Hyman was resplendent in a perfectly tailored tuxedo. A fresh, fragrant boutonniere was pinned to his lapel. He gave her a scrutinizing, head-to-toe onceover.
“You are very lovely, Mademoiselle Scalisi,” he said, winging his elbow out for her to take. “The Chanel is incredible on you.”
She glanced down, running a hand lightly down her side. He’d sent the dress with her after she’d shown up for a brief rehearsal that afternoon at his insistence. It was a filmy, red chiffon number, with beading along the slender straps and in an intricate pattern at the front. Cascades of sheer red chiffon dangled from each side of her hips, where the seam of the drop-waist bodice met the skirt. Jeweled heels, also sent by Hyman, completed the look.
“Thank you for it,” she replied.
“Consider it a gift to celebrate the start of our partnership.” He smiled down at her and patted her hand as he led her through the foyer to the large receiving room that served as tonight’s ballroom. “Do you remember when you visited me around Thanksgiving the year before last, when I gifted you the shop?”
“Yes.”
“And do you recall how I suggested you might be able to aid me in my less-than-legal endeavors?”
She glanced up at him. “The bootlegging, you mean? You told me politicians and important businessmen would be more interested in talking to a pretty girl than a crusty, middle-aged man.”
“I don’t quite recall describing myself quite that way,” he said drily, “but, yes. That’s the conversation I am referencing.”
“What of it?”
“Do you see that man right there?” He nodded toward a tall, stoic man with graying hair and a prominent nose.
“Yes.”
“Do you know who that is?”
She studied him more closely. “That’s the governor of New York, isn’t it?” She only knew the man from seeing his picture in the papers. She’d never followed politics particularly closely.
“Al Smith,” Hyman confirmed. “He’s going to run for president in the next election.”
“And…you want me to try to talk him into buying something?”
“No,” he said. “I want you to help him change his stance on Prohibition.”
“He’s a dry,” Mia said. “That’ll be a challenge.”
“The opposite, actually.”
She looked at him. “He’s…a wet?”
“That’s correct.”
“Then why…” She trailed off under Hyman’s gaze. Then it clicked in her mind. “If Prohibition gets repealed, all of these lucrative business ventures go away. People stop making money hand-over-fist when it’s legal.”
Hyman’s eyes gleamed at her with pride. “I always knew you were a very smart girl, Mia. Yes. You are absolutely correct. Governor Smith is anti-Prohibition because he feels—rightly—that criminality in this country has increased exponentially since it was enacted. And he wants to abolish the cause of that criminality. But in doing so, what he’ll abolish is many people’s main source of income. And…well, that would be bad.”
“How, exactly, do you expect me to change his mind?”
Hyman faced her, halting them in their slow progress across the room. “I want him to hear from one of America’s success stories. An immigrant girl, brought to the Promised Land, the land of milk and honey, the place where her poor parents’ dreams came true. And how happy you are to see the vile drink abolished from this beautiful country.”
“I was born here, Mr. Goldberg. I’m not an immigrant.”
“He doesn’t need to know that, my sweet.” He looped her hand through his arm and began walking again. “He only needs to see the sincerity and worry in your pretty brown eyes, and have a good peek down the front of your scandalously low-cut neckline.”
The puppetmaster at work. She ought to have recalled Hyman never did anything without an agenda. “Some gift,” she muttered.
They reached the governor, where he conversed with a man Mia did not recognize. They both turned as she and Hyman approached, and nodded their respect to Hyman, while giving her polite but curious glances.
“Al,” Hyman said warmly, releasing Mia to shake his hand. “Joe. How are you gentlemen enjoying my little soiree?”
“Fantastic, as always,” Governor Smith responded. “Food is great, drink is better. Music’s swell.”
