The Gallery (14 page)

And here their heads bent together, murmuring something so sensitive even a servant girl couldn't be trusted with it.

“Ah, I see.” Mr. Sewell nodded, and you could see the gears turning in his head. “And just what qualifies as spectacular, in these sources' books?”

It was just the invitation the lady was waiting for. “Well!” She broke off and began striding around the room, her hands conducting an invisible orchestra of lavish spectacle. “In honor of Carnival, we throw a real-live carnival! Masks and costumes, obviously. Coney Island games in all the rooms, but instead of tat we do real prizes—watches and bracelets and other trinkets. I've got a line with Tiffany. Cotton candy stands and roasted peanuts, along with other, uh, libations.” She cocked her head, thinking. “The ceiling in here
might
be high enough for a modified trapeze act. But! An orchestra in here for dancing, that goes without saying. I'd get the band from the Cotton Club, and the dancers, too. And we'd do a
scavenger hunt at midnight with a real-live treasure chest at the end.”

Mr. Sewell looked simultaneously impressed and horrified. Perhaps he was adding up the bill for this spectacular. But Lady Florenzia kept going.

“And let me handle the guest list. I've got the Fitzgeralds and the Pickfords locked up, and the
New Yorker
crowd is always good for a laugh. Eddie Cantor can usually be persuaded to do a set, if you throw in a little sweetening, and I'm sure I could convince Douglas Fairbanks to fly in from California for the occasion.” She came back to give Mr. Sewell's arm a squeeze again. “Trust me, darling. The fodder for your paper's gossip column alone will sell a million papers.”

This seemed to turn the tide for the businessman. “And your colleagues, the, uh, crown jewels?”

“At the top of my guest list, my dear. We'll set up a war room, just for you and any special guests.”

Mr. Sewell smiled like a lion looking at a lame zebra. “Well, then, it sounds like we have details to hammer out. Shall we retire to the dining room?”

Lady Florenzia took a single sip of her glass of
to-mah-to
juice and set it down with a clang on my tray, as if I were a coffee table.

“Oh, I'm not hungry anyway. Let's go out and
celebrate, darling!” She grabbed his arm and pulled him as she swept out of the room. “Louis Armstrong's playing a private set tonight at a place in the Village. . . .”

My heart raced. A party with movie stars, right here! A masquerade, no less, with costumes. With guests milling and circulating and too occupied with their own partying to notice who came or went.

A perfect opportunity to spring Rose loose.

I had to make a plan. I had to somehow get word to Rose. I had to clean up the tomato juice. I had to tell Chef that his four-course creation would once again end up cold and untouched.

But first I had to fall facedown on the floor.

I had the flu.

Chapter

F
or three feverish days, I lay in bed. Whenever I opened my eyes, I didn't know whether I'd be greeted by the light of day or the black of night, whether it would be Ma wiping down my limbs with a damp rag or Mrs. Annunziata spooning soupy rice into my mouth.

I drifted in and out of dreams. One in particular kept coming back for me, pulling me by the hand. Over and over I was trapped in a labyrinth of rooms, the walls covered with pictures of gods and goddesses who whispered to draw closer and cackled when I pressed my ear to their flawless painted mouths. I'd run for the door, just to discover that each door led only to another room, and each window was covered to the top with dirt, the sound
of a subway train rumbling somewhere through the cold, sleeping earth.

When the fever broke, and I found myself in bed, Ma sitting in the corner humming and darning by lamplight, it took me a moment to remember whether I was a girl named Martha or Rose.

Whoever I was, I had to find the exit.

—

As soon as I could stand, I insisted on going back to work. I could tell Ma was impressed by my newfound work ethic, but of course, it wasn't that. I had to get word to Rose of the new plan.

As it turns out, I didn't have to.

Ma must have told her mistress about the upcoming party, whether in excitement or complaints. And according to the painting Rose sent down shortly thereafter, Rose landed in the same place as me.

The regal Sophonisba and her poison chalice were gone, cleared out along with the toxins in Rose's blood. In its place was a single painting. At only about ten inches high, the tiny canvas made the grand gallery look like it had sprouted a blemish. But unlike a pimple, the only word I could use to describe it was flat. It was as if the image wasn't so much painted as glued together out of red, yellow, and pink scraps of paper, like a child's handmade valentine.

