“Oh my goodness!” His eyes widened as he took a step back, hands raised in alarm. “You gave me a start, I didn’t even see you!”
The girl edged away from him. He took another backward step.
“I think I’m lost,” he said, looking around. He avoided her eyes; that would spook her. “I’m looking for Emma Street, do you know where that is? The bakery, I’m supposed to pick up a white loaf for my wife.”
He shot her a puzzled smile. She didn’t smile back. But she didn’t run, either. He allowed himself to relax slightly. Feigning interest in the warehouse, he approached its open doorway. “Was this a bakery, do you think?” he asked.
“Bakery?” the girl replied scornfully. “Not unless you eat bricks. This’s the brickworks. Was.”
She hefted a brick and heaved it. He blinked as it smashed through another window. “Good aim,” he said.
For the first time she looked at him. Her braids had come undone, and she swiped her hair impatiently from her face. She had mistrustful blue eyes and appeared older than he’d first thought—thirteen at least. His fingers clenched and unclenched as he stared at her blue gingham dress, dusty and ripped from the fight with her sister. The torn bodice would be easy to stitch up, once he was back in his room.
“That wasn’t very nice, what your sister did,” he said.
She looked at him sharply. Then she laughed. “What are you, after Brigid? She’s with Lester now, you’ll be wasting your time.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“I seen you before, I think.” She yawned, raising her arms so that her dress slid up, exposing a fringe of torn petticoat and scabbed knees. “At McKracken’s there.”
“That’s right.” He nodded, withdrew a tin of lemon drops. He popped one into his mouth, closed the lid, and made to replace it in his pocket, before hesitating to glance at her. “I’m sorry—I should have offered. Care for one?”
“What is it?”
“Lemon drops.”
She made a face. “I don’t like ’em.”
“Me neither, usually,” he said. “But these are very good.”
Her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized the tin. “All right, I guess I’ll try one.”
She plucked out a lozenge and put it in her mouth. “Tastes like cherry,” she said, “not lemon.”
He offered her another. She chewed it and said, “This one’s nicer.”
“Please, help yourself.” He held out the tin.
“Don’t mind if I do,” she said, and grabbed a fistful.
Chapter 72
DESPITE ITS FANCY name, the Comique wasn’t a movie palace like the Hippodrome, or even a nickelodeon like the Kansas Cyclone, with its piano accompanist and movie projected on sail canvas, but a long barnlike structure with a screen door that banged every time someone entered or left.
“Won’t be anyone here this early,” Pin said as she held the door for Glory. “Except for Gus.”
At a table sat a fat man with a scruffy beard, visor pulled low on his forehead as he read a newspaper. He barely looked up when she dropped a nickel on the desk.
“Heya, kid. Here ya go.” He grunted and handed her twenty-five pennies from a metal dispenser. “Don’t make trouble.”
The long windowless room was dim and cool as the inside of a church. Mutoscope and Kinetoscope machines lined the walls. An odd, not unpleasant smell hung over everything—burnt dust from the peep-show lanterns, tobacco smoke, sawdust. Tattered posters advertised one-reelers, few of which could be seen in the Comique.
Glory surveyed the room, brows knitted. “Wow. I didn’t know they still had places like this.”
They walked over to inspect a Mutoscope. Handwritten cards stuck to the machines had titles like Oh! What She Did! and What She Couldn’t See. You put a penny in a slot, then peered through a lens while you cranked a handle that turned a spool holding eight hundred and fifty black-and-white photo cards. The cards flipped over one at a time, and if you cranked fast enough, you saw a flickering movie that lasted a minute or two. If you cranked slowly, you got a better look at the individual photos of naked ladies.
But the Comique had other movies, too. Most featured girls in trouble, like The Broken Doll, Lonely Villa, or The Adventures of Dollie. Pin pointed to another Mutoscope.
“Have you seen The House with the Closed Shutters?”
Glory nodded. “That was a good one!”
