by Jo Schaffer
Carole Lombard it was then … a little dizzy, not intimidating, but classy.
“Oh, Brigitte. You look simply divine!” Hazel gushed as sincerely as possible, a bright smile on her face.
Brigitte did a slight double take and narrowed her eyes. She came to a stop and turned toward Hazel. It was impossible to ignore her, now that Hazel had been chosen as a maid of honor. “Hello. Where is Gabriel?” She glanced around the crowd as another song started up.
“Oh, he’s getting me something to drink. Isn’t it hot in here? I have no idea how you pull off looking so cool and sophisticated all the time.” Hazel fanned her face. “I’m always a mess even under the best of conditions.” She giggled. “Your lipstick is perfection. How do you get it to look so smooth?”
Ah, the power of flattery and self-deprecation. Brigitte’s eyes lit up, and she smiled at Hazel. She turned to the young man beside her and gave him an irritated look. “Get me something to drink too. This is girl talk.”
The tall boy with slicked back hair nodded and drifted off with a look of relief on his face.
Hazel hooked her arm through Brigitte’s. “Please tell me all your secrets. I’m hopeless, as you know.” They walked to the edges of the crowd, while the dancers took the floor again.
The snooty blonde scanned her from head to toe and pursed her lips. “Well … not everyone has sens de la mode. That’s no crime. Neither is that gown, by the way. Much nicer than I imagined, considering who the designer was.” She dropped this stale crumb with a look of benevolence and generosity.
Hazel forced a smile. “Truly? Thank you. That means so much. I haven’t admitted this before, but I look up to you. I realized that the things you said about that newsie and everything else was true. You were just trying to help. I value good friends who are willing to say things I don’t like.”
Brigitte glowed. “Well, I do my best. We Lindell girls need to stick together. Say … I have an idea. Why don’t you let me make you over?” Her eyes widened with her grin. It was almost frightening.
“That would be swell.” Hazel nodded eagerly.
Regina Peck danced by with her date and glanced at the other two girls talking. Her face scrunched with confusion to see them smiling together.
Brigitte waved at her dark-haired friend and then turned to Hazel to snicker. “Regina thinks she is so posh. I tried to tell her that gown was a mistake, but she didn’t listen. Her hips look as wide as the Mississippi in it.”
Just like that, the social dynamics had flipped, and Hazel was giggling at being mean with the worst girl she knew. It was working. It reminded Hazel of how Henri laid down to show subservience to Mick to get his belly scratched.
After several minutes of Brigitte chatting about makeup and the right perfume to attract rich, frat boys, Hazel glanced around to see where the Veiled Prophet sat up on the stage, in his jeweled robes and lace-covered face, flanked by two Bengal Lancers. Even though the room was filled with hundreds of people and his face was covered, Hazel felt a chill, as if he watched her alone.
“Your family is one of the highest in St. Louis … do you ever wonder who the VP is?”
Brigitte gave a knowing smile and tugged the wrinkles out of her elbow-length, white gloves. She liked to seem important and be in the know. “Well … I’m pretty sure I heard my daddy talking to him once,” she said in a low voice.
Hazel gasped. “On the level?”
“Yes. It was late at night, but I had sneaked downstairs for some warm milk. I heard him in his study on the telephone. So naturally, I pressed my ear to the door. He was saying things about who might be the chosen debutante and said something about donating to the ‘great cause’ or something. It all seemed very secretive.”
“I’m so curious. You’re the only person I could think of who is smart and connected enough to help me guess it.”
Brigitte smirked. “There are theories flying about, of course. Anna Busch swears it’s got to be the Governor. Some say it’s one of the Lemps. Regina says her daddy comes and goes at odd times at night. She thinks he’s having secret meetings with important people. But if you ask me, he’s meeting with a burlesque dancer.” Brigitte snorted. “Personally, I think it could be someone in law enforcement. It’s been nothing short of a miracle the way the streets have been cleaned up lately.”
“Like maybe the chief of police?” Hazel asked, her brain whirring. “Or the Chouteaus?”
