Since Leo had to work, I would be sitting by myself for parts of the evening. Putting me in an inconspicuous corner where I could see but not be seen, he sat me at a small table rescued from the storeroom.
“Remember, if anybody asks, you’re waiting to speak to the manager about a job. Unless it’s someone who looks like the manager, in which case, your friend just went to fix her hair and she’ll be right back.” Then, promising to return, he went to work. Before the band came onto the stage, the waiters were expected to entertain guests as they dined. Leo’s uncle was right: he was never going to have a career at the opera. But he threw himself into every song with a gusto that charmed his audience and earned good tips. When he snuck back with a plate of hash, he deposited a handful of loose change on the table.
“Seems to me you’re a bigger success as a singer than songwriter. Maybe you should change careers.”
“Actors work like dogs, get paid less, and kicked harder. Once ‘Pickle Barrel Rag’ hits big, that’s the last time anyone sees Leo Hirschfeld perform. How’s the hash? I think it’s real horse tonight.”
I tried it. “It’s good.”
“Yeah? May I?” Leaning in, he kissed me. “You’re right, that is good. Be back soon.”
I murmured, “Yes, be back,” as if it were the expected pleasantry. Sitting up, I settled my hands in my lap. But I was not breathing efficiently, and I could think of nothing but that life could be very unexpected. Leaning on the table, I put a hand over my lips, as if I were rather bored by it all. But my eyes were still on Leo as he launched into “Melinda’s Wedding Day,” and the thought Yes, that is good drifted through my mind.
I did recover myself, and for a while I enjoyed the spectacle, setting aside the reality that I was surrounded by men with guns who sold some people and killed others for profit. I had been seated with the unstylish tourists, boys down from Harvard daring one another to drink this or swing off that, and a table of monosyllabic gentlemen who wanted privacy for their game of stuss. But I could see the stage and the ring of tables around the dance floor just fine.
This was where the well dressed and well connected sat. I thought I spied a junior member of the Vanderbilt family and a gentleman in tails whose mustache looked distinctly imperial, although I couldn’t decide whether Austrian or English. There was the elegant Mrs. Frosby-Beers, who was said to be carrying on affairs with two senators of opposing parties and at least one member of Wilson’s cabinet. Sitting near her was a quiet, bespectacled man who was paring his fingernails with a knife. This was Lolly Blum, who ran Monk Eastman’s pet shop on Broome. And there was the dandified young assemblyman, James Walker, laughing his head off at something a delectable young woman had whispered into his ear.
The Harvard boys made a game of trying to get my attention by pitching peanut shells at my table. I said I favored Yale men, and when they jeered, I pointed to the burliest thug within view and said that was my beau there, and he was majoring in the art of snapping bones. They sat quiet after that. Meanwhile, I followed the progress of an ostentatiously good-looking fellow who approached any table occupied solely by women—except mine. From his gestures and the women’s reactions, it was clear he was making elaborate efforts at charm. He always singled out one of the older women to dance with. After a few tables, I noticed that it wasn’t only age; quantity of jewelry was also a factor.
The waiters having served and entertained the guests, the band came onstage. It was a group of six, too small for Johnson’s Brass Band, I saw with disappointment. One sat at the piano, another at the drums, the others arranged themselves on chairs or stood alongside. There was a clarinetist, a trombone player, a trumpet player, and a bass. As they struck up the first notes, people surged onto the dance floor. In the hubbub, I felt Leo grab my hand and pull me into the crowd, much to the outrage of the Harvard boys. At first it was hard to find room, but skilled, energetic dancing will create its own space, and it wasn’t long before we could hop, trot, waddle, and scratch with abandon to the song “I Want to Love You While the Music’s Playing.”
“Won’t your boss mind?” I asked him.
“My pal Stumpy’s looking after my tables, and the club doesn’t mind us showing young ladies a good time as long as people keep buying drinks.”
