Dollface: A Novel of the Roaring Twenties (29 page)

The next day the sun was shining despite the bite in the air. I bundled Hannah up and put her in her buggy for a walk. She was getting too big for the buggy, but when she got fussy it was the only thing that calmed her down. We made our way past the black cast-iron finial gate in front of the house and moved on toward the neighbor’s. It had begun to snow lightly, and Hannah looked up at the sky, fascinated by the few snowflakes floating down. We’d made it halfway around the block when the front wheel of the buggy came loose, wobbling from side to side until it came off. The buggy tilted to the side and I lunged for Hannah, for fear she’d tumble out. The loose wheel took off and rolled into a slushy pothole in the street.

My hands were freezing as I retrieved the wheel and crouched down beside the buggy, trying to fix it. Hannah was watching, leaning over the edge to see what I was doing. My fingers were stiff from the cold, and each time I tried to tighten the wheel, it just flopped off, landing on the sidewalk. It was no use. It wasn’t going to work. So I set the wheel inside the buggy, lifted Hannah up, and hoisted her onto my hip, holding her bottom with one hand while I dragged the broken buggy behind us. She was heavy, the buggy was heavy and it was one of the longest few blocks I’d ever walked. I felt the tears building up with each step. I was a failure. I couldn’t even take my daughter for a walk without messing up. When we turned the corner and I saw the house, that’s when the tears let loose. Hannah looked at me and started to cry, too.

That night, after I’d gotten her bathed and put down for bed, I went downstairs to fix her buggy. My arms and shoulders were already stiff when I reached for Shep’s toolbox. With a wrench and a screwdriver and sweat coming up on my brow, I sat on the drawing room floor surrounded by nuts and bolts and stripped screws. In another few months she’d probably outgrow the buggy anyway, but I wouldn’t give up. It was as if mending that wheel would have fixed my other problems, too. In the end, it was hopeless and buying a new buggy was out of the question. I threw the wrench across the room and capsized the broken buggy with a good hard shove.

•   •   •

I
tried to get a job. Hell, I even dragged myself back to the office of Schlemmer Weiss & Unger, but they wouldn’t have me on account of how I’d walked off the job once Shep started paying my way. So I knocked on other doors, and after I met with a dozen or so merchants and office managers, it was clear that I wasn’t qualified for anything paying more than twenty dollars a week, and that just wasn’t enough.

One night, after tossing and turning, I got up, went downstairs to Shep’s study, and turned on the desk lamp. I hadn’t wanted to look at the bills sitting on his desk. The pile was growing, and the time had come to face it. If Shep were still home, our creditors never would have bothered us. Of course, they would have also been paid in full. But since they knew Shep was in prison those bill collectors had become fearless and relentless, sending notices every week, calling the house, refusing to let me shop on credit anymore. They made me feel like a thief.

I poured myself a drink, took a deep breath and began to sort through the envelopes, one at a time. I was overwhelmed by the mortgage and car payments. Plus, I still owed Marshall Field’s and Carson’s more than four thousand dollars for the items I’d bought months before while Shep was on trial. Shep had never questioned my spending; he’d never wanted to say no to me and now I wished that he had.

As I began making a list, trying to prioritize what needed to be paid first, my fountain pen started to leak. The sight of that black ink covering my fingers and the butt of my hand infuriated me. I didn’t know where this sudden rage came from, but it boiled up inside me. I slammed the fountain pen down, causing more ink to escape from the reservoir and it made me so angry that with a sweep of my arm I cleared the desktop, sending the bills flying to the floor along with the lamp, cracking the base in two. I was breathing hard, practically panting as I looked at the mess. I dropped my head to my hands and gave way to heaving sobs. The tears poured out of me, hanging from the tip of my nose, falling one by one onto the empty desktop.

When I was all cried out, I dried my eyes, blew my nose and gathered up the bills. The broken lamp would have to wait. The tears helped, and I was calmer now, able to face what I didn’t want to look at.