“I love it,” Pin said in a reverent tone. The heroine was a girl who dressed in her cowardly Confederate brother’s uniform, ordered her mother to cut off all her long hair, then rode off to deliver an important letter to General Lee. Afterward she was killed while trying to raise the Confederate flag on the battlefield. Pin hurried over to the machine.
OUT OF ORDER
“Damn, it’s busted.”
“Don’t swear,” chided Glory, swatting her with her straw hat. “Lookee here. Harriet Quimby.” She gestured at another Mutoscope:
THE ENGLISH CHANNEL FLOWN BY A LADY AVIATOR FOR THE FIRST TIME
“That’s my favorite!” exclaimed Pin.
“Me too.”
Pin jammed a penny into the slot. Heads touching, they leaned over the viewing lens. The brilliant light inside the machine flashed on as Pin turned the crank, title cards flickering.
HARRIET QUIMBY PREPARES HER BLÉRIOT AEROPLANE
And there she was—beautiful Harriet, standing beside her monoplane in her leather trousers and aviator’s cap. She adjusted her goggles as a man looked on and another man spun the aeroplane’s propeller. Smiling, she waved at the cameraman.
NEVER BEFORE HAS A WOMAN ATTEMPTED SUCH A THING!
Harriet stepped inside the open cockpit. The wind grabbed the end of her scarf as the Blériot began to move across the field on its little wheels, rocking back and forth as it gained speed.
Then, magically, the aeroplane lifted into the air, wings tilting one way, then the other, as it went up, up, up, shrinking until it might have been a bird, or an insect, and then not even an insect but something in Pin’s eyes that made them water.
NEVER DONE BEFORE! THE WORLD’S FIRST LADY OF THE AIR
The end titles flickered. The screen went blank. Pin opened her mouth to say she’d gotten a cinder in her eye, but Glory moved closer, her lips soft against Pin’s cheek as she whispered, “It makes me cry, too.”
Pin turned her head, and for an instant their mouths touched. Through slitted eyes she saw Glory staring back at her, smelled her sugary scent mingled with that of burning dust as Glory’s lips pressed against her mouth and Glory’s tongue flicked against Pin’s lower lip.
“Hey! None of that, you kids!”
Glory drew back, cheeks aflame, while Pin laughed, giddy and confused.
“I mean it!” Gus pounded on his table so the coin changer jingled. Pin knew he wouldn’t bother to heave his bulk from his stool, but she nodded.
“C’mon,” she said, and took Glory’s hand.
They hurried out through the back door, the leaden sky blinding after the Comique’s cool darkness. The rain had stopped, but the air felt dank as a wet sponge. Glory looked at Pin and started to laugh. Pin began laughing, too, the two of them doubled over like they were at a Chaplin movie.
Finally, Glory caught her breath. “Lookee here, I need to get back. And we never even went for that book…” She appeared crestfallen. “Aw, Lionel will kill me.”
“I’ll find it, don’t worry,” Pin said. “I’ll bring it when I come to the studio for—you know.”
They both burst out laughing again. Then, “You better not ever get caught,” Glory warned her. “They’ll send you to Detention House.”
“I won’t get caught. Besides, it just looks like a packet of cigarettes.”
“Not if you smoke ’em.”
“Well, who’s smoking ’em? Not me.”
Glory gave her a smile that seemed equal parts admiration and worry. “I suppose you’re just braver than me, Pin.”
When they reached
the park’s exit, Glory stopped. “Lookee, I’ll be working till late tonight, doing that bathing-contest movie. So if I’m not in the costume shop when you come to see Lionel, just come find me on the stage.”
Pin nodded, unsure what to do now. Shake hands? But Glory had already turned to race for the streetcar, one hand raised in farewell, the other clutching her hat.
Chapter 73
HE WATCHED HER chew the lozenges, waiting for his chance. It came when a thin curtain of rain descended across the trash-strewn lot. The girl stared stupidly at the sky, rain spotting her gingham dress.
“Let’s stay dry!” he exclaimed, taking her hand to pull her into the building.
“Feels good,” she said, resisting, and he let go. “Been so hot.”
