St. Louis? Not me. I know what the public wants. The heart ballad. The home song.”

  Renewed applause endorsed his sentiment. Dresser glided through well-wishers at the front tables; for a fat man, he moved with exceptional grace. Money—talent—a fancier of women—what could she do to attract his notice?

  Dresser spun the top of the piano stool to lower it. Rosie was in the shadows where a narrow balcony projected above the bar. Grabbing one of the balcony posts for courage, she called out, “Play us your hit, Mr. Dresser, that’s what I want to hear.”

  Dresser put his hand above his eyes. “Who said that?”

  Rosie stepped forward, out of the shadows. “I did, Mr. Dresser.”

  Over the heads of the crowd he looked her up and down. Thighs, hips, tits, face. He broke into a huge smile and bowed from the waist.

  “I must always honor the request of a pretty young lady.”

  He whirled around and sat. With his right hand he ran up the keyboard, from bottom to top, a glittering arpeggio. More applause. He shot his cuffs; the shining pinky stone flashed. He began to play and sing in a not unpleasing voice.

  “Just tell them that you saw me,”

  She said—“They’ll know the rest.

  Just tell them I was looking well, you know.

  Just whisper if you get a chance

  To mother dear, and say,

  I love her, as I did so long ago …”

  He sang it all, to the end, looking not at the piano keys or the rapt listeners, but at her.

  At half past twelve Rosie changed clothes in the dingy little room assigned to the waitresses. With her cheap cloth coat over her arm, she hurried down the hall, her legs trembling. Earlier, Dresser had slipped her a note asking her to stop at his table. When she did, he said he’d “squared things” with Stitch Meyer. Meyer didn’t like the forward way she’d called to the composer. “But since it was me, he didn’t fuss too much.”

  Dresser told her she was free to leave the Alhambra two hours before closing; he had squared that too.

  He was waiting by the main entrance. He took Rosie’s coat. Through the patterned glass of the double doors she saw a hansom at the curb in the falling snow.

  “This is very exciting, Mr. Dresser. Where are we going?”

  He held her coat. When she’d put it on, he stepped in front of her and slid his hand around her waist. He caressed the sumptuous curve of her rear.

  “Dear, there’s only one way for someone as fresh and pretty as you. Uptown.”

  He withdrew his hand. Rosie buttoned her coat. Dresser set his silk topper on his head and gallantly offered his arm.

  They spent the night in Dresser’s suite at the Gilsey House, a swank hotel on Upper Broadway. Rosie had never seen fancier rooms, felt cleaner sheets, or smelled fresh roses in a bedside vase. Dresser was an ardent and accomplished lover. After the second time, they talked for an hour. Next day Rosie bid Buck Stopes goodbye without seeing him; she just removed her things from the tenement while he was at Nagle’s.

  She hailed a cab to take her away from the Bowery. Dresser had given her money, a whole tenner. Not as any sort of payment, he said most emphatically, just as a little gift to a charming person who had for the moment won his heart.

  71

  Paul

  PAUL WENT TO SEE Shadow on a foggy Saturday, less than twenty-four hours after Lew Kress left town. It was December 28, 1895.

  Jimmy Daws was on duty in the peep show parlor. Paul asked for the colonel. “Upstairs.” Surly as ever.

  He did find the colonel upstairs, though in an unexpected position. R. Sidney Shadow III, in shirtsleeves, was lying on his back under the kitchen sink. He was cursing loudly and fluently while attem
pting to repair a pipe dripping water on his face. His big wrench was greasy, and there were smears of grease on his knuckles, his ears, his chin, his shirt collar, his suspenders.

  He heard Paul come in; his eyes were on a line with Paul’s shoes. He crawled out, almost whacking his head. He shoved a pan under the sink to catch the unrepaired drip and grabbed a towel. “Colonel, I am sorry to interrupt your work—”

  “Don’t apologize, kid. This is no damn job for a gentleman. What can I do for you?”

  “Since it is almost the end of the year, I thought I would ask once more about a position.”

  “Jesus, are you a mind reader? Greetings, oh swami!” He salaamed. “One of my boys blew out of town yesterday.”

