by Libba Bray
“Two dollars,” Evie chimed.
Mabel paled. But then she tilted her chin just like her society-born mother. “Fine!” she said and signaled the trolley driver to stop.
Mabel glanced nervously at the Esquire Barbershop window, with its ad proclaiming WE BOB HAIR! LOOK LIKE THE STARS OF STAGE AND SCREEN! along with a drawing of a beautiful flapper in a feathered headdress.
“Mabesie, that style would be swell on you,” Evie said. “Jericho would adore it.”
“Jericho is a deep thinker and a scholar. He doesn’t pay attention to hairstyles,” Mabel said, but she sounded terrified.
Theta touched up her lipstick in a store window. “Even a scholar’s got eyes, kid.”
Evie brushed her hand across an imaginary screen. “Just picture it: You breeze into the museum as a whole new Mabel—Mabel the Enchantress! Mabel the Flapper! Mabel the Hot Jazz Baby!”
“Mabel Who Better Make Up Her Mind or We’ll Miss the Picture,” Theta added.
“I’ll do it.”
“Attagirl!” Evie said. She pushed Mabel toward the barbershop. Evie and Theta hurried to the windows and pressed their faces to the glass to watch. Mabel spoke to the barber, who ushered her into a chair. She looked nervously in the girls’ direction. Evie waved and gave her a winning smile.
“She won’t do it,” Theta said.
“I say she will.”
“Fine. Let’s up the ante on it. Ten dollars.”
Ten dollars was a princely sum, but Evie wasn’t about to back down.
“Done!”
They shook on it and put their faces back to the window. Inside, Mabel sat in the barber’s chair and let him wrap an apron around her neck.
“I’m going to buy the swankiest stockings with your ten dollars, Theta.”
Theta smirked. “Ain’t over yet, kiddo.”
Mabel gripped the padded armrests of the barber’s chair as he pumped the foot pedal, lifting her higher. He brought his scissors toward Mabel’s hair. Her eyes widened and she jumped from the chair, threw down the apron, and bolted for the door, setting the bell over it tinkling like Santa’s sleigh.
“Ah, applesauce!” Evie hissed.
Theta held out her palm. “I’m gonna enjoy those stockings, Evil.”
“I’m sorry, I-I just couldn’t,” Mabel stammered as the girls made their way toward Times Square. “I saw those scissors and I thought I’d faint!”
“It’s all right, Mabesie. Not everybody can be a Zelda,” Evie said, linking arms with her pal.
“If I’m going to win Jericho, I have to win him as I am.”
“And you shall!” Evie reassured her. “Somehow.”
At Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue, they waved to the policeman perched in the glass enclosure atop the traffic tower with its red, green, and yellow signals. He tipped his hat and the girls laughed, buoyed by the crowds crossing amid the motorcars and double-decker buses. Steam pulsed up through sewer grates, as if the city and its bustling people were but part of a great mechanism powered by unseen machinery. As they waited to cross the street, a ragged man in a rickety wheelchair rattled his tin cup at them. He was dressed in a filthy army uniform; his legs were missing below the knees. “A bit of charity for one who served,” he rasped.
Evie reached into her coin purse and retrieved a dollar, which she stuffed into his cup. “There you are.”
“Thank you,” he said. He looked at Evie and muttered softly, “The time is now; the time is now; the time is now. Careful… careful…”
“If you fall for every sob story on the street, you’ll be broke by next week, Evil,” Theta cautioned as they crossed to the other side of the street.
“My brother served. He didn’t come back.”
“Oh, gee, kiddo. I’m sorry,” Theta said.
“It was a long time ago,” Evie said. She didn’t want to start their friendship on such a sour note. “Oh, look at that woman’s dress, will you? It’s the cat’s particulars!”
When they reached the Strand movie palace, the girls bought twenty-five-cent tickets and a white-gloved, red-suited usher showed them to their seats in the balcony overlooking the enormous gilded stage with its gold curtain. Evie had never seen anything so grand. The seats were plush velvet. Friezes and murals decorated the walls. Marble columns reached up to ornately decorated boxes and balconies. In the corner, a man played a Wurlitzer organ, and down below sat a pit for a full orchestra.