Brigitte pursed her lips. “Well, that family has been disgraced by Charles, so I doubt they would have the privilege. Besides they’ve been living abroad for years now.”
“Have they?”
“Yes, Germany, I believe … which is why Charles had been left to his own devices. His older brother lives in Boston or something … and the pressure of carrying the family business here must have cracked him,” she rattled on, her eyes gleaming at having so much information to offer.
“I see …”
Gabriel appeared at Hazel’s side with a crystal mug of red punch. “What are you girls gossiping about?”
“Oh, just speculating about the Veiled Prophet. Who do you think it is?” Brigitte simpered, fluttering her lashes at Gabriel.
“Ah. Well, that’s the question isn’t it? Not that it matters. It’s only honorary. It changes constantly. Could be either of your dads at any given time.” Gabriel straightened his bow tie and scanned the room. “Hm … who important is missing?”
It would be impossible to tell in a crowd so large, but it occurred to Hazel that he was basically right. Anyone and everyone of importance was invited. As she searched the familiar and recognizable faces around her, she spied Sandy slipping out of the auditorium.
Hazel handed her untouched drink to Gabriel. “I need to powder my nose. Brigitte, do you mind dancing with Gabriel and keeping him company?”
“Glad to,” Brigitte purred.
Hazel hurried away before Gabriel could respond, weaving around the elegantly clad people who danced and talked in clusters. The smell of cologne and sweat mingled with the scent of champagne and wine. Sandy was wandering the halls of the building, her gown trailing behind her.
“Sandy!” Hazel called out over the sound of the live music and festive crowd.
Sandy whirled around with a funny look on her face, like she might burst into tears.
“Was looking for you,” Sandy said, fidgeting with the emerald necklace around her neck.
Hazel let out a sigh. “This night is dragging. Having that creepy, veiled guy in the same room is unnerving. But I guess I expected something dramatic to happen.”
Sandy bit her lip and looked up at the ceiling. “I’m not staying past ten. You shouldn’t either.”
Hazel studied her friend’s face. There was a film of sweat on Sandy’s brow, and she glanced around as if something might jump out at her. Whatever she and Arthur had cooked up was making her nervous.
“Sandy. I know you and Arthur are up to something.”
“What? How? See here, I was going to tell you. This place is not going to be safe after ten o’clock. At least … not for some of these people. Promise me you’re leaving before then.”
Hazel’s stomach dropped. “What’s going to happen?”
“We’re getting rid of the problem. Avenging my sister and what happened to us.” Her response was flat and emotionless.
“How can you decide who needs to pay for it? Charles isn’t even here.”
“You sure about that?”
A tickle went down Hazel’s arms. There were men in those ridiculous Bengal costumes all over the place. With those false beards and large turbans on, it was difficult to tell who they were.
“In my sister’s diary, Charles was one of the guards, and he was serving the Prophet. What do you suppose all those fellas in there do after hours?” Sandy scowled, pointing to where the music was coming from.
“Whatever you’re thinking about doing … don’t.”
“
All I’m doing is opening a door.” Sandy turned away, heading toward the back of the building with Hazel close behind. A couple guards walked the halls, but the exit doors were not blocked off.
“Sandy. Stop.” Hazel hurried to catch up.
Her golden-haired friend stopped with her hands on the door and gave Hazel a serious look. “Find Mumsy and leave.”
Stanley adjusted his bowtie in the bathroom mirror. He’d nicked the monkey suit from a row of them in the bowels of the Municipal Auditorium. He hoped that some poor server wouldn’t get in trouble for losing the suit. But, from the looks of it, they were the spares.
In either case, he had no choice. Since Hazel told him about Artie, the back of his neck tingled, that curious sensation he got when something bad was about to happen. And the fact he had not seen his friend for a few days, with Teeth missing and everything else going on, worried him.