“The music will soon get even better, at least for a song or two.” Hyman gestured to Mia. “Allow me to present Miss Mia Angela Scalisi, the soon-to-be featured headliner at my new nightclub, and who will be enthralling us with her vocal stylings and charm later this evening. Miss Scalisi, this is Governor Al Smith and his future running mate, Senator Joseph Robinson.”
“Miss Scalisi,” Governor Smith said, lightly taking her proffered hand and bending over it.
“A pleasure, Miss Scalisi,” Senator Robinson said, doing the same.
“Governor, Senator,” she said. “What a pleasure and an honor it is to meet you both.”
“The pleasure is all ours,” Governor Smith replied, “especially if we can count on your vote next election.” He winked at her and dug his elbow into Senator Robinson’s side. “Now that you women have earned the right, it’s time to start using it, eh?”
“Indeed,” the senator said. “The future is our young people, and even more, our young women.”
“Miss Scalisi here is a good Catholic girl,” Hyman added.
“Oh?” Governor Smith said with a smile. “Tell me, to which parish do you belong in our fair city?”
Mia hadn’t planned to resume going to church now that she was back in the country. She’d gone as a child, then stopped going altogether when she’d taken the job at the dress factory, since she’d had to work Sundays. In Sicily, she hadn’t wanted to scandalize her newfound family by not going to church, so she’d accompanied them every Sunday and gone through the motions like a machine.
But before Nick had died, she’d attended most Sundays with Gloria, though it hadn’t been out of interest. Nick would always send her, telling her to say enough Hail Marys to keep him out of hell. She’d assumed he’d been only half-joking.
Mia racked her brain for the name of the church Uncle Joe and Aunt Connie attended—the church most Italians in the Lower East Side attended.
“Most Precious Blood,” she replied with a smile. “Though it’s been some time since I’ve been there. I’ve been out of the country for nearly the past year and a half, visiting family.”
The governor looked pleased. “May I inquire as to where?”
“Sicily,” Mia replied. “Where I was, er, born.”
“An immigrant.” Senator Robinson studied her with new interest. “I do love hearing tales of our immigrant friends. Truly, this country would be nothing without our immigrants.”
Feeling a bit of a fraud, Mia said, “I immigrated here with my family in—” She faltered; her parents and Nick had arrived in 1901, and she had not been born until 1903. On the off chance the governor and senator decided to investigate her claims and located her family’s immigration documents, she’d have to lie about her age. “In 1901,” she finished. “When I was just a—a year old.”
“Wonderful,” Governor Smith said. “And what do your parents do for a living?”
“They’re both deceased, but my father was a fisherman and a laborer. And after he passed, my mother worked in factories. She perished in the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire.”
The governor bowed his head. “I am truly sorry to hear of that, Miss Scalisi. Such a terrible, terrible incident. You know, shortly after that, I dedicated many long months to investigating factory conditions so that families such as yours would never have to endure such horror. We sought to reform labor laws after that tragic occurrence.”
Mia drew her head back, genuinely surprised. How ignorant she’d been of all that had taken place in the wake of the disaster that had killed her mother. “I can appreciate your efforts, Governor. Sadly, though, I’m not sure they were appreciated by the
men in charge at those factories. You see, after my brother and I became orphans, he was drafted into the war. And I had to take up work in a factory in order to survive. I can tell you firsthand that conditions were nearly as terrible as the ones my mother worked under, and that was several years later.”
“We certainly still have our work cut out for us,” Governor Smith said gravely. “All the more reason to secure your support in the next election, Miss Scalisi. It’s a very important time, indeed. What better candidate for you to support than those you know believe in righting wrongs you and your family have experienced?”
“Well, Governor,” Mia said, “I would love to put my support behind you, but I’m afraid we don’t agree on one of those very important issues.”
“And which issue would that be?”
“Prohibition,” Mia said.
The governor and the senator both chuckled. “But my dear, look around,” Governor Smith said, gesturing around the room. “You’re surrounded by alcohol. In the hands of very fine men and ladies.” He nudged Hyman with his elbow. “And I daresay your benefactor here has made a pretty penny off selling the stuff, as well. Wouldn’t you say you’re being just a tad hypocritical?”