The house lights dimmed. The light from the projectionist’s booth played across the slowly opening curtain. Evie could hear the clack of the film as it moved through its paces. Flickering words filled the screen: PATHE NEWS. GENEVA, SWITZERLAND. THE 7TH GENERAL ASSEMBLY OF THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS MEETS. Official-looking men in suits and hats stood before a beautiful building. THE ASSEMBLY WELCOMES GERMANY TO THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS.
“We want Rudy!” Evie shouted at the screen. Mabel’s eyes widened in alarm, but Theta smirked, and Evie felt a small thrill that her rebelliousness had hit the mark. A man four seats down shushed her. “Get a job, Father Time,” she muttered, and the girls tried to stifle their giggles.
On-screen, a movie-star-handsome man inspected a factory and shook the hands of workers. The screen cut to white words on a black background: AMERICAN BUSINESSMAN AND INVENTOR JAKE MARLOWE SETS NEW RECORD IN INDUSTRIAL PRODUCTION.
“That Jake Marlowe sure is a Sheik,” Evie murmured appreciatively.
“My parents don’t like him,” Mabel whispered from beside her.
“Your parents don’t like anybody who’s rich,” Evie said.
“They say he won’t let his workers unionize.”
“It’s his company. Why shouldn’t he do as he sees fit?” Evie said.
The disgruntled man waved for an usher. The girls immediately quieted and tried to look innocent. The newsreel ended and the picture began. Metro presents Rex Ingram’s production of Vincent Blasco Ibañez’s literary masterpiece THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE flashed upon the screen and they fell silent, held rapt by the screen’s glow and Rudolph Valentino’s beauty. Evie imagined herself on the silver screen kissing someone like Valentino, her picture in Photoplay magazine. Maybe she’d live in a Moorish-style mansion in the Hollywood Hills, complete with tiger-skin rugs. That was what Evie loved best about going to the pictures: the chance to dream herself into a different, more glamorous life. But then the film came to the scenes of war. Evie stared at the soldiers in the trenches, the young men crawling across the rain-soaked no-man’s-land of the battlefield, falling to explosions. She felt dizzy, thinking of James and her terrible dreams. Why did they haunt her? When would they stop? Why did James never speak to her in them? She’d give anything just to hear his voice.
By the end of the picture, they were all misty-eyed—Mabel and Theta cried for the dead movie star; Evie for her brother.
“There’ll never be another like Rudy,” Mabel said, blowing her nose.
“You said it, sister,” Theta purred as they stepped out into the late-afternoon sun. She stopped when she saw Evie’s angry face. “Whatsa matter, Evil?”
“Sam. Lloyd,” Evie growled. She took off at a clip toward a cluster of people who were watching a three-card monte game.
“Who’s Sam Lloyd?” Mabel asked Theta.
“Don’t know,” Theta said. “But I’m pretty sure he’s a dead man.”
“Watch the Queen of Hearts, folks. She’s the money card.” Sam arranged three cards on top of a cardboard box, moving them around so quickly they were a blur. “Now, sir, sir—yes, you. Would you care to wager a guess? There’s no charge for this first round. Just to show you it’s an honest game I’m running.”
Evie turned the box over, upsetting the cards and the money. “Remember me, Casanova?”
It took Sam a minute, but then he smiled. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite nun. How’s the Mother Superior, sister?”
“Don’t you ‘sister’ me. You stole my money.”
“Who, me? Do I look
like a thief?”
“And how!”
The crowd watched the argument with interest, and Sam looked around nervously. He snugged his Greek fisherman’s cap low over his brow. “Doll, I’m sorry you got fleeced, but it wasn’t me.”
“If you don’t want me to call a cop over here right this second and tell him you just tried to take advantage of me, you will give me my twenty dollars.”
“Now, sister, you wouldn’t—”
“I pos-i-tute-ly would! Do you know the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult?”
“Yeah, I know it, but—”
“You can find me there. You’d better bring me my twenty bucks if you know what’s good for you.”
“Or what?” Sam taunted.
Evie spied Sam’s jacket draped across a fire hydrant. She swiped it and slipped her arms through the sleeves.
“Give that back!” Sam growled.
