Ten Cents a Dance (25 page)

I let my breath out. Whatever else Paulie was, he wasn't a murderer. Not yet. "If he wasn't killed, then . . ." Trying to keep my voice from trembling. If Mr. Washington didn't agree . . . "He wasn't killed. So you can't kill this . . . this person. Please. I can't have that on my hands."

The two men stirred near the wall. One coughed. Mr. Washington reached behind him and tapped his cigar into an ashtray. "I'm sure you don't know," he said, "being as you seem like a nice young lady. But this isn't the first time the mob has tried muscling in. You see, they're tempted by the money. For some reason," he went on, in a dry voice, "they think some of it ought to be theirs."

They got Rolls-Royces. . . . While I have to borrow a lousy dinged-up Chevy.

"He's not in the mob," I said.

Mr. Washington nodded. "Thinks he's going to be the next Capone, then. Get enough dough, take over the city. Us, the mob, everyone. We've seen those, too. I call 'em mad dogs. You know about mad dogs? Generally they need to be shot. Before they spread the infection."

At the word
shot,
I flinched. "If he leaves Chicago . . . if he promises never again . . ."

"Oh, he'll do it again. See, that's the problem with mad dogs. Smack 'em with a newspaper, they just get madder." Mr. Washington took another puff on his cigar. Studied me with his sleepy eyes. I met him look for look, but inside, my head was in an uproar. If he didn't agree, would I still give him Paulie's name? Would I let Paulie die, to keep Betty safe?

"If he leaves Chicago," Mr. Washington said, as if to himself. Then, "Morris."

"Yes, sir," one of the men by the wall answered.

"You remember Eddie Johnson?"

"Yes, sir. Could work."

"Mmm." Mr. Washington looked back at me. "This mad dog of yours. He 4-F?"

4-F. Unfit for service. "He's been in army prison," I said.

"We can take care of that." Mr. Washington stood up. "This is what I'm going to offer. Your mad dog joins the merchant marine. Or we take care of him ourselves. One or the other."

The merchant marine! On the newsreels and the radio, almost every week, there were reports of merchant marine ships hunted by the German U-boats. Torpedoed and sunk, one after another, dozens of ships in just the last six months. Hundreds of men killed. Died in explosions, drowned in the Atlantic. Another ship just today, in the Pacific, blown up by the Japanese.

"It's a fair deal," Mr. Washington said. "We both of us want him gone. Isn't that right?"

I stared at him, but I hardly saw him. Paulie's dark gold hair, matted with blood. Paulie tossed in the ocean, screaming, his hand outstretched for help that wouldn't come, like the mariner in that horrible poster you saw hanging everywhere.
Loose Lips Sink Ships!

"Merchant marine, he stands a chance." Mr. Washington turned, ground out the stub of his cigar. "He won't, with me."

Paulie's rain-cloud eyes, the same color as seawater, slipping beneath the surface of the waves. I closed my eyes. Saw Betty instead, in a St. Casimir's uniform, walking to school with the Gorman sisters.

"All right," I said. And then I told.

It took only a few minutes. When I was done, Mr. Washington offered his hand. For a big man, he had a gentle grip. Or maybe he just saw that if he squeezed too hard, I might break apart.

"Tell you what, Miss Jacinski," he said. "I'd hate to have you mad at me." He pulled a gold cigar case from his pocket, flipped it open. "You know, this Paulie makes it, he'll come back home. Might not be too happy with you. I'd think about that, between now and then."

I nodded. If he makes it . . .

Please God, keep him safe. And keep him far, far from here. Forever.

TWENTY - FOUR

I dropped my pocketbook on the sofa and went to her. "Ma, you shouldn't have sat up. Are you all right? Do you need some aspirin?"

She didn't answer right away. Then she said, "I've been praying to the Blessed Mother. Asking her for understanding. Because I don't understand, Ruby."

I sank to the floor in front of her. "It's okay, Ma. What happened tonight . . . it won't happen again. I made sure. That's why I was gone so long, I—"

"Tonight?" She looked at me then. The lines around her eyes, her mouth, harsh in the small light. "And the past eight months? What about that?"