He still couldn’t help feeling a twinge of jealousy when he thought of her dancing with that idiot Gabriel. She was so beautiful in her gown, and he hated that Gabriel would be ogling her body, which Stanley had so recently held tight to his own. Hazel was not just another hot tomato, and any mug who looked at her that way needed a poke in the nose.
But mostly he was worried for her. She had been so nervous about tonight, and it was hard to know what would happen with Arthur on a possible rampage. Everyone would probably be watching, including Legion and the VP himself, to see if she was still in line. Stanley needed to watch Hazel without anyone noticing him, something a bit harder to do now that he was semi-famous.
Sighing, he gripped on to the sink, and his stomach rolled. Stanley closed his eyes, and pictures of the Rocky Mountains from the Civilian Conservation Corps brochure illuminated in his thoughts. Everything there looked so peaceful and uncomplicated. Just hard work, three squares, and beautiful hikes. No need to worry about any of this.
No. He would not run. He would not leave Hazel. He would never be able to live with himself … or without her.
Stanley stood up, adjusted his coat, and gave himself a smile. “You handsome devil. Go get ‘em, killer.”
He left the bathroom and found his way through the maze of tunnels to the server station. Grabbing a tray of waters, he went through the door and into the main auditorium. Stanley couldn’t believe his eyes. The whole place looked like a cross between an Egyptian temple, a throne room, and an elegant ball, at least, as far as he imagined them. Everyone was dressed to the nines, and the debutantes wore long, colorful gowns that must have cost a fortune. Even though he knew there were okay swells out there, he felt like punching the whole room. The money spent on this event could have fed the entire neighborhood of Dogtown for a month, at least.
He took a deep breath and forced himself to focus and observe. Stanley zeroed in on the Veiled Prophet himself, draped in an outfit that looked vaguely like a bishop’s robe: white, purple, and lined with gold. His face was covered in lace so that no one could see. Hazel hadn’t been able to find the identity of the VP, but he doubted she would be able to. He was pretty sure that was a closely guarded secret.
The prophet looked back and forth over the ballroom. One of the weird lancers with a fake beard came up to the throne and prostrated himself. Stanley scoffed out loud and then lowered his head when it drew looks.
The whole scene unnerved him. The swells tried to pass this off as a huge game and fun, like the Mardi Gras parades of New Orleans. But this didn’t even seem to come close. There was no fun, laughing, or joy anywhere. Instead, everything seemed rigid, controlled, and designed to demand obedience. Even the dancing seemed forced.
In fact, Stanley thought, that was exactly what it was.
He scanned the crowd for Hazel, and he finally saw her. She looked beautiful in her gown, talking with her mother. His heart did a little flip, and he thought of how they had kissed and shared a pretzel. She was his girl now.
Then he noticed the look on her face. Hazel was bending over Mrs. Malloy, gesturing toward the door, her face lined with worry. Hazel seemed to be trying to get Mrs. Malloy to go with her. But why? She was too far away to wave at, and if he didn’t want to attract attention, he could whistle for her.
Maybe she didn’t want to go to the bathroom by herself, he thought. But there was a tickling at the back of his neck.
The Bengal guard who had knelt at the VP’s feet got up from the floor and said in a loud voice, “My lord, allow me to present, from the swamps of deepest Louisiana, and to show their complete submission to you as their lord and master, a group of Negroes who wish to play some of their quaint and backward music for you as an offering.”
Stanley couldn’t believe it. He didn’t like how degrading that sounded. Would they really allow black people in here?
He watched as the musicians emerged from the crowd and saw shades of white peeking out from what he thought was black skin. Then he realized they were white people wearing black shoe polish. He’d seen this kind of performance before and used to think there was no harm in it. But one Sunday, Father Timothy preached a blistering sermon on dehumanizing people and used the so-called “black-face entertainment” as an example.
And now, Stanley saw why. The white musicians walked with exaggerated strides, with arms swinging, and they started dancing like fools. The whole thing was designed to make black people look almost ape-like and not human.
He scowled. The whole thing was more disgusting than he had ever realized. The crowd tittered with amusement.