His limbs felt suspended in honey. He’d continued to eat the lozenges himself, so as not to make the girl suspicious whenever he offered her another. She tipped her head back so the rain ran down her face.
“It’s just a sun shower,” she said. “I got to get back, my ma told me to watch my brother.”
Without another word, she turned and broke into a run.
He’d been expecting this: he lunged, grabbed her arm, and dragged her into the warehouse. She screamed, not in fear but fury, and elbowed him in the chest. He grunted but didn’t let go, clamping his hand across her mouth. It was as though he’d tried to silence a rabid dog. She bit down on his fingers, kicking him as she twisted away, screaming.
“Brigid! Brigid!”
His knees buckled as she landed another kick; her fist connected with his eye as he fell, catching himself against the doorframe. He clutched his face and dazedly watched her run off. When he heard the answering chorus of girls’ alarmed voices, he turned and lurched through the warehouse, searching for the door. It was locked, but he kicked it open, pushed his way through the rotted boards, and fled.
He stumbled until he reached a railroad track, scrambled down the embankment, and followed it until he saw a break in the fence. Back on the street, he retraced his path to a streetcar stop and hopped the first car he saw. He rode it to within a few blocks of where he lived and staggered home, locked the door behind him, and raced upstairs to pack.
Chapter 74
BY EARLY AFTERNOON Francis felt like he was playing a bit part in one of those one-reelers popularized by the temperance movement—The Drunkard’s Curse, Satan in a Bottle. He’d never seen so many drunks, men and women both. This is what you get for giving away free tickets for the kiddies, he thought. That much more money to spend on beer.
And of course the weather only made it worse. Something about the threat of a storm made people act like their days were numbered. Couples stumbled from the Woodland Cabaret, the women’s skirts rumpled and the men’s collars askew. A man held a woman’s hat as she vomited near the Tickler’s exit. Outside Hell Gate, a girl comforted her sobbing friend.
“He told me—he told me it couldn’t possibly be him…”
Because of course they’d opened the dark ride again. How could they not, on what would almost certainly be Riverview’s biggest day of the season?
Then there were the lost kids, at least two or three an hour, judging from how often the station bell rang. So far, every child had been reunited with his or her family.
His heart still contracted every time he saw a young girl on her own. By the time he returned to the station house for his break, it was after three o’clock.
Magruder was at the front desk, smoking as he bent over a logbook. The open windows let in a stifling breeze and the midway’s racket. Magruder looked up and leaned across the desk to motion him over.
“There’s been another one,” he said in a low voice.
Francis stared at him. “Are you joking?”
“Not here—that Irish slum south of Division. Irish girl, there was a group of them playing in a vacant lot. She wandered off and said a man approached her. He offered her candy and tried to grab her, but she fought him off and escaped.”
“Where is she now?”
“Chicago Avenue station. Her mother brought her in, Deneen’s supposed to be questioning her.”
“Could the girl describe the man?”
“Said he was white, light-colored hair. Younger, not grey hair. A mustache.
“And listen to this—” Magruder stubbed out his cigarette. “A drugstore man went to the police this morning. He said a man came into his shop early this morning to buy lemon drops and laudanum cordial. Three boxes of each. Said they were for his twins, but the druggist says he looked suspicious. Cuts on his face, and when he noticed the druggist staring at them, he ran off like he was on fire and knocked over a laundress in the street.”
“Where was this?”
“Ashland Avenue. Same general vicinity as the girl.”
“West Town.” Francis stared out the window, thinking. “He lives nearby,” he said at last. “He’s too smart to try it again in the park, but he doesn’t want to go too far away. Are they searching the slum?”
“Yeah. But the girl said he wasn’t from there. She would have recognized him if he was. She said he was too well dressed. Not Irish. Not Italian or Polish or Czech, either. And not a Gypsy.”
“Hell,” said Francis. “He could be anywhere by now.”
“They’re watching the train station and steamboats. Baumgarten’s pressuring the Bavarian Society to kick in another thousand to the reward money.”
Exhaustion hit Francis like a sudden chill. “I need to get something to eat,” he said. “You got enough men?”