“Twenty bucks and it’s all yours. The museum. See you soon-ski!” Laughing, Evie ran down the block.
“Who is that?” Mabel asked once she’d caught up and they’d ducked into a cafeteria.
“Sam Lloyd.” Evie nearly spat the name. She told them about her encounter with him at Pennsylvania Station, about how he’d kissed her and picked her pocket.
Theta sipped her coffee, leaving a perfect red Cupid’s bow mark on the white ceramic cup. “He looks like he could make off with more than just your twenty dollars, if you catch my drift. You better keep an eye on that one, Evil.”
“I don’t have enough eyes to keep on that one,” Evie grumbled.
“Go through his pockets. See if you can find your money,” Mabel suggested.
“Why, Mabel. What a spiffing idea! Is that what the progressive education of Little Red Schoolhouse has taught you?” Evie rifled through the jacket’s many pockets, but she found nothing except a collection of lint, half a roll of Lifesavers, and a colored-pencil postcard of mountains and tall trees. Something had been scrawled in Russian on the back of it. She knew she could try to read any of the objects to find out more about Sam Lloyd, but it wasn’t worth the headache. She’d trust that he’d come looking for the coat. It was September, and the weather would turn soon enough.
When Evie returned to the museum, Uncle Will and Jericho sat at the table talking to a barrel-chested gentleman with the sort of sad brown eyes one saw on pet-store puppies not chosen for Christmas and a nose that looked to have been on the wrong end of a few fights. A detective’s badge was pinned to his suit.
“Unc! What’d they get you for? You need bail?”
“Terrence, this is my niece, Evie O’Neill. Evie, this is Detective Malloy.”
Despite the sad eyes, Detective Malloy had a warm smile. He offered his hand. “I’m an old friend from the days when your uncle worked for the government.”
“Oh? When was that, Unc?” Evie asked.
Will ignored her. “I know I said we’d go to Chinatown for dinner, but I’m afraid I have to go downtown with Detective Malloy for a bit.”
“So you do need bail,” Evie said to Will.
“No, I do not. The police have asked for my help. There’s been a murder.”
“A murder! Oh, my. Let me just change my shoes,” Evie said excitedly. “I won’t be a minute.”
“You’re not coming,” Uncle Will said.
Evie hopped on one foot while removing her shoes and putting on her new oxfords. “Miss a real-life murder scene? Not on your life.”
“It’s ugly, Miss. Not meant for a lady,” Detective Malloy said.
“I don’t scare so easily. I promise I’ll be as tough as Al Capone.” Evie laced up the first shoe.
“You’re staying here.” Will turned his back, dismissing her.
“Unc, you promised to take Jericho and me to Chinatown for dinner. No sense coming back uptown for me.”
“Evangeline…”
“I promise I’ll be no trouble at all. I’ll sit in the back of the car and wait until you’ve finished,” Evie promised.
Will sighed. “All right by you, Terrence?”
“Okay by me.” The detective held the door for her. “But don’t complain to me if you have nightmares after, Miss O’Neill.”
Evie stifled a gallows laugh at that.
THE HARLOT ADORNED ON THE SEA
The Manhattan Bridge grew bigger as they pulled onto Pike Street. In front of the tenements, a swarm of kids played stickball. As the car moved through, they watched it with narrow-eyed suspicion.
“Future hooligans,” Detective Malloy said as he parked the police car at the end of the street. “Any of you little sh—” He glanced at Evie. “Little brats touch this car, I promise you they’ll be dragging the river for your teeth.”
The men stepped out of the car, and Evie followed.
“You were to wait in the car,” Will reminded her.
Evie had finagled her way down here. She wasn’t about to get this far and not see the actual murder scene. A murder in Manhattan! Already she imagined writing to Dottie and Louise about her adventures: “Dearest darlings, you won’t believe what I saw today…. Naturally, like any modern girl, I wasn’t afraid….” It would be just like the Agatha Christie novels she adored. But only if she could get closer.
“Oh, Uncle Will, but anything could happen to a girl waiting in the car.” Evie glanced meaningfully at the kids playing stickball. “What would my mother say?”
She mustered up a face of pure innocence.
“Then Jericho can wait with you.”