Betty had told.

"Why, Ruby?" Her voice bewildered. Not a trace of iron in it. Somehow, that was worse.

I would be anywhere, rather than here. Back in front of Horace Washington. Back with Paulie, or Tom. I could fight them. Because I was right, and they were wrong. But now I was the one who was wrong.

I'd had reasons, though. All along, I'd had reasons. I tried to remember what they were, back in the beginning. I couldn't. Not with Ma looking at me, disappointment drowning her eyes and every line in her face. All the times I'd imagined her finding out, terrified she'd find out, I'd imagined her furious.
You're not my daughter anymore.
I'd never imagined her disappointed. Seeing it felt worse than Paulie beating me. It felt like standing by while Paulie beat
her.
I couldn't meet her eyes.

"It wasn't enough money," I said. "The packinghouse. It wasn't enough, and . . . " The smell of relief beans, I remembered that. But there were other things, important things, what were they? My eyes grew hot, my throat closed with tears. If only she'd stop
looking
at me . . . "I dropped out of school, didn't I? I got a job, I paid for everything. The coal. And your gloves, and Betty's shoes and the groceries and the rent. I got your ring back . . ."

"Did you buy the coat?"

I wiped my eyes on the back of my hand. Ma reached into her pocket, held out her handkerchief. I took it. "What coat?"

"My winter coat. Did you buy that?"

The hunter green wool. Manny had given it to me, and I'd given it to her. Ma had cried when she opened the box.

"It was a gift," I whispered. Her face changed. She hadn't wanted to believe. But now she did, and she believed the worst. Like Paulie. "Ma, it's not what you think. The Starlight"—I saw her flinch, but I kept going—"it's not a bad place, it—"

She shook her head, looked away. "Don't tell me. Please, Ruby. I don't want to know."

"I'm a good girl, Ma. I never—" I bit my lip. "I did everything you asked. I worked so hard, I was saving money. I was going to get us out of the Yards."

Her fingers tightened on the beads, her swollen knuckles paled to white. "I never asked you for that! For you and your sister to be decent girls, that's all I ever asked!"

"Mary?" Chester's voice, anxious, from the hallway. I heard Ma's breath catch.

"It's all right," she called. "I'll be right there."

If I'd gone along with what Paulie wanted, she'd still think I was a decent girl. I'd be turning tricks for him every night, and she would have no idea.

"You never asked me about the coat before," I said.

"What are you talking about?" Tucking the rosary into her pocket.

"The coat." I raised my eyes to hers. "How come you never asked me about it before?"

Ma braced her hands on the arms of her chair and stood up. The hem of the cherry-print dress fluttered in front of me. She took two steps and stopped.

"We won't talk about this anymore." Then her voice sunk to almost nothing. "You've broken my heart, Ruby."

Chester came and took her arm. Delicate, the way he always was with her, as if she was made of something rare and precious. He didn't say anything. Ma's steps were stiff. Painful. She shouldn't have sat up so long. She'd hurt tomorrow.

After a long while I got up. My side ached now only when I moved. In old lady Nolan's room—our room, Betty's and my room—Betty lay still and quiet. Pretending to be asleep. I didn't bother undressing. I curled on my bed in my clothes and lay awake until morning.

. . .

I never found out what story Betty told Ma and Chester about that night. I didn't ask her, and she wasn't speaking to me. But from the way they treated her—making her favorite dishes, buying her a phonograph—I guessed she'd told them that finding Paulie, instead of Polly, had come as a complete shock. It seemed easier to let them believe her.

Ma wouldn't look at me. She talked at me:
Good morning, dear. Clear the table, please. Mercy, it's so humid today, I'm afraid the laundry won't dry. Would you like milk or coffee with your dinner?
But her glances skimmed across my hair. My elbows. The top of my head. Betty pretended I didn't exist. If it wasn't for Chester, I might have disappeared altogether.