The band finished “I Want to Love You,” and, holding up a finger, Leo ran to the bar, then crept onstage, where he handed a drink to each musician—two for the piano player—before hurrying back to the floor. The band drank, then struck up the first notes of a tune that I knew but couldn’t quite place. The crowd loved it, though, with more people surging onto the dance floor in a tidal wave of energy and excitement.
Falling in beside me, Leo shouted, “‘Pickle Barrel Rag’!”
“It’s good!”
“I know!”
It was also, I thought, just slightly reminiscent of Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag.” But you heard that song so often, maybe it was easy to get mixed up. The song ended to a raucous burst of applause. The next melody was slower, more insinuating. Sliding his hand around my waist, Leo brought us closer. “It’s the tango, the latest thing from down south.”
In the earlier dances, we had either known the steps or communicated through hands and footwork. Here, all the communication was done below the waist, the turn of hips and the nudge of thigh. I registered his hand at the small of my back, and it occurred to me I might object. But I didn’t.
“You have to look at me. The tango is all in the eyes.” He widened his own comically.
“Oh, is that where it is?”
Thankfully, there were several turns where we separated at arm’s length before returning to the embrace. Which I decided was not so shocking, once you got used to it.
As we glided, arms extended, I spotted the handsome man I had noticed earlier. He was gently maneuvering a blushing, weak-chinned girl around the floor. I asked Leo who he was.
“Oh, that’s Frank. Likes to be known as Eduardo. Why? Oh, you’re wondering why he didn’t ask you to dance.”
“I wasn’t.”
Leo grinned. “Frank’s a tango pirate. The richer, older ladies who come here want an experience, only they don’t have the first idea how. Frank provides the ‘experience.’”
“For which he gets paid.”
“That’s right. Hard worker, Frank.”
Frank was not the only hard worker in the club. There were several young ladies accompanied by neither friends nor beaux. They made their way around the tables, speaking brightly to any man who seemed receptive to their company. Some of them only had to put in a minute’s flirtation to earn their seat at the table. Flattery, artful posing, and a well-placed hand earned them a drink. After that, some of them took their gentlemen onto the dance floor; others simply went downstairs.
One man was very clearly not there to enjoy himself. He sat at the table in the corner, surrounded by men but speaking with none of them. He had a cheap hard shine about him. It was in the sleek otter look of his hair, the polish of his shoes, the brass of his buttons. He watched the laughing, dancing crowd through narrowed eyes, and I thought he rather despised them. At one point, a lady who had spun too much or drunk too much stumbled into his vicinity. She was immediately intercepted and returned to her partner.
“Who’s that?” I asked Leo.
“That’s the boss. Don’t ask to be introduced.”
“Why? Doesn’t he like women?”
“Sure, the way the banker likes stock. Stop staring. It’s not smart.”
He was right. I knew he was right. And yet I found myself looking back at the infamous Chick Tricker. Over the course of the next few dances, I saw a few men approach. Some were allowed to sit down; others were blocked. Then I saw a familiar figure make his way to the table. He held his hat tightly, crumpling the brim in one hand as he scraped at his mustache with the fingers of the other. To my surprise, he was allowed to approach. But not to sit. Whatever Bill Danvers had to say would be whispered directly to the one m
an who needed to hear it.
So this was what Bill Danvers did for a living. The newly devout Christian worked for Chick Tricker. A lot of people did, one way or another. Leo did. But there were others who robbed drunks, guarded scab workers, poisoned horses, and shot people. Mr. Tricker had many business interests and a lot of work to give. I had the distinct feeling Bill Danvers did not wait tables.
I watched as he made his way to the other end of the club. At first, he seemed in no hurry, but then he drew up short and charged around several tables until he caught the arm of a very young dark-haired girl. She had been on her way to a gentleman’s table and did not appreciate the delay. But when she pulled free, Danvers grabbed her by the neck and shoved her into the darkness beyond the front tables. After a few agonizing minutes, she emerged, a hand to her belly, her hair in disarray. No blacked eye or bloodied lip, but there wouldn’t be. Bill Danvers would have struck where it didn’t leave a mark.