Among the envelopes were three letters addressed to Mr. Shepherd Green from Mr. Warren Steel in Milwaukee. Thinking they were urgent, I opened the letters and read through each one. Essentially they all said the same thing: He’d been trying to reach Shep for several weeks and had finally tracked down his home address. The long and the short of it was that Mr. Steel had a warehouse of liquor. Canadian whiskey. “The real stuff,” as he put it. He needed to move the merchandise. He’d been cheated in the past by some associates of Capone’s. “But I’ve heard you’re a fair businessman and that you cut a level deal. . . .” Obviously he hadn’t heard that Shep had
gone
away
—apparently that news hadn’t traveled across state lines.

I set the letters aside, eased back in Shep’s oversize chair, and gazed out the window into the night. The wind kicked up and I listened to the tree branches scraping against the side of the house. It gave me a chill. I wondered if my mother had felt this frightened and helpless after my father was killed. What made her think she could have stepped in and learned to run his business? If I were a man—or if I were more like my mother—I could have taken up Warren Steel’s offer and told him I’d do it. I’d be the one who’d cut him a level deal. I leaned back and closed my eyes. Just how much was a warehouse full of “the real stuff” worth?

I got up and got the key to Shep’s desk. Unlocking the bottom drawer, I pulled out all the folders dating back to January of 1920. Scooting closer to the desk, I traced my finger down and across each column. The total revenue from importing liquor reached into the thousands, even the tens of thousands. I looked at the list of suppliers and the list of customers. One or two names sounded familiar, restaurants I’d either been to or had heard of. By the time I got to the 1925 file, there was a whole new set of customers and suppliers and still more new entries in 1926. Since the early 1920s, at the start of Prohibition, the dollar amounts had tripled, even quadrupled.

I finished combing through Shep’s files just as the sun was coming up, sending a haze of pale morning light through the windows. I should have been exhausted but instead I made a pot of coffee and paced back and forth in the kitchen, the wheels turning.
 . . .
If I could make even a fraction of the money indicated in those files, I’d be okay. Hannah would be provided for.

I had watched Shep long enough to learn a thing or two. And my mother, too. In a lot of ways, the liquor trade was no different from the meatpacking business. Or any business, for that matter. It all came down to supply and demand.

It was crazy. Too risky. Women didn’t do this sort of thing. But then again, women didn’t run meatpacking plants, either. And there were those women bootleggers I’d read about in the newspaper, the ones who’d outrun the police. . . .

Another cup of coffee, two more cigarettes.

I was about to telephone Evelyn when Hannah let out a shrill cry. I dropped the phone and raced up to the nursery. Hannah’s face was red and blotchy. Her beautiful brown eyes were teary and unfocused. I felt the heat coming off her body even before I checked for a fever. She was burning up.

I lifted her from the crib just as she threw up on the front of my bathrobe. Balancing her on my hip, I rushed her into the bathroom and dabbed cool tap water on her forehead and the back of her neck. She continued to cry, and with each heaving shriek, I felt another stab to my heart.

Other than some teething pain and a stuffy nose or two, she’d never really been sick before and I couldn’t afford to have the doctor come. I laid her down on my bed while I rushed to the kitchen. With a pick, I frantically broke off chunks of ice from the icebox and wrapped them in a towel. For the rest of the day I kept ice packs around her but they weren’t doing much good. Her cheeks were still red and her tiny body was drenched in sweat. Poor thing couldn’t keep anything down. All I could do was rock her in my arms, saying, “I’m sorry, baby girl. I’m so sorry I can’t make this better.”

I was failing her. Again. And even though she was so young and probably wouldn’t remember any of it, I would never forget.

Six long hours later her fever finally broke. I went downstairs and made myself a fresh pot of coffee. While the percolator was brewing I went into the powder room and cleaned the dried vomit off my robe. I looked at myself in the mirror, disgusted by the dark purplish circles beneath my eyes, the grayish cast to my skin. It was the first time I saw a resemblance between my mother and me.

I couldn’t look at myself any longer. My child was sick and I couldn’t even afford a doctor’s visit. I couldn’t go on like this. I had to do something.