I didn't leave the house for two days. Trying to be the good girl. It got hard to breathe, for all the unsaid words in the air. The evenings were the worst. I tried sitting in the living room with the rest of them, listening to radio shows and sewing. When
Amos and Andy
came on, I knew men would be streaming into the dance hall. Staking out their territory along the stag line, giving us the once-over. I'd have danced five or six numbers already, slipping the tips into my garter purse, giving the boys an eyeful.

On the third day, in the middle of the afternoon when none of the girls would be there, I went to the Starlight. I climbed the stairs and pounded the door until Mack, the janitor, let me in.

"Thought Del fired you," he said.

"He did. I came to clear out my locker."

Mack pushed his dry mop away over the floor. "Help yourself," he said.

It wasn't until the fourth time I tried undoing the lock on my locker that I noticed the new piece of tape on the door.
Doreen,
it read. I went to go find Del.

"Chucked it," he said when I asked him about my stuff. He leaned back in his office chair and spread his hands, palms up. "Does this look like a warehouse? Most girls skip, I never see them again. It's not my job to save their lipsticks and hairbrushes."

"Hairbrushes! What about my outfits? And my garter purse? I had half a night's tickets in there!"

"Should a cashed 'em when you had 'em," Del said.

After fifteen minutes of squabbling, he finally pulled out his wallet. Peeled off two bucks like he was peeling the skin off his own arm. That garter purse had had three dollars' worth of tickets, at least, but I didn't have the juice to keep arguing. I took the money and left.

Two bucks. Forty nickels. Forty waltzes, two-steps, fox-trots, jitterbugs. Smiling and snapping my fingers and acting perky as all get-out. Acting half in love. Acting all in love. Pretending whatever fellow in front of me was the shiniest thing in shoe leather, just so I could get a lousy ticket and a tip after. And he might have been terrific, too. He might have been swell. But I was savvy. Figuring I'd already found my perfect guy.

The hall was stifling hot. Sun leaked through the smeary windows, showing up every smudge on the walls, every ding and scratch on the dance floor.

I walked out without a backward glance.

. . .

Del might have chucked everything else, but I still had four gowns at the cleaner's. I picked them up and took them to Peggy's, thinking maybe she'd let me keep them in her armoire until I could figure out what to do with them. But when I got there, the armoire was empty, and a flowered cloth suitcase lay open on the bed. I stood gaping in the doorway, the four gowns draped over my arm.

"You're leaving?" I said.

"Looks that way." Peggy nodded at the gowns. "I hope those aren't a going-away gift. I don't think I've got room for another handkerchief, let alone all that."

I dumped the gowns onto a chair. "But I don't understand. What happened?"

Peggy went back to the bed and started sorting through a pile of undergarments. "I should've married Alonso when I had the chance. He wanted to, before he left. But I figured the last time I rushed into wedded bliss, it sank like the
Titanic.
This time, I thought"—she tapped the side of her head—"I'll play it smart." She held up a white satin slip, looked it over.

"Yesterday," she said, "I saw a notice in the paper. About a fellow from Englewood who was in the Philippines. At Bataan." Her hands closed into fists on the satin. "The War Department told his folks he's been killed. Or captured. They don't know which." She tossed the slip on the floor and turned to me. Her hazel eyes were glassy with tears. "If we'd married, I'd get a telegram a from the War Department. Like that boy's parents. And then at least I'd know. But no, I had to be
smart."
She laughed, one of her short, dry laughs, but it slid into a sob. I put a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off.

"You shouldn't worry," I said. "Alonso could be halfway across the world from the Philippines. Anyway, he's written you, hasn't he?"

Peggy picked up an envelope from her bedstand. Thick, the white paper smudged with grime. "Just once." She brushed her thumb across her name. "I've called the newspapers, I've called everyone I can think of. All those boys at Bataan, nobody knows what happened. Nobody knows where they are."

"But Alonso's in the navy, not the army. Besides, the mail takes forever to get out. Remember the other night Linda said . . ."