Then I saw him come out of the shadows and with a jolt realized that he might see me. My heart began to pound; I lost the rhythm of the music. Frantic, I began to look for a way off the dance floor.
“What’s wrong?”
“Could we … I think I feel a little faint … is there a place we might get some air?”
A fraction of hesitation showed Leo knew perfectly well I wasn’t faint. Still, he said, “The lady wants air, she shall have air. I have access to a very exclusive part of this establishment. If you’ll permit…”
He gestured upstairs, and I nodded. Taking my hand, he led me off the dance floor and away from the malignant rolling eye of Bill Danvers.
The exclusive room, it turned out, was simply the rooftop. But this was very much in fashion, I thought as I caught my breath after the climb. The best clubs in the city often extended the party to the roof, where their more honored guests could relax with a string quartet and free-flowing champagne. All the Acme Café had managed was some Chinese lanterns and an old divan. But at least there was no one else up here, and the night air was fresh with the warmth of early spring. Leo put a large brick in front of the door, and I gazed out at the city rooftops and thought of the painting of the young women washing their hair with the splendor of New York all around them. And that other drawing, the windows at night, men and watching …
Leo invited me to sit down, and I did, arranging myself as if we were in a parlor and not on the rooftop of a club with music sounding in the distance. The divan’s upholstery had seen better days, but it had been protected from the elements by an oilcloth that lay nearby.
“Why would someone bring a divan up here?” I wondered.
“I don’t know. Why would they?” Nudging my foot with his, he said, “You want to tell me why a girl who stood up to George Rutherford got scared off the dance floor by some lowlife?”
So he had noticed Danvers, too. “Does that man work here?”
“I’ve seen him around. Why? He hurt you?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because he’s too ugly to be your husband. Tell me what happened.”
I opened my mouth, but I found I wanted to be free of the refuge, Pickett’s Puritans, and Sadie’s murder for one evening. Let it all blow off in the wind and sail over the East River.
“Okay, you won’t tell me. Let me ask you another question.” He sidled closer on the divan. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
“No.”
“Good, me neither. Do you believe in kissing?”
“Its existence or as an ethical proposition?”
“The former—no, latter. Gosh, you’re pretty.”
We decided to answer the question a third way: an experiential assessment of its efficacy. Honestly, I hadn’t been sure I did believe in kissing; the mashing of mouths could be an awkward way to begin. But Leo Hirschfeld made an excellent case for it.
Every age has its notions of sexual propriety. Only a decade later, people might have been appalled by my prudery. But many in my own era would have been shocked by my behavior. Certainly it went beyond—or beneath—my own expectations. The tango had achieved its purpose. Leo Hirschfeld was a good dancer—and a good kisser. And it is all too easy to recline on a divan. One has the idea that because it is not a bed, events that occur in beds cannot take place there. Maybe that’s true of divans in parlors; divans on rooftops, not so.
At some point, I realized my faith in furniture was mistaken. I sat up, dislodging Mr. Hirschfeld. As I repinned my hair and did up buttons, Leo gasped, “Really?”
“… really.”
“You know Romeo and Juliet? Wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?”
“I do. I will. Henry IV.”
He sat panting, a hand to his chest. Then he nodded, acknowledging either the aptness of the quote or the wisdom of the halt. “I … need to get back to my tables anyway. Don’t talk to those Harvard boys. I’m not allowed to hit the customers.”
I was about to reassure him that I had no interest in Harvard boys when we heard the sounds of panic from the street far below. Going to the roof’s edge, we looked down to see the Acme disgorging its gorgeous clientele. People richly and rudely dressed poured out the front doors, scrambled through side exits, and clambered over the fence in the backyard. Policemen stood outside, herding the captured into wagons.
“It’s a raid,” said Leo. “Chick must not have paid the cops on time. Come on.”
