Ten Cents a Dance

by Christine Fletcher

  Something hot brushed across my bare arm. I jumped and dropped the compact case. A red bead skittered free across the table. Cigarette ashes drifted from my skin to the floor.

  "Oopsie," Yvonne said. She stood next to me—sneaky, she knew not to come from behind, not when there was a mirror—one hand on her hip. Behind her stood Valerie and Stella, grinning. Gabby at the next table, an I-told-you-so expression on her thin face.

  "Get out of my chair," Yvonne said.

  "It's not your chair." I rubbed the sore spot on my arm. "And I'm not your damn ashtray."

  Yvonne took a long, deep drag. The cigarette paper glowed, turned black, shriveled. Yvonne held the trembling gray ash over my hair. Tap. I ducked, twisting, but the ash caught my cheek. I jumped out of the chair, batting at my face, and the ash broke apart, fluttering to the floor like a hundred fly's wings.

  "Good doggie," Yvonne said. Behind her, Stella laughed.

  I snatched the cigarette from her fingers. She wasn't expecting that. I clamped my lips to the blurry scarlet marks of her lipstick, drew in hard. When the ash was good and hot, I plunged it into the collar of her red fox coat.

  "Woof," I said. Smoke curling from my mouth. Curling from the fur. It smelled stronger than the cigarette and worse. Gasps around the room. I didn't look up. I buried the cigarette, my fingers disappearing up to the knuckles in bright, shimmery red.

  "You bitch!" Yvonne shoved me away, but I'd already let go. Yvonne snatched up the coat and ran with it to the sinks. The cigarette dropped to the floor. I ground it out with my toe, smiling. I felt better than I had in days.

  Walking out of the Ladies' was like swimming upstream. Everyone crowding toward the sinks. I had to turn sideways to get through the door, past the girls pushing their way in, jabbering, mouths open like babies waiting for spoonfuls of cereal. They stopped their yapping and stared at me as I went by.

  The Starlight wasn't air-conditioned, and the hall had been jammed hotter than blazes all night. I could use a nice cold cola. I plunked my nickel on the counter, picked up my glass. Turned around and ran smack into Stella. Her elbow jerked upward, and in an instant I was freezing wet all down my front, ice cubes scattered around my feet. My breath disappeared somewhere deep inside.

  "Oh my goodness, I'm so clumsyl" Stella wrung her plump hands. Snickers all through the lounge. My dress clung to my girdle and the girdle clung to me. When I moved, the fabric smacked against my belly like lips. I arched my back, held my arms wide. "I'm so sorryl You do have a clean dress, don't you?" A good little actress, Stella.

  "Get out of my way." I stalked past her, back to the Ladies', trying to hold the dress away from my skin. I had one clean gown, thank God. All the others were at the cleaner's.

  When I pushed open the door to the Ladies', I grit my teeth, ready for the chorus of cackles. But Yvonne wasn't there, or any of her gang, either. The only girls in the room were the usual stragglers, the two or three who never could time a break right, who Del was always yelling at to hurry up and get on the floor before he canned their asses. As I shuffled to my locker they looked up from the dressing tables, but none of them said anything. Not a single "What happened?" or "Jesus on a pogo stick, Ruby, what did you do?"

  No doubt they'd heard Yvonne plan the whole thing. Of course Yvonne had put Stella up to it—that dizzy redhead could never come up with a stunt like that on her own. I peeled my sopping gown off just as the saxophone started wailing. Hustling now, I wet a handkerchief and blotted cola off my skin. The girdle would be sticky the rest of the night. But girdles could be cleaned, and the dress, too. Unless Yvonne found a way to hex a dead fox to grow new fur, though, she better get to work fishing a new one. That gave me a little satisfaction.

  "Ruby?"

  I glanced up. Alice, the girl who wore her hair in ringlets like Shirley Temple, who spent half of every night dozing in the meatpen, stood at the end of the row of lockers.

  "The band's starting, Alice," I said.

  "I know, Ruby, it's just . . . it's just that . . . " Her hands were clasped in front of her; she nudged them in the air at me. Why was she blushing? What on earth was wrong with her?

  Whatever it was, I didn't have time for it. "Del's going to be pounding that door down any second," I said, "and I don't plan on being here when he does." I grabbed the clean dress—the one Paulie had given me, the smoky blue silk—and stepped into it.