She set the envelope back down. "You're sweet, Ruby. And probably you're right and tomorrow I'll get a letter and he'll tell me he's fat and happy and dumping me for some island princess." She smiled a trace of a smile. "But in the meantime, I'm no good."

I sank onto the chair. I couldn't think of anything else comforting to say.
Killed. Or captured.
I'd meant to pray for Manny and Alonso every day. For all the boys. I'd meant to light candles . . .

Peggy threw a girdle at me. "Buck up," she said. "If you get blue, I'll start bawling. And then I'll never get this packing done and I'll miss my bus and it'll be your fault."

"Where are you going?" I folded the girdle and handed it to her.

"Back to Wisconsin." She smiled at me again, stronger this time, and shrugged. "At first I thought about going to Seneca. Fellow at the
Daily News
gave me the poop about a new shipyard there. Said there'll be plenty of good jobs for girls who don't mind getting their hands dirty. But then I decided I'd better mend some fences. God knows that'll keep me busy awhile." Peggy nodded at the gowns behind me on the chair. "So. What's your story?"

I'd planned to tell her about Paulie and Horace Washington. Everything. But seeing the weariness and worry in her face, I changed my mind. "I guess I just had enough, that's all."

"Keeping it to yourself, huh?" I looked up at her in surprise, and she grinned at me, her rare Peggy grin, not as bright as before but enough so the crooked tooth showed in front. "I told you," she said.
"Every
taxi dancer has a story."

. . .

I took the gowns back to the cleaner's. It took some haggling, but the owner finally agreed to keep them for me for a week. I figured I'd have made up my mind by then.

Three nights before, at the Club Tremonti, Horace Washington had offered me a job.

"Friend of mine's opening a class joint," he said. "Looking for gals to work as hostesses. You got the kind of moxie that would make a real splash. Interested?"

"I'll think about it," I told him.

He jotted the club's address on a piece of paper. "Don't think too long."

I knew the jobs would go fast. Half the girls at the Starlight would give their eyeteeth to be hostesses. You did most of your work sitting down, and instead of cola and coffee, the fellows kept you knee-deep in champagne and cocktails. The more they drank and gambled, the more commissions you earned.

The club address was only three blocks from Peggy's hotel. "Owner's out of town," the guy who answered the door said. "But he'll be here tomorrow. You want to leave your name?"

I couldn't have said if I was more disappointed or relieved. "No," I told him. "No, I'll come back."

. . .

That night, just like the last three nights, I lay in bed and listened to Betty snore. For eight months I'd stayed up until the wee hours, then slept until noon. Now I couldn't seem to switch back. Just like the last three nights, I watched the moonlight drift across the ceiling, and just like the last three nights, I stewed about Paulie.

Before I'd spilled his name to Horace Washington— and the fact that he was driving the stolen Lincoln Zephyr—I said, "You have to promise me to tell me when he's . . . when it's done."

"Promise you, huh?" Mr. Washington said. "Okay, I'll send you a telegram." I hadn't known he was joking until one of the guys by the wall snorted laughter.

"I don't have to tell you anything," I said. The guy who'd snorted ambled behind me. I could feel where he stopped by the prickling in the small of my back. Mr. Washington frowned at him. The guy drifted again to the wall.

"You were right," I said. "I want him gone. He's after my sister. I have to know. Please."

Mr. Washington took the cigar out of his mouth and inspected the end, as if he'd gotten a taste he didn't care for. "Five days," he'd said. "Then you check with Lily. I'll leave word."

In bed, I counted on my fingers. Five days would be Friday. Today was Wednesday. Thursday, really. Two thirty in the morning. Lily's would be hopping. I wondered if Ozzie would be there. I'd asked Lily if he'd gotten another gig, if that was why he quit the Starlight.

"He keeps his business to himself," she'd told me, "and if I were you, with the kind of trouble you got going on, I'd do the same."

I could get to Lily's and back before anyone was up. Better than lying here, wondering if Horace Washington had kept his word. Wondering if they'd killed Paulie anyway, or if he'd escaped, if he'd found out I'd ratted on him. If he was waiting for me, or Betty, gun in hand.