Taking my hand, he led me to an adjacent rooftop. Then the next, and the next, until we found one with a fire escape that wasn’t rusted out or falling away from the brick. Creeping down, I kept my eyes averted from the windows, although Leo called greetings and apologies to a few people who were startled to see us passing by in the middle of the night. We reached the ladder, and before I could drop, he took hold of my waist and helped me down. In a moment, we were out on the street again with not a policeman in sight.
It was after eleven as we headed up the Bowery, and Leo felt free to put his arm around me and whisper mildly insulting things about passersby.
“Does this mean you’re out of a job?” I asked him.
“Not for long. See, you didn’t know it, but tonight, you attended a ball hosted by the Piano Tuners Benevolent Euchre and Whist League. Not a dance hall, certainly not a club. That way if things get rowdy—which they do every night—Chick can say, What can I do? I rented out the room, things got out of hand. Those piano tuners are crazy! Nobody believes it, but everyone gets a cut to look the other way. The licenses alone cover a lot of bribes. Someone probably upped the price, Chick got stubborn, and they showed their muscle by calling out the cops. In a few days, they’ll work it out and we’ll be serving the Holy Sisters of St. Clare.”
A woman lurched forward to observe that Leo looked man enough for two women. Leo waved her off, but I remembered Danvers and the girl clutching her stomach and asked, “What would a man who hurts women have to say to your boss?”
Putting his hands in his pockets, he shrugged. “Well, you saw at the club, there were…”
“Women, yes.”
I thought of Sadie’s Joe. I assumed she gave him whatever money she earned, a fairly common arrangement. But what if Joe had been giving some of that money to someone else? Lots of shiftless, angry young men found their way into the orbit of men like Chick Tricker, feeling it was worth it to hand over their girls’ hard-earned money in exchange for the odd job of robbing a house or beating up people who won playing cards.
Of course, the young woman might object to her money being handed over to a man who’d had nothing to do with the earning of it. But that’s what gut punches were for. And if you were Chick Tricker, there was no need to administer these things for yourself; you had men like Bill Danvers to do it.
And what would a Bill Danvers do if one of the women decided she wanted to stop working? Joe had been locked up, so he couldn’t keep Sadie in line. Time to send in the experts. And if you were trying to lure a girl back to work, why not start with charm? Take her out. Flat
ter her. Listen to her complaints about her present situation, agree she could do better. Then if she still balked at coming back, you show her—and others—the penalty.
And what better way to keep an eye on former employees than to stand right outside their rooms, reminding them every day of the risk they were taking by refusing to earn? Had it been Bill Danvers’s idea to pretend to be part of Mrs. Pickett’s Purity Brigade, or did Chick Tricker come up with that scheme? I suspected Tricker; it seemed too clever for Bill. I thought of the other women still at the refuge. How many of them might have worked, even unknowingly, for Chick Tricker? Had Sadie’s murder been both revenge and warning? Perhaps I would ask Carrie if Sadie had ever worked in one of Tricker’s clubs.
And Clementine Pickett. Did she have any idea what sort of man stood beside her in her moral crusade?
As a train rumbled overhead, Leo charmed passersby—and perhaps me, a little—by singing, “She could sew, oh, could she sew, but when she danced … I was entranced, my heart it pranced…”
“Prancing heart?”
“You’re right, prancing heart is no good.”
Then he took my hand. “I like you, Miss Prescott.”
I liked him and considered saying so. But it felt right to stay one step ahead of Mr. Hirschfeld, so I just smiled.
Which was enough for Leo, who sang cheerfully, “There’s something about a girl who smiles.… No, wait.” He looked up at the train, as if caught by the rhythm of its wheels. “She smiled at me / On the IRT.”
He swept me up, gathering speed. “And now I see, she’s the one for me. I was riding high, time flying by, then me oh, my…”
He was about to kiss me again when I saw it. The crowd at the end of the block. People. Where they should not be. Police. And something on the street.
Death of an American Beauty Page 11