And what was the image, anyway? The label claimed them as
Pierrot and Harlequin
, which I knew were the names of circus performers, but it took looking at it from several angles to identify them, and one still looked more like a duck to me. And no matter how much I looked, I wasn't sure why their noses pointed one way and their eyes another, or where one fellow's arm started and another's ended.

“Picasso,” the label said. It figured that the same man who turned a pomegranate into lines and squiggles would see a circus act as a melted box of Crayolas.

But one thing was clear: The two figures were wearing masks.

I leaned in to listen to that pip-squeak of a painting: Let's not call attention to ourselves, it whispered. Be inconspicuous. Be inscrutable. Find the right disguise.

—

From what I gathered from Ma's grumblings, the party promised to be a boisterous affair. Half of New York had been invited, Lady Florenzia insisted: “The perfect combination of the right half, the ‘right now' half, and the just-wrong-enough half.” Though the math didn't add up, Lady Florenzia, who now visited daily to assess and reassess each room and
yammer ever-changing plans at Ma, had no doubt of the party's success.

“Costumes will be de rigueur, darling,” she said as Ma waved away the smoke from her ridiculously dramatic cigarette holder. The more I studied Lady Florenzia, the more she resembled less a duchess and more a character inspired by characters mashed together from the pictures. And I was sure I'd heard her accent slip a couple of times, once when Ma—accidentally?—opened a door on her foot, and Her Ladyship uttered an oath I'd never heard outside a Brooklyn tavern.

“We'll turn away anyone without a costume, it's that simple. After all, the theme is Carnival!—more specifically, Coney Island Carnival—and the dress code is Circus Chic. In my experience, it's the costumes that inspire people to truly forget themselves. Speaking of which, did my, erm, contact get in touch?”

I couldn't help but look over at Ma, who took a long, deep breath over her clipboard. I was in prime eavesdropping position, polishing the mirrored walls as Lady Florenzia stalked the ballroom and shouted directions. Two Latvian sisters worked alongside me, brought in for the coming weeks to help get the house in order, and whether they didn't understand
the language or just wanted to keep their positions, they didn't look up once from their work.

But I was all ears.

Ma tapped the clipboard, measuring her words before responding. “Have you spoken to Mr. Sewell about these . . . refreshments? Because Mr. Sewell is a law-abiding man, and this has been a godly house since I've been here.”

Lady Florenzia stroked my mother's arm like a child's, in the same gesture I'd seen her use with Mr. Sewell. “Of course, my dear! And that's why we have New York's Finest just outside the door, making sure everything stays within these four walls. Now,” giving Ma a little side hug, “don't fret. Mr. Sewell understands the need to entertain his guests with style. And you're welcome to prepare some—what? Let's say punch?—for any teetotalers in attendance. Perhaps on a table, over there.” She fluttered her sparkling hands at a dark and distant corner in the hallway.

Ma shook her head, but ever the ideal servant, bit her tongue. Mr. Sewell had told Ma to give Lady Florenzia “free rein,” and the lady had seized those reins and was riding roughshod over the neat and honorable house Ma had helped build over the years.

But the wilder the party's plans, the sharper in
focus my own plans became. Costumes. Dancing. Gambling. Copious quantities of dubious liquor. There would be enough distraction at this party to allow a herd of elephants to traipse through unnoticed, let alone an unassuming woman in a disguise exiting a dumbwaiter and walking out the front door.

But what disguise exactly? What costume would allow Rose to exit unrecognized—and how would I get my hands on it? And even if she did get out the door, then what? There was that cop outside—maybe more with the event—and there would probably be journalists from rival papers trying to get the evening's scoop. And in the middle of February, it would be freezing, not a night for a stroll.

“Now, entertainment,” Lady Florenzia was saying. “We'll have a stage built
here
for the orchestra, and this bit here will be for dancing. And—this is
too too
much, you must agree—I've got the projectionist from The Roxy setting up in the mezzanine to project real-live moving pictures on the gallery walls! We'll transform the art gallery into a nickelodeon!”

She said this like it was a good thing.

“And we have the carney games—the shoot-'em-up, the windup pitch, oh, and a dunk tank!—in the front parlors. But it feels like we just need something else, don't you agree?”

“A freak show!”

