Runny noses and sticky fingers pressed against plate glass with wide-eyed wonder as the holiday music played and the sleigh bells jingled along carrying the beat. Shoppers, laden with stacks of boxes, maneuvered through revolving doors, in and out of taxis, onto and off of streetcars, dodging the perils of traffic and the sea of humanity. Furs flying open, hats pushed back, gloves dropped, scarves pocketed, knee socks slipping to ankles. Then, time to take a break at Schrafft’s.
Inside the stores, too, were the wonderlands: thousands of icicles draped down from the ceilings, tinsel-like snowflakes bobbing above the expansive floors; silver and white and gold and sparkle everywhere. The countertops offered an array of glittering goods, jewelry, perfumes, holiday accessories, feathered and bejeweled chapeaus, delectable candies—marzipan stacked into images of Christmas trees—candy canes galore! The stores were glowingly lit, inside and out, lending an atmosphere of warmth and cheer.
Between the two stores, I purchased a bright silk-screened shawl for Neysa, a sky-blue Chinese tunic embroidered with a flying crane for Tallulah, a luxurious cashmere scarf for Mr. Benchley, a Russian Cossack hat of Persian Lamb for Aleck, gloves for FPA, ties for Sherry, Marc, and Bunny Wilson, a deluxe box of Belgium chocolates to be sent off immediately with my note of thanks for Thanksgiving dinner to Edna, and, while she was busy in the hosiery department, a stunning little jet-beaded evening bag for Jane.
For Ross, a tortoise-shell-and-silver pocket comb, four pairs of men’s stockings in primary colors embroidered with reindeers for the Marx Brothers, several exquisite, finely embroidered silk handkerchiefs for women friends to keep on hand (excuse the pun) for any lady I may have forgotten, and six boxes of Cuban cigars for any gent I may have overlooked. All in all, I’d done most of my Christmas shopping in one very productive afternoon.
Jane caught up with me as I was just settling the bill at Lord & Taylor’s. She was a sight. Actually, I couldn’t really see her at all, just the tam of her jaunty little red hat and the bow on her pumps, but I recognized the voice that addressed me from behind a stack of precariously balanced boxes. I removed the top two silver-foil-wrapped packages and looked into two very large brown eyes, the color of fine cognac.
“You’ve done no shopping?” she said in amazement. I thought that if I relieved her of the remainder of the load, she might sink to the floor, for her look of sheer exhaustion.
“Au contraire. I’ve had everything sent to the apartment, or I’d have needed a cart to see them home.”
“That I should be so wise,” she said, as I helped her carry her load out onto the street. It was after five o’clock, and the chances of getting a cab were growing slimmer by the minute, and as Woodrow Wilson was at home, the odds were really against us.
We decided to walk the seven blocks uptown to my apartment at the Gonk, and to rest with a drink or two before going on to dinner at Neysa’s. As tonight was the regularly scheduled meeting of the Thanatopsis Literary and Inside Straight Club at Jane’s and Ross’s house, we wouldn’t be missed. At least I wouldn’t be, although Jane might. She’d had it up-to-here with the cigar smoke, the ashes on the carpet, the spilled liquor, the constant appeal for more of everything from the kitchen.
“I left a stack of salami-and-cheese sandwiches, pretzels, beer, and a gallon of gin”—Jane distilled the gin herself in her jerry-rigged bathtub still—“and told Ross they were on their own,” she said with frowning conviction. A worried look crossed her face, as if she dreaded the consequences of her absence. God only knew what would be the state of the house when she returned home. “I want the game moved back to their old digs at the Gonk.”
She was referring to the room the club had kept for years for their Saturday-night games. “But Frank Case insulted Aleck,” I said, “insisted that if there were to be poker games there, they’d have to promise not break any more windows or furniture, to keep their cigar butts off the carpet, and to not stiff the waiters.”
“I’ve got to talk with Frank.”
“No, you’ve got to talk with Aleck and Ross.”
“Last week somebody, and I have yet to find out who, somebody knocked over my Great Aunt Lucille’s soup tureen, right off the sideboard! No one claims guilt, and no one points a finger at the culprit.”
“The boys stick together like stink on shit.”
“But I’m afraid of letting Ross get too far from my watchful eye ever again. You know what happened last time.”
Jane was referring to the game held last spring at the apartment of newspaper publisher Herbert Swope. When Ross fell into bed in the wee small hours of the morning, Jane found IOUs amounting to thirty thousand dollars spilling out of his coat pocket. “‘There’s nothing left for us to do but commit suicide!’” she’d said.
Money alone wasn’t motivation enough for Jane to keep the game continuing at her home: “I’ve got to get the game out of my house.”