  “Is that so? What an unusual, um, I don’t know how to say—”

  “Coincidence. Sure is. But that’s life. Come into the office, we’ll talk.” Shadow pounded on a closed door next to the stove. “Mary? Wake up. Let’s have some coffee in here. Two cups.”

  Shadow interviewed Paul in a windowless room barely large enough for two chairs and a small rolltop desk. Piles of drawings, blueprints, technical journals, were stacked on every horizontal surface except Shadow’s chair; Paul had to clear his to sit. The disorder would have sent Uncle Joe into a rage.

  Shadow asked Paul a few questions. When he came over from Germany. His background. Paul hedged a little. Without directly saying he had no relatives in Chicago, he created the impression that he’d been pretty much on his own since he arrived.

  “What happened to your pal Rooney?”

  “He had to leave town. Financial difficulties.”

  “You were staying with him, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, he taught me a great deal about still photography.”

  “Interesting geezer, Rooney. A little strange—” He made a corkscrew motion with his index finger. “A little disconnected, if you know what I mean. But I liked him.”

  “Yes, a very good man. He treated me well.”

  “Mary, come in,” Shadow called. Paul turned to see a buxom, smiling woman with a cup and saucer in each hand. Shadow introduced her as Mary Beezer. She greeted Paul pleasantly as she handed them coffee. The cup that passed in front of Paul’s nose on its way to Shadow had a strong aroma of whiskey.

  “Mary makes a damn good cup of coffee,” Shadow said. “Throws in two eggs, like the Swedes do. Thanks, Mary. I think I’ve got Lew’s replacement here.”

  “Oh, that’s a break.” Mary flashed Paul a smile of exceptional, even embarrassing friendliness. Then she left. Shadow took a long swallow of coffee.

  “So you really want to learn the living picture business.”

  “More than anything, sir.”

  “First you need to know a few things about the way I work.” In his resonant voice, he delivered a short oration about pitting one bulldog against another, perhaps to gain a champion fighter. Paul found it bizarre. Was Shadow referring to him and the other helper, Daws? He thought it wiser not to ask. But the strange speech worried him.

  Shadow outlined his duties. Paul said he could handle them. Shadow told him what he’d make. Four dollars a week and board. “And we don’t punch clocks around here. We work when it’s necessary, as long as it’s necessary.”

  Paul blinked, swallowed, and said, “Fine.”

  “Then that’s it. Welcome.” They shook hands. Paul was elated.

  Shadow led him through the kitchen, casting a hateful look at the dripping sink, and showed him to the stairs. “Where are your things?”

  “I have only one valise, stored with a friend.”

  “Go get it. When you come back, Jimmy’ll show you where you bunk. Glad you’re with us, Dutch—they call you Dutch, don’t they?” Without allowing Paul a chance to answer, he went back into the kitchen, muttering, “To think that a gentleman from a fine family is reduced to being a fucking plumber.”

  An hour later Paul was back with his valise. Jimmy locked the front door of the peep show parlor—there were no customers—and led him upstairs to a door opening off the landing.

  “This here’s yours.”

  Paul tossed his valise on an iron bed jammed between narrow unpapered walls of lath. There were perhaps eighteen inches of space on either side and two feet between the end of the bed and the wall. A light bulb with a paper shade hung from the water-stained ceiling. The room had no furniture except the bed and a crate standing on end as an all-purpose bureau. He might have been back on Müllerstrasse.

  Jimmy leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed. “Mary cooks, but she don’t make the beds.”

  “I’m used to that, I’ve done it most of my life.”

  “Come on, I’ll show you my room.”

  Paul switched off the light and followed him across the landing to a large room with windows. “This is mine. When I came to work here it belonged to Kress, but I took it away from him.”

  Jimmy stared hard as he said it. There was a moment between them; Paul felt it strongly. If he swallowed this, accepted the arrangement, Daws would have him whipped.

  He ran his tongue under his upper lip. Gave a snap to the brim of his cloth cap, pulling it down near his eyebrows.

  “You live here and I live in a closet?”

  “That’s it, yeah.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He walked out, returned with his valise, threw it on the floor at Jimmy’s feet.

  “I’ll take half this room.”

  Jimmy looked stupefied, then enraged. Paul spread his feet, braced for a rush.

  “Dutchie, I don’t like what I just heard. You better not give me trouble.”