As the idea took me, I leaped off my stepladder and let the vinegar-damp rag drop from my hand. “Just like on the boardwalk. You know, wandering contortionists, sword swallowers.” I cleared my throat. “A bearded lady.”

“Oh, darling.” Lady Florenzia crossed over to me and caught up my hands in hers, as if we were long lost friends. “You'd have Scott Fitzgerald dancing with the fat lady, Dorothy Parker toasting King Hottentot, a duet with Cole Porter and a fire breather.”

I couldn't tell if she was shocked or delighted.

She threw her arms around me and peppered my face with kisses. “Oh! It's absolutely brilliant! But where to
find
these specimens. . . .”

“Vaudeville,” I said too quickly, and avoided Ma's eyes as she stared daggers at me. “Um, we know some vaudeville folks. Maybe we could convince them to do it.”

“Well, I'll leave it to you then, um . . .”

“Martha.” I smiled as I wiped the lip rouge off with my sleeve. “Of course, there's just the question of price. . . .”

I knew with Lady Florenzia's—or rather, Mr. Sewell's—bottomless budget, I could convince some of Daddo's vaudeville pals to play the freak for the
night. There were The Flying Finns and the Boxing Baroulian Sisters. There was Stan, the aforementioned Mini-Hercules, who could lift up to two times his weight. There was even Frau Brunnhilde, an A-above-high-C opera singer who could serve as a fat lady in a pinch.

Then there was Jenny Donovan, better known as Mr. and Mrs. Ballroom, a half-and-half act where she'd dance looking like a lady on one side and a gentleman on the other. Most importantly, she was a tall, skinny thing like Rose. If she doubled her half beard, she'd make a great bearded lady for the night. Then Rose could borrow her costume midway through the party and walk out unnoticed, saving me from finding (or buying) Rose her own costume.

And a gig that paid this much, and had the added bonus of bringing him back to his beloveds, would lure Daddo back to New York, no matter what tour enticed him. There would be no performances by Creak and Eek that night, though. Daddo would be playing a different part: getaway driver, paid to get Rose wherever she wanted to escape.

But tracking down all of these acts would take some work. I needed the help of Daddo's agent, Harry Brownstein-now-Beecham. I remembered
Daddo saying his office was on Twenty-Eighth Street, and with Lady Florenzia's fervent encouragement (and Ma's reluctant permission), I left the rags and mirrors behind.

I was headed to Tin Pan Alley.

Chapter

T
he wind was wailing mercilessly off the Hudson, and when I turned off down West Twenty-Eighth Street, I almost lost my footing, along with the tam Ma'd knitted. After a few futile grabs, I let it fly and instead pulled my scarf over my head.

The last time I'd been on this street, it had been a summer day, and I was holding Daddo's hand. I'd understood immediately why they called it Tin Pan Alley. With the windows all open, the clanging of piano music bounced out of dozens of buildings with dozens of piano rooms hosting dozens of singers and songwriters, all competing to sell the Next Big Hit.

Today the street seemed muffled. Maybe it was the windows shut up against the wind and cold, but as much as I strained my ears, I could only hear a soft,
blanketed melody, accompanied by what sounded like a lone saxophone.

I had trouble finding Daddo's agent's office, too. Not only had he changed his name to Beecham, he'd taken on new partners and repainted the door to read:

BEECHAM, BEAUCHAMP & BROUGHAM:

VOICE TALENT OF DISTINCTION

The name may have changed, I thought as I climbed the stairs past ringing phones and practice rooms, but it certainly still fit. Everyone knew Daddo's voice could fill a house up to the rafters. No wonder Harry loved him (even if he didn't always pay him on time).

Last time I'd visited with Daddo, it was just us and a ventriloquist act in the waiting room, plus an old lady receptionist, asleep at her typewriter. But this time I could barely edge past the door. The room was packed with showbiz hopefuls loosening their ties, making gargling sounds in their throats, and reading from papers they rattled in front of them.

“Blancodent! A whiter smile by a mile!”

“
Blancodent!
A
whiter
smile by a mile!”

“Blancodent! A whiter
smile
by a
mile
!”

They weren't as loud as Daddo, but their voices reminded me of Ma's oldest kid gloves, worn so soft they felt like butter in your hand.