“Not in the slightest,” Mia said sweetly. “You see, Governor, as a good Catholic, I was raised to stay away from liquor. My own father only ever drank wine, and even then, only on special occasions. Growing up in our tenement apartment, and then later, when I became a child vaudeville performer, I saw how drink ruined so many people. Good men and women. I saw the effect it had on our veterans, after my brother came home from the war. And I see what it does now—it turns people into rabid beings. I once worked for a shopkeeper, a very fine woman named Madame du la Boviette, who was also an immigrant Catholic, and a member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. She influenced me greatly.”
The governor and the senator did not need to know that Madame du la Boviette was actually the stage name of a coarse woman named Beverly Marsh from Idaho, whom Mia had met on a dusty vaudeville stage in the Bowery in 1915. It was also the name Mia fell back on when she needed to lie about her dance tutelage, or her own identity.
“But, dear,” Governor Smith said, “look at all that has happened since Prohibition went into effect. The rise of the organized crime has men acting like rabid beings, anyway. If we abolished Prohibition, we get a hold of organized crime and the criminals who participate in it. You would be shocked if I shared with you some of the stories I’ve heard.”
Actually, Mia agreed with the governor wholeheartedly. She wasn’t so naive that she believed abolishing the 18th Amendment would thereby abolish criminality in its entirety, but she did believe that crime had drastically increased since Prohibition had given birth to those years of blood and whiskey.
“I only know how I feel, Governor,” she said, hoping she sounded grave. “I, and so many other young ladies like me. We’ve seen what alcohol does to so many of our good men. Meaning no disrespect to you or your endeavors, but I hope Prohibition stands. Or perhaps you might change your mind.”
“To change his mind would be to give up the entire goddamn ticket,” Senator Robinson objected.
“Miss Scalisi might have a point,” Hyman said. “And I believe she and many of her peers will happily exercise their newly granted voting rights in the upcoming election.” Then he angled his head, his gaze targeting something or someone across the room. “Ah, Miss Scalisi, there’s the lady I mentioned to you earlier that I wanted you to meet. Come, my dear.”
What lady? Mia bobbed her head at the two gentlemen. “Enjoy your evening. It was lovely to meet you.”
They both bowed elegantly.
“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Scalisi,” Governor Smith said, “and we look forward to seeing you sing shortly.”
As Hyman dragged her away, she frowned up at him. “Who am I meeting now? And what was the point of that conversation? He won’t change his mind, and even if he did, you heard him—to do so would defeat the point of his position on the ballot in the first place.”
“You’re meeting the powder room,” Hyman said. “I just wanted to get you out of there. And I didn’t expect you to create some kind of epiphany in the good governor. I just wanted you to get in his head, confirm some of the fears and doubts he’s been having about running.” He smiled. “Mind games, dear.”
“We have two long years to see if these little mind tricks of yours work,” she said. “So I still don’t see the point.”
“Seed planting, my child,” Hyman said. “Besides, that was an audition of sorts. I wanted to see how you’d fare against men of that class for future…business endeavors. Throwing you in front of a likely presidential candidate seemed like a good way to gauge that.”
“More mind games, Mr. Goldberg?”
“I never stop playing, my darling,” he said, leading her to the door of the powder room. “You may refresh yourself here. I’d like you to take the stage for the first song in twenty minutes. Are you all set from rehearsal earlier?”
“Rehearsal” had consisted of a thirty-minute, mid-afternoon meeting with the band Hyman had hired to select a couple of songs. The band leader, Gene, was a kindly pianist whom Mia had liked almost instantly. She thought of Billy from Stems Club in Chicago. After the club had closed, the band had gone its separate ways, and she hadn’t heard from him since. He’d been a wonderful man. She hoped he was all right.