Just as he was about to turn away, one of the musicians caught his eye. The kid carried a guitar case and didn’t seem as in to it as the others. When they all took their place right near the throne, the guy with the guitar just stood there. And then Stanley noticed the black bowler on top of his head.
No. Holy Jesus, no.
Stanley moved fast through the crowd, shoving indignant swells aside. He burst onto the open ballroom floor. As he did, Arthur bent down, opened the case, and took out a tommy gun. He cocked it, the loud metal echoing through the silent ballroom. The crowd gasped but seemed unsure if this was part of the show or not.
Arthur yelled at the top of his voice, “For all the people you’ve killed, and the lives you’ve destroyed. For my dad. For my mom. For the Rookery. For Teeth and my pigeons. Death. Death and judgement.”
Stanley ran toward his crazed friend, as the Bengal guards leaped in front of the Veiled Prophet and Jane Wells fell out of her throne, screaming.
As Arthur raised the gun to fire, Stanley launched himself at his back, hitting him hard. They fell to the ground in a tangle, and the gun clattered to the floor and slid a few feet away. The auditorium erupted in shouts. Arthur grunted and flailed angrily.
“What the hell are you doing, Artie? What the hell are you doing?” Stanley screamed, gripping his friend’s wrists.
“What you can’t, Lord Stanley. They deserve this. Let me do it. Get off me,” Arthur raged, trying to scramble toward the gun. But Stanley was bigger and pinned him to the ground. A lancer clamored down from the stage and seized the gun.
The whole assembly had erupted in chaos, women screaming, and men shouting, fleeing from the auditorium. Someone grabbed Stanley from behind.
“You’re under arrest, both of you. Get on your knees,” a voice growled.
“But I didn’t do anything, you bastard. I was trying to stop it.”
The cop smacked him on the back of the head. “Enough. We saw you. You rushed the stage.”
“You idiot flatfoot. Get your mitts off me,” Stanley roared.
Another blow to the back of the head, and the cop wrenched Stanley’s hands behind his back.
Stanley tried to get up, but a voice whispered in his ear, “Cut it out, boyo. I’m here to get you and this idiot outta here before someone kills you both.”
He pushed Stanley through the commotion toward the door, while a uniformed cop dragged Arthur.
“Make way, folks, I’m taking these st
reet rats downtown. Don’t worry, they ain’t getting out anytime soon, to be sure,” Seamus said, pushing Stanley through the door.
When they got to the hall, Stanley said, “Seamus, I …”
“Shut your trap, boyo. This ain’t the time to bump gums. Move your stupid, Irish ass.”
Stanley bit back a reply and let his uncle lead him outside past staring and outraged swells to a squad car. The uniformed cop practically threw Arthur into the back, tossing his bowler hat into his lap, and then got in the front with Seamus.
Arthur settled his hat back onto his head with cuffed hands and turned away from Stanley to stare out the window.
“What the hell were you two thinking? You’ve blown it all up now.” Seamus slammed his hands on the dashboard.
Before Stanley could respond, Arthur said, “This ain’t on Stanley. He knocked me down before I could shoot.” His face was covered in black shoe polish, and his eyes glinted with hatred.
“Well, now we’re all in the fire,” Seamus spat.
The squad car pulled away from the building as more cops arrived. The streetlights flicked rectangles of light across the floor of the squad car, like God dealing glowing cards that Stanley was afraid to pick up. They were in for it now.
“Why, Artie?” was all Stanley could manage.
Arthur shook his head. “That’s a hell of a question for you to ask me, Stanley. You know why.”
“Okay, fine, then how? How did you even get in?”
“I could ask the same of you, Lord Stanley.” He gestured toward him with cuffed wrists.
Stanley shrugged. “It was easy. Found an open bathroom window and crawled in.”
“Well, I had help,” Arthur said with a thin smile.
“Help. You mean Sandy. What is it with you two?”
Arthur didn’t say anything for a moment. His face twitched, as if he was fighting some sort of inner battle. Slumping his shoulders a bit, he said, “We’ve got a thing, that’s all.”