“Yes?” A lady in a snappy suit and a very short bob looked at me quizzically. “Can I help you? The agency doesn't represent kids, honey.”

I felt out of place in a way I never had alongside tap dancers and ventriloquists. So I yanked the scarf off my head. “No,” I said loudly. Too loudly. “I'm here for my father.”

“Oh!” she shouted before I could explain further. “Go right in, honey, he's waiting for you.” Her hands flapped me toward the back, and she hollered over my head: “Harry, your daughter's here!”

“Wait, no—” I started to turn back, but at that moment, one of the hopefuls burst out of Mr. Beecham's office, flinging his pages to the floor and spitting on them.

“Find another agent then, Shakespeare!” Mr. Beecham called after him, then shouted, “Next up!”

I peeked my head in.

“Wait a second, who're you?”

“Your daughter!” called in the receptionist, who I was beginning to think was not as sharp as her suit would make you believe.

“My daughter? Whaddaya talking about?” he shouted back over my head. “I'm meeting my daughter uptown—” He started to shut the door in my face.

“Wait!” I pushed the door open again. “I'm not your daughter, Mr. Beecham.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” The door stayed half open, half closed while he looked me up and down. “So what do you want? I'm busy here. I got six more guys to see before supper.”

“I'm Martha O'Doyle, Daddo's—I mean, my pop is O'Doyle's O-mazing Spook Show?”

Mr. Beecham knit his fleshy brow like he was doing long division. Then the wrinkles cleared. “Oh, sure, the skeleton act, right? What about it?”

“Well, I know he's doing an out-of-town run, but I need to track him down. You see, there's a very big booking here in the city next month—”

“And what do you want me to do about it?”

I took a deep breath. Daddo was right; agents wanted to take their five percent and give you a nickel to call in the booking yourself. “I was hoping you could tell me what theater he's booked in this week so I could get a telegram to him. And as long as we're talking, I'd like to discuss a very big opportunity coming up for some of your other acts—”

“Wait, you talking about Billy O'Doyle? He's not on the road. I just saw him an hour ago at The Crown Jewel.”

“What, here in New York?” I shook my head, the very motion trying to shake loose my understanding. “No, no, he's down South.”

“Trust me, kid, I just saw him down on Twenty-Sixth Street.”

“What's he doing here?”

He shrugged and started closing the door. “How should I know? I haven't represented vaudeville in years. It's all radio now. Speaking of which—” Mr. Brownstein-now-Beecham squeezed his melon of a head out the door. “Next!” And slammed the door behind him.

—

The Crown Jewel. It wasn't a theater Daddo'd ever mentioned. As I made my way down the stairs, I tried to wrap my mind around where to begin? That Daddo was around the corner? That he was playing a hall in the city, something he'd been trying to pull off for years? And the big one—that he was here, and we hadn't heard a word?

Maybe he was just stopping off between trains, I thought between the pounding of my heart and the pumping of my legs as I raced those two blocks down Broadway. Maybe he was taking his act straight to the theater manager, now that—another shock—he didn't have his agent anymore.

My eyes scanned West Twenty-Sixth Street up and down, but there were no signs, no names in lights, only drab tenement and warehouse buildings, their rickety fire escapes the only marquee. I started
hunting door to door—maybe the theater fronted Twenty-Seventh, with only the stage door on Twenty-Sixth—until I found what I was looking for. An unassuming wooden door, down a few steps, with a folding metal grate pulled across it, and a small hand-lettered sign next to the bell:
TH
E CROWN JEWEL
.

I rang, and almost immediately a large man opened the first door only as wide as his face, leaving the grate as a screen between us. He considered me for exactly two seconds, then muttered, “No kids,” and began to shut the door.

“Wait!” I banged on the grate. “Wait! I'm looking for Dad—for Mr. O'Doyle. The skeleton act. It's—it's urgent.”

The man stepped back. “We got an O'Doyle here?” What dim light existed behind him revealed a sawdust floor and a room of nondescript wooden tables and chairs. The stale smell of beer wafted through the grate. The scene was as familiar to me as a family picture.

A man stood wiping down a bar that ran along the length of the back wall. He stopped just long enough to gesture at one table with his elbow. “There he is.”

A lump of clothing covered the table, a skeleton slumped in sympathy on either side.

Daddo.