They’d selected two popular songs from Mia’s repertoire, “Somebody Loves Me” and “Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out.”
“Yes,” Mia replied. “I’m all set.”
“Good. I’ll have someone come fetch you when it’s time. Break a leg, dear.” Hyman shut the door, and she was alone.
The powder room was as big as a walk-in closet, with shining hex tiles, a porcelain sink and toilet, and a vanity with a cushioned stool. Mia slid onto the stool and gave her reflection a hard stare. Her thick, dark hair had grown while she’d been in Sicily, so she’d had it cut back into her old, chin-length bob, so charming with its large waves. Her full, unsmiling crimson lips matched her dress, and her smoky eye shadow made her brown eyes hazy and alluring. She pinched her cheeks a little for color, and then, suddenly, nerves erupted in her stomach.
Her first performance in well over a year, and she was nervous. Mia Angela Scalisi, the Saturday Night Special, did not get nervous.
Except she did. She always had, but she had only ever allowed one person to see it.
And Nick wasn’t here—would never again be here—to joke her out of her nervousness, to calm the butterflies in her stomach, to say what he always said to her before a show.
Never let ’em see you sweat.
Nick had been the one to broker this deal with Hyman—a deal she’d known nothing about, had had no say in. A deal that felt very much like he’d been selling her in exchange for two million of Hyman’s dollars, but one that had been meant to get her away from Sal Bellomo.
If he were here, what would he think? He’d probably be terribly proud of her. He’d tell her to knock ’em dead. He’d tell her not to forget about him when she became a big star. He’d have lots of jokes, but they’d be underscored with his pride in her.
If she stared into the mirror hard enough, she could almost see him behind her, in his own tux, wearing his old, smart-aleck grin, flashing the dimple in his left cheek that completed their shared set. She could almost see his hand on her shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. Then he’d offer his elbow and escort her to the stage himself. And when she was done, he’d be the first on his feet to cheer for her. They’d get late-night steak and eggs somewhere, or have a drink at the crummiest speak in town, and he’d tell her how proud of her he was. How proud Mama and Papa would be if they could see her now.
Tears filled her eyes before she could will them away.
A box of facial tissues rested on the vanity next to a small jar of cold cream. Without a handkerchief available, Mia pluck
ed a tissue from the box and dabbed her eyes.
A knock at the door made her jump. “Mia?”
Charlie.
She considered not answering the door. After last night, it was hard to know if Charlie was still the same Charlie she’d left on the docks last January before boarding the ship to Sicily. And that realization that he might be a very different man…hurt.
“It’s Charlie. Open the door.”
Mia slid off the stool and opened the door slightly. He peered down at her through the crack. “You gonna let me in?”
She opened the door wider. He stepped inside the small room, pushing the door shut. He looked terribly handsome in his tuxedo. His wavy black hair was tamed, even the stubborn forelock that added to his boyish features.
“How you doing?” he asked. “Nervous?”
“Little. First time singing in front of people in a while.”
“Ah, you’re a pro.” He stepped closer, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “It’ll be like you never left.”
She studied him. “I think we both know that’s not true.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“I did leave,” she went on. “And things are very different. Aren’t they?”
“We had to keep going, Mia,” he said. “With or without you. We didn’t know you’d stay there so long. I didn’t know.”
“Of course you had to keep going.” She stepped closer to him. “But was it in the right direction, Charlie?”
He took a deep breath. “Look, a lot’s happened. You know that. We haven’t had a chance to talk, me and you. Alone, I mean. Just us. Let me take you to a late supper after this. All right?”
Mia hesitated. An enormous part of her wanted to say yes. A small, but loud, part of her begged her to say no.
“Please,” he added softly, and reached for her hand slowly, as though she were a wild animal he was trying not to startle. “I—I’ve missed you, Mia.”
Princes of the Lower East Side: A 1920s Mafia Thriller (A Scalisi Family Novel) Page 9