  "But Ruby . . ."

  "For God's sake, Alice, leave me alonel"

  I half expected she would cry. She did, sometimes, when Yvonne teased her. I felt bad, but some people just didn't have the sense God gave a rat, and how was that my fault? But Alice only said, "Suit yourself, then." Which was an un-Alice-like thing to say. No time to ponder. I zipped up my dress and still made it out of the Ladies' before she did.

  The band was in full swing. Del wasn't anywhere in sight, thank goodness. I straightened my shoulders and lifted my head and sashayed down the dance floor. A fellow bobbed over to me with a ticket. I took it from him and slipped it under the top of my stocking. The little colored lights floated across the floor, the walls, the faces. My partner was a good dancer, for once, and better yet, not a talker. Three couples to my left, Yvonne single-footed with a dark, Italian-looking soldier. She glanced my way and smiled, and at that moment, the lights came up.

  Not the swirling colored dots, but the big overhead lights. The ones that signaled the show was over. Time to go home. Everyone looked up, looked around. My partner blinked, frowning. Even the band stopped playing.

  Behind me, a girl shrieked with laughter. I turned to look. Off to my right, someone else—I couldn't see who—called, "Hey, Ruby! Over here!"

  "What is it? Where?" I pivoted and craned my neck to see. More shouts of laughter, still behind me. Scattered guffaws from the men, while the girls' laughter rose into whoops. My partner backed away, a look on his face like I'd suddenly sprouted whiskers. "What's wrong?" I asked him, but he glanced left and right and shrank backward into the crowd. That was when I realized that the crowd was outside me. Fingers pointing. Girls nudging each other. I saw the direction of their stares, and my hand flew around to my rear. I'd changed dresses so fast . . . was my skirt hem caught in my girdle, was my underwear showing? But all I felt was the smooth fall of silk. And something sticky.

  I looked at my fingertip. Bright orange red, heavy. I'd seen the color somewhere before. I touched it to my thumb, smeared it.

  Lipstick.

  Over the laughter, I heard Del roaring, "What the hell! What the hell!" And then I saw Yvonne.

  She was hanging on to the arm of her soldier. Both of them laughing fit to die. Yvonne lifted her nose. Sniffed. "What is that stench? My God, it smells like . . . like a slaughterhouse in here." Screams of laughter from Gabby, from Valerie, from Stella. From everyone.

  Red bloomed like roses at the edges of my sight. I didn't know I was moving forward until something jerked me back almost off my feet, Peggy's voice in my ear: "Don't, Ruby! Del's coming—if he catches you fighting, he'll fire you!"

  "I don't care. Let me go!" I wrenched hard, left and right, put my head down to charge, but they hauled me off the floor, Peggy on one arm, Nora on the other, someone else's hands on my shoulders. They banged my head against the doorjamb, shoving me into the Ladies'. Once inside, they let go. I staggered, the heel of my hand pressed to my eye where I'd hit it.

  "Hold still," Peggy said. I felt her unzip my gown, a loosening. I shoved it off, stumbling forward, one foot and then the other until the silk fell in a heap on the linoleum.

  A fist hammered on the door. "Everybody out of there!" Del shouted. "Back to work!"

  "Ruby's sick!" Peggy hollered back.

  "So what! For that you gotta turn on all the lights? Half of you gotta be in there with her? Get your asses out here right this goddamned second, or all of you— canned!"

  They left, all except Peggy. She bent toward the dress, but I bent quicker and scooped it up. Still she hesitated.


  "You sure you're all right?"

  "Don't worry. I don't have a knife, I won't stab her."

  "She deserves to get stabbed. I bet Nora's white gown will fit you. I'll ask her, if you want."

  The notion of going back out there made my stomach shrivel. Tomorrow. I could do it tomorrow. Not tonight. I shook my head. I thought Peggy would argue, but she only said, "I'll tell Del you got sick to your stomach."

  When the door shut behind her, I carried a chair over and wedged it under the knob so no one could come in. Then I held the gown at arm's length.

  Written across the rump, in Gabby's brilliant orange red lipstick: STOCKYARD COW.

  We didn't say a thing, Yvonne had told me.

  But Stan must have said plenty to her. About the packinghouse. About the Back of the Yards. I could see her, resting her chin in one hand, smiling her lazy wolfish smile, asking Stan question after question. All that snickering she and Gabby had done, after.