“Oh, sure.” Magruder ran a finger down the log in front of him. “Hasn’t been too terrible. Mostly the heat, and a buncha drunks.”
“How many lost kids?”
“Seventeen so far. But they’ve been brought in pretty fast. Last one, Baumgarten was here and gave him a pass for the rest of the summer. Kid nearly fainted, he was so excited.”
Francis’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Good for him,” he said.
Chapter 75
LOUELLA PARSONS WAS driving Lionel crazy with her rewrites. For a matronly lady who dressed like she was meeting her friends for a rubber of bridge, Louella intimidated as many people at Essanay as Spoor or Anderson. He didn’t know what was worse: being forced to churn out his own drivel for the studio, or enduring endless revisions on marginally better material written by someone else.
Now he and Parsons stood watching Carrera set up a new scene that Lionel had rewritten at her urging, but Lionel had already decided this would be the last time. When he saw Spoor, he’d pitch his idea for a movie inspired by the Riverview murders. If Spoor turned it down, he’d buy a train ticket and try his luck at the Niles studio.
Then a messenger burst into the scenarists’ room.
“He’s done it again!” he cried, waving a special noontime edition of the Pilot, a broadsheet emblazoned with one-inch headlines. Billy Carrera grabbed the paper as cast and crew crowded around him.
“Jesus,” Lionel muttered as he read over Louella’s shoulder:
Girl Narrowly Escapes Killer’s Hands
Una O’Harran, thirteen years old, recounted how she was snatched from playing a game with other children in a vacant yard near Division Street early this morning. The young girl managed to escape but her adductor fled…
An actor pushed his way past Lionel, blocking his view. But he’d read enough. It would be impossible for anyone to focus on A Truckload of Taters until after lunch.
Someone tapped his shoulder: Louella. “I’ll need you here this afternoon for Bettie’s Bathing Beauty Boast. That Valerie can’t remember her own name. You’re going to have to simplify her lines.”
“What time?”
“Three o’clock. Don’t be late again.”
Lionel wouldn’t be late. He was done taking orders from Louella. He’d get his notebook, talk to Spoor, and take his chances.
He headed down the hall to Glory’s dressing room. Glory sat inside, curling her hair in front of th
e mirror.
“Did you find it?” he asked.
Glory carefully freed the curling iron from a ringlet. “I didn’t have enough time. But I saw Pin and asked him if he could bring it with him with the…you know.”
“Well, I haven’t seen him here,” snapped Lionel. “Have you?”
“Not yet. I expect he’ll be along soon.”
This is what he got for trusting a kid. “I guess I’ll just go myself, then. Did you hear that guy tried to kill another girl?”
“No! What happened?”
“Somewhere in an Irish slum, the girl got away. You better be careful, Glory—when Pin comes around, maybe you should ask him to stay and protect you.”
He meant it as a joke. But to his surprise, Glory’s cheeks pinked.
“I can protect myself,” she retorted.
She sure could—Glory had just ratted out Wally Beery for flirting with a thirteen-year-old extra. But Lionel had seen the way Glory and Beery looked at each other. That girl’s beautiful blue eyes sure could turn green fast. He touched his hat. “I’m going to Riverview to find my notebook. Don’t want anyone stealing my ideas.”
“Fat chance.” Glory sniffed.
Chapter 76
AFTER GLORY LEFT, Pin had made her way back through the park, sleeves rolled up and hands slung in her knickerbocker pockets, head thrown back to stare raptly at the grey sky. She sauntered past Red Friend, grinning like she hadn’t heard his bally a thousand times—“Happened right where you’re standing, friend—that very spot!” She didn’t even pause to watch the crowd outside the shuttered Hippodrome, where policemen chased away photographers trying to sneak in.
She felt pixilated, like one of those pictures from the funnies that showed someone with bluebirds flying from their eyes. She could hardly bear to think of Glory’s mouth pressed against hers: the memory made her so happy she was afraid she might wear it out, the way film reels decayed after being played day after day.
Curious Toys Page 23