Was the idea of selling liquor really that absurd? Especially when the plan had practically fallen in my lap. Wasn’t that a sign? Thanks to Warren Steel, I had a source for the supply. All I needed to do was find customers. Customers who weren’t doing business with the North Siders. But I had the list, dating back to 1920. I knew who to stay away from and who was fair game. I knew that some former customers hadn’t been profitable enough for the North Siders, but they would be plenty big enough for me. The key to making this work was keeping it small, contained, and inconspicuous. If I could resurrect just one of those accounts, I’d be okay. I knew I could do it, but I couldn’t do it alone.

Evelyn thought I was kidding. I showed her Warren Steel’s letters, and once she realized I was serious, she set them on the table, glanced into her coffee cup, and said, “I’m afraid I’m going to need something stronger than this.”

“I’ve got it all figured out,” I said, taking down a couple glasses and a bottle of whiskey. “I have a list of speakeasies, hotels, restaurants, and private customers we can sell to.”

“What’s this
we
business?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but we can do this. We can. There’re plenty of small outfits out there—too small for anyone else to bother with, but it’ll put money in our pockets. Good money. And the other day when I asked if I could borrow a few dollars, remember you said you were tight? Remember? You said Izzy was cutting back on your spending money?”

“He doesn’t have the Meridian anymore and you know things have been tough since Hymie’s been gone, but—”

“Listen to me.” I reached over and grabbed her hands. “Dora tried to warn me a long time ago, but I didn’t listen. And now I’m telling you—if something happens to Izzy, you’ll be in the same boat as me. Do you want to go back to being a typewriter, counting every penny? You have to start making your own money.”

Evelyn freed her hands and took a long sip of whiskey. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Believe me, I know there’s risk involved in making liquor runs, but I’ve given this a lot of thought. I have a child and I’m not going to do something foolish. We just have to be smart about this.”

“Smarter than the guys?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head. “Are you forgetting that Izzy was shot driving a truck of liquor? They could have killed him.”

“This is different. Capone’s men were waiting for Izzy. And he was leading a caravan of trucks. I’m not talking about doing anything on a scale like that. All we’d need to sell is just ten or fifteen cases at a time. We’d put them right in the backseat of Shep’s car and throw a blanket over the top. Nobody would even notice us. And who would ever suspect a couple women of transporting liquor? I’m telling you, they wouldn’t even bother with us for ten or fifteen cases. It would be no different from you and me driving up to Wisconsin to see your aunt Millie.”

“Only I don’t have an aunt Millie.” Evelyn cocked her eyebrow and took a pull from her drink.

I gave her a jab with my elbow. “Let’s just go up there and talk to Warren Steel. For all I know he’s already found someone to work with. He may not need us. But let’s just meet with him.”

She stared into her glass, refusing to look at me.

“Please, Evelyn.” My voice began to crack. “I’m dying here. I’m flat broke. I have to do something. I won’t make it through the winter. I don’t know when Shep’s coming home. I don’t . . .”

“Shhh . . .” She gave me the same look she’d served up all our lives when I’d been able to convince her to do something she didn’t want to do, like pinch a chocolate bar or perfumed sachets from the corner store. “Okay,” she said, setting down her empty glass. “We’ll go
meet
with him.”

•   •   •

T
he next day, I pulled out a map and laid it down flat across the dining room table. Evelyn and I held down the corners with the heels of our hands and traced the roads we needed to take.

When we were set, I bundled up Hannah and dropped her off at Dora’s house.

“There’s my baby!” Dora picked Hannah up, bouncing her on her hip.

“We’ll be back late tonight,” I said, stroking Hannah’s curls.

“We’re going to visit my aunt Millie in Milwaukee,” Evelyn blurted out.

I shot her a look, though Dora didn’t seem fazed. She was busy fussing over Hannah.

“Well, we should get going.” I planted kisses on Hannah’s forehead and cheeks and waved good-bye.

Evelyn and I climbed back inside Shep’s car and headed toward Milwaukee.

“See,” I said to her as we were leaving the city limits, the skyline fading into the distance, “this is what it would be like. This is exactly what we’d be doing. Doesn’t seem so dangerous now, does it?”

After getting lost twice, we finally turned onto a long country road lined with evergreens, with shacklike houses peppered here and there. The street dead-ended at what looked like an abandoned barn.

“Are you sure this is it?” Evelyn asked.

I double-checked the address on one of Warren Steel’s letters. “This is the place.”