  Stockyard cow.

  I plucked the tickets out of the top of my stocking and tucked them into my garter purse along with my tips. I stripped off my stockings—careful not to snag them with my nails—then the girdle. The ruined gown, the gown Paulie had given me, I stuffed into the trash. It didn't matter if cleaners could get the lipstick out. I'd never wear it again.

  Yvonne had slung her fox coat back across her chair. The burn hole in the collar looked like a crater in grass, like a den a tiny monster had dug. In my bra and panties, barefoot and barelegged, I carried it to the sink and held the left sleeve under the tap. When it was soaked through, I washed the sticky sheen of cola from my breasts and belly. I used the right sleeve to dry off with. The fur pushed the water around, it didn't absorb a lick, but I didn't care. The soft coolness felt good. It was the only thing that felt good. I left the coat in the sink, went back to my locker, and put on the red suit.

  Del's fist hammered again on the door. "You, Ruby! Get out here!"

  I cracked the door open, just enough to see his angry face. "I'm sick," I said.

  "I don't care if you got the Spanish flu. Get your Polish fanny in a gown and get out onto that floor."

  "I'm sick," I repeated. "I'm going home." "Then you better clean out your locker right now, because you ain't coming back."

  I opened the door wider. "I'm going home now," I said, "and I'll be back tomorrow night. You know why? Because I'm your best earner."

  It was a shot in the dark. I figured he was going to can me. I figured he'd say, You, the best? You're nothing, compared to Yvonne. Don't let the door hit you in the ass.

  "What do I care about that?" he yelled. Stabbing a finger at me. "This time tomorrow, I could have a dozen girls lined up to take your place,"

  "And none of them as good as me." A little spark of victory catching inside, burning. Queen Bee. "Eight months, Del. I haven't missed a night. You can give me three hours." I coughed. Rubbed my throat and winced. Give him what he wants to believe.

  Del looked like he'd stepped in manure. I supposed in a way, he had. "Something went on tonight. I don't know what. But if it happens again . . ." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "You savvy me?"

  I nodded.

  "You're one minute late tomorrow, I'll can your ass. See if I don't."

  I ducked back into the Ladies' to get my pocketbook. On the way out, I stuffed the fox jacket into one of the toilets and pressed the lever.

  The lights were down on the dance floor, the colored spots swirling. The band playing "If I Didn't Care." Everything back to normal. Nothing the same. Even walking felt strange, without a girdle. As though my body might spill in any direction. Bigger, but lighter somehow. Girls turned their heads away, pretended not to see me. I didn't look for Yvonne, but I knew she was watching.

  Good doggie. Her eyes dark and brittle in the mirror. The beginnings of wrinkles at their corners.

  I passed fifty men on the way out. None of them recognized me; none of them spared me more than a glance. They never noticed our faces much. A green gown instead of blue, pin my hair up, and I'd bet tomorrow ninety-nine out of a hundred couldn't pick me out of a lineup.

  Let Yvonne think she'd won. Let her think she'd run me out for good. She was old; her time was over. Tomorrow I'd take her best fish away from her, that plug-ugly man with the big ears, and by the end of the week, I'd be wearing a new gown he'd bought me, and come the end of summer, I'd have my own fur coat, and I'd dangle it in front of her and watch her choke. Starting tomorrow I'd have my own place, and every night I didn't see Paulie, I'd go out on the town and have myself a ball.

  I was the Queen Bee now.

  TWENTY

  Eleven o'clock and outside it still sweltered. The day's heat rose onto my bare legs as though coals burned under the sidewalk. No taxis in sight.

  Just as well. I wasn't in any hurry to go back to Chester's house. I'd walk up Madison Avenue, take in a late show at the movie theater. I could think better in the air-conditioning. Maybe I could figure out how to tell Ma I was leaving.

  In winter, people walked fast, their heads down. A hot night like this, they ambled. No hurry. Nobody wanted to be cooped up inside their houses. I kept near the curb, where there was a little more room. I was almost to the theater when an enormous, gleaming black coupe slowed up next to me, honking. The driver leaned across the seat. Even before the passenger door popped open, I started running toward it.