  “I won’t if everything’s fair. This is a big room. I’ll move the other bed in, it can go over there, each of us will have plenty of space.”

  “What happens if I say no?”

  “Then we will settle the question some other way.” He curled his fingers into fists. Jimmy took note.

  Paul waited, palms damp, stomach tight. He didn’t know whether Jimmy would fold or jump him. Jimmy himself seemed unsure. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, checking Paul up and down. Paul had turned eighteen in June but looked older. There was an evident toughness about him. It showed in his stance; the way he held his head, thoughtfully chewed his lip. Jimmy took a while deciding what it all meant.

  Finally he smiled, in a way Paul thought insincere. “Fishy,” that was the American word.

  “All right, Dutchie. You helped me out once, I guess I’ll give you a break. But remember where you stand around here. I’m the number one boy. The head nigger. You stay out of my way, we’ll get along fine.”

  Paul tipped his cap. “Danke schön. And you stay out of mine.”

  Shadow’s peep show arcade was considerably less elegant than the Edison parlor up on State Street. The lighting was poor. There were no comfort rails for the viewer to lean on. No well-swept floor, just sawdust. Also, Shadow’s subjects were considerably more racy; clearly aimed at a male clientele looking for slightly illicit thrills.

  There were animal pictures. “Rats and Terriers!” “Fighting Cocks!” There was “Pass the Bottle!”, a rowdy saloon scene in which a man bought and gulped a bottle of beer. “Knock ’Im Dead!” was a simulated prizefight performed by overweight draymen Shadow had hired by the hour. Paul noted Shadow’s propensity for exclamations. He talked the same way.

  “Opium Joint!” had a cast of three, recruited from a local Chinese laundry. “Whee Paree!” and “Spanish Señoritas!” featured high-kick dances badly performed by Levee whores. While the prudish might have railed against the dances, the women were actually fully clothed, down to opaque tights under their short skirts.

  Signs of haste were evident in all the sequences. The performers were not good. But the lighting and composition struck Paul as excellent, and the simple magic of motion was enough to entrance him, whatever the flaws.

  On Tuesday night, New Year’s Eve, Shadow closed the parlor at six o’clock, declaring that only saloons
and whore-houses would have customers that night.

  He pulled down the shade on the front door while Paul swept up dirty sawdust and spread a new layer. Strands of dyed hair straggled over Shadow’s forehead. He was already weaving noticeably. Mary Beezer had left on Sunday; her mother was ailing down in Richmond, Indiana, where Mary grew up.

  “I gave Jimmy the night off. How about you, Dutch? Going out for some drinks? Maybe a woman?”

  “I don’t think so, Colonel.”

  “I don’t feel much like it myself. Come upstairs, we’ll have a cup of cheer to celebrate.” Paul smiled and followed his employer, who appeared to have already taken several cups of cheer. Men ran by in the street. There were pistol shots. The Levee was starting to celebrate.

  In the kitchen, Shadow opened a cupboard. The middle shelf held an astonishing number of full and partially full whiskey bottles. He pulled one down, with two large tumblers. On a sideboard stood the pitiful Christmas tree Mary had put up. A skimpy pine, eighteen inches high, nailed to a wooden crosspiece and decorated with popcorn strings, tinsel, and three small ornaments. Every time Paul saw the little tree, memories of the spectacular Crown tree arose to sadden him.

  Shadow poured a full glass for each of them. He kicked the pipe under the sink. “Finally fixed the infernal thing.”

  “Yes, I noticed. A good job.”

  “Sure, I’m a man of parts. Know what that means? A jack-of-all-trades, but higher class.” He pulled his chair out with the toe of his tooled boot, then sat down and drank half his whiskey.

  Paul took a sip to be polite. Shadow waved him to a chair. “I’m self-educated, y’know. I can fix or build anything. I can sell, I spent a few years on the road peddling this and that. I can sing, tell jokes, do a pretty good coon shuffle; I was with minstrel shows for a while.” Paul was agog. “Man of parts! Trouble is, till now the parts never fit in one box. Wait here.”

  He lurched into his messy office and returned with a smudged schematic pencil drawing of a rectangular machine filled with gears, roller hubs, parallel lines of arrows following a convoluted track. “This is the box. Shadow’s Luxograph projector. Know why I’m so crazy to make this work?”