Evie glanced quickly at Jericho. “I’d feel better staying with you, Uncle Will. I promise I’ll stay out of the way. And you don’t need to worry that I’m one of those Fainting Frannys who goes goofy at the sight of blood. Why, last year, when Betty Hornsby nearly cut her finger clean off trying to juggle steak knives at a party, I was the only one who didn’t wilt on the spot seeing all that blood everywhere. It was a real mess but I was ab-so-lute-ly like a stone. Promise.”
She did her best to look completely nonplussed, as if she saw dead bodies all the time. Uncle Will started to object, but Detective Malloy shrugged. “As long as she promises not to faint, it’s fine by me. But this is no mystery novel, Miss O’Neill. I’m giving you fair warning.”
At the pier, a crowd of onlookers had gathered. Cops in blue uniforms with brass buttons shooed them back. Three oyster houseboats bobbed at the end of the pier where they were tied with hawsers.
“Body’s over here,” Malloy said. “Was some fishermen that found her. The body was dumped here sometime in the past day or so, near as we can tell. It was hidden by a heap of oyster shells, which is why nobody saw it earlier. You okay, Fitz?”
Uncle Will had paled. “I hate the smell of fish.”
“Cheer up. What you’re gonna see will make you forget about the smell. Body’s a real mess.” Malloy glanced at Evie. She refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Got some kind of weird mumbo-jumbo with it, too, which is why I came for you. I’m telling you, Fitz, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Malloy led them to a spot piled high with shucked oyster shells, pink-white in the evening sun. A police photographer had set up his tripod. The flash lamp in his hand went off, blinding Evie with its brightness. The lamp’s magnesium powder scorched the air, leaving a sharp tang on Evie’s tongue. As they drew closer, the smells of fish, urine, and rotting flesh overpowered Evie. A violent heaving washed up inside her, which she willed back down. She breathed surreptitiously through her mouth. Black flies swarmed the spot, and Evie waved them away from her face.
“This is as far as you go, Miss,” Detective Malloy said, and it was clear it was an order. He nodded at Jericho in some unspoken male code that indicated Jericho should stay with Evie, which only irritated her further.
Detective Malloy led Will around the wall of oyster shells and she watched her uncle’s face go even paler, saw him put a hand to his mouth to hold back a shout or vomit. He turned away for a minute an
d bent over to breathe, and Evie saw her chance.
“Unc, are you all right?” she said, rushing at him.
“Evie…” he started, but it was too late. Evie had turned around.
The only time she could recall ever feeling so punched clean of breath was the day the telegram from the war department arrived. It took a moment for her mind to register that what lay sprawled on the old wooden pier had been a human being. She took it in by degrees: A shoe half-off. The filthy, shredded stockings pooling around swollen, blackened ankles. The torn dress and bruised limbs. The skin of her eyelids slack and sunken around empty sockets.
Her eyes. The killer had taken her eyes.
Dizziness whooshed up and over Evie as if someone had swung a hammer hard against a carnival bell. She dug her fingernails into her palms to keep herself alert.
The girl’s battered body had been arranged on the pier with her arms and legs stretched out. Her head was shorn of all hair except for a few tufts the scissors had missed. Cheap five-and-dime-store pearls ringed her neck, and toy rings encircled her fingers. Her blood-drained face was made up in garish fashion—heavy powder and rouge. A red slash of lipstick barely disguised the blue of her dead lips. HARLOT had been scrawled across her forehead.
A policeman had offered Will smelling salts and he stood, a little woozy. Evie hadn’t moved an inch. Back at the apartment, it had seemed very exciting—a real murder scene, something to tell new friends about. But now, looking at the violated corpse, Evie doubted she’d ever want to discuss this. She wished she could unsee it. A single tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it quickly away and stared down at her shoes.
“She’s been dead about a week, give or take,” Detective Malloy said. His voice seemed to come to Evie through a tunnel. “Pocketbook has a tag inside with a name and address. Ruta Badowski of Brooklyn. Nineteen years old. Family’s been contacted. A little over a week ago, Ruta went to one of those crazy dance marathons with her steady fella, Jacek Kowalski. We pulled him in for questioning, got nothing. He claims he slept on a stoop and went to work at the brick factory the next morning. Boss confirms it.”