  "What on earth are you doing here?" I said as I got in. Instead of answering, Paulie slung his arm behind my neck and hauled me close for a kiss, deep and wet and steamy. Someone on the sidewalk whistled. When he let go, I was breathless. He grinned his messy, crumpled grin.

  "You up for a celebration?" he asked. He didn't wait for an answer. He shifted gears, and the coupe leaped away from the curb. I ran my hands over the smooth burgundy leather of the seat, feeling like I'd wandered into a dream, a dream where Yvonne was nothing more than a pesky fly, and Ma . . . Ma I would worry about when I woke up. If ever I woke up. For the second time in a day, Paulie had swooped down, snatched me out of my blues, swept me away. It's fate, I thought. We're meant to be together.

  "Where'd this car come from?" I asked. Chrome glimmered on the dash; not a stain or a crack in sight. If the convertible had smelled like a shoe, this smelled like money.

  "It's mine," Paulie said. "Nineteen forty-one Lincoln Zephyr Club Coupe. You like it?"

  "Yours! Since when?"

  "Since an hour ago. I swung by the Starlight to pick you up, but Del said you'd gone home sick. Glad I found you." He kissed the top of my head. "Wouldn't be a celebration without my girl."

  I'd never seen Paulie in this good a mood. "What are we celebrating?" I asked. But he wouldn't tell me. Not until we got to the restaurant, an all-night diner off the Loop.

  "Sinkers and suds," he told the waitress. "Blond and sweet, no cow."

  "You got it," she said. And still he wouldn't tell me. Just sat there with the same stuffed-to-the-gills look Yvonne had after she'd found out I'd bottled hog's feet for the packinghouse. I pushed the thought of her out of my head. Yvonne would get what was coming to her later. Tonight, all that mattered was Paulie.

  When the doughnuts and coffee arrived—cream and sugar for me, black for him—he leaned close across the table.

  "I shouldn't even tell you this, but . . . " He took my hand. "I can trust you, can't I? You can zip it?"

  "Zipped," I breathed, and drew my finger and thumb across my lips. His fingers tightened on mine, warm and strong. Then he let go. He picked a doughnut off the plate, broke it in half.

  "You remember a couple months ago, you told me about that jumped-up colored in the pinstripe suit? The policy king?"

  "Sure I do."

  "That got me thinking. So I did a little sniffing around. In New York and Detroit, the mob's got policy all buttoned up. But here, the mob ain't got a hand in. The colored run it themselves." He dunked the doughnut half, shoved it in his mouth, chewed. "Millions of dollars, built on nickels. That's wha
t you said, and I never forgot it. Millions, in the hands of some dumb shines. Seemed to me like a couple smart white boys ought to be able to figure something out."

  A bad feeling began to stir in my chest. Like coffee in a percolator, when the heat's on, bubbling. "Paulie, what did you do?"

  "Me and my buddy Steve, we took our time. Studied the operation. The guys who take the bets, the runners, they're small fry. Maybe they got fifty bucks on 'em at a time. The runners drop the dough at a policy station, but that ain't no good, either. Stations are crowded. Folks going in and out all hours placing bets. On top of that, they got maybe ten, twenty coloreds working the joint and the cash squirreled away like Fort Knox. Safes and everything. But the money can't stay there, can it?"

  He didn't wait for an answer. "See, they got to move it. Pay off the winners. Pay off the cops. Kick the rest upstairs. These fellows who run the policy games, you know why they call 'em kings? Because they live in palaces, Ruby. Right over there in Bronzeville. They got Rolls-Royces and chauffeurs to drive 'em, and they don't so much as lift their little fingers for it. While I have to borrow a lousy dinged-up Chevy to take my girl out."

  The bad feeling boiled right up into my throat. "Paulie, what did you do?"

  "A few fellows take the moolah out of the stations. Same fellows, every day. They got routes. Same routes, every day." He chuckled. "Nice cars they use on those routes."

  I leaned forward, whispered, "You robbed—"

  "Shh!" He glanced around. Then back at me. "We were just going to case one of 'em tonight, we weren't planning to do it. But everything came together and we made our move. Easy as kicking a kitten. Shine never knew what hit him."

  The gun, lying like a rock in the convertible's glove compartment. "Paulie, you didn't—did you shoot him?"

  "What do you care? We got the loot, that's what matters." He swept up my hand and kissed it. "A cool thousand and a sweet car, and all thanks to you."