“They’ve grown too comfortable, Jane, thanks to you.”
“The Algonquin kitchens are far superior to mine,” said the thoroughly modern woman who abhorred domestic husbandry.
“Perhaps, but the boys don’t have to tip you two bits at the end of the night, either.”
“Those cheap sons of—”
“They drop hundreds at every game and—”
“I’ll show them, Dottie.”
“—they get your place for free.”
“Next week, no sandwiches!”
As we crossed the avenue at the corner, I was distracted from Jane’s adamant speech by the sight of little Lincoln Douglas finishing up a shine on a pair of gentlemen’s wingtips.
“Whattcha say?” asked Jane.
“That poor little boy, out in the cold all day,” I said, indicating the kneeling child, whipping and snapping the flannel over the shoe. “That jacket he’s wearing isn’t much against this cold.”
“What are you doing?” asked Jane when I told her to stay put a minute.
A street vendor roasting chestnuts: The sweet, warm, smoky aroma drifted toward me like a come-hither finger beckoning me. I crossed the street and bought a paper bag filled with the hot, split brown nuts.
“Chestnuts, yum . . .” said Jane as I crossed back over.
Jane peeked over her boxes, as I walked past the Algonquin’s entrance to where Lincoln had set up shop. He was packing things up for the night when I arrived.
“For you, Lincoln,” I said, offering the child the bag.
His hesitation was painful to watch: the rich, mouthwatering, musky smell of the nuts seducing his senses; his upbringing and manners forbidding him to take the treat. His eyes flitted about as his mind and body warred.
“I bought these for you, young man. Don’t you like chestnuts?” I said, more a directive than a question.
“Mrs. Parker, Ma’am,” he said with a nervous stutter. He rose from his perch, but did not go for the bag. Sadly, I was reminded of the starving stray cat I once tried to feed a bit of meat, which wouldn’t approach the food until it felt I was a safe distance away. This was no cat, though. Here was a proud, hardworking young man. The skinny youth’s determination to fill his father’s shoes (no pun intended) was admirable, and my concern came not from pity but from respect. And, of course, I pitied his situation, but was loath to ever let him believe I did. Everyone, especially children, must retain their sense of dignity. I’ve been accused of being a bleeding-heart. Maybe I am. My heart bleeds when I see the inequities existing around me. Lincoln’s distrust was understandable, but it was the reason behind the distrust, the social history that created fear, that made me angry as well.
I smiled at the boy, but his eyes were cast down to the sidewalk. Did he see my gesture of giving merely as an impersonal conscience-driven act? Could he, so young, intellectualize a sentiment by my offering, or perhaps at least intuit it? Children are often acutely, painfully aware of the true inner motivations of adults.
“I bought these for you, but do you mind if I have one, they smell so good
?”
“Please, Ma’am.”
Jane arrived at my side. “Dottie—”
“Meet Lincoln Douglas, Jane. He’s filling in for his father, Mr. Douglas. You know Washington, don’t you? Lincoln, this is Jane Grant. Bring these chestnuts home to your father, young man.”
It happened so fast that I thought I must have imagined it all, but as we turned to walk back toward the hotel, Lincoln having accepted the nuts for his father, I caught sight of a figure walking toward us. The man stopped, removed his peaked cap, and ran a hand over his head to smooth fair hair before entering an old Ford parked at the curb. The next thing I knew, Jane was pulling at my arm, asking what was the matter.
“Are you all right, Dottie? You look odd.”
“I’ve had a ghostly visitation, I think.”
“Where? I see no apparition.”
“Just drove off in that beaten-up old Ford.”
We hurried into the lobby where Douglas the doorman took the packages from our arms.
“Peter, was there a fellow asking for me a few minutes ago?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Parker, but I don’t know if anyone inquired after you. I just now came on duty. Were you expecting a gentleman? Perhaps Harriet at the front desk—”
I interrupted the desk clerk, who was busily scribbling in the reservations book, the telephone receiver at her ear. “Blond fellow? Peaked cap? Right off the farm?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Parker, I didn’t see any such person.” Harriet rang for Jimmy the bellboy, and asked the young man if he’d seen such a character.
My heart began pounding loudly in my ears; I could barely hear Jimmy’s answer, but his head shake was reply enough. I asked Harriet to order soda and ice sent up to my rooms. Peter handed Jane’s packages to Jimmy, who followed us up on the elevator to my apartment.
Woodrow stood up from his bed on the sofa where he’d been napping, but was in no great hurry to greet us. I could tell by his spread-legged stance and buggy-eyed reticence that he was annoyed with me for having left him home all afternoon. After Jimmy placed the packages on the entry console table, I handed him Woodrow’s leash and a half-dollar tip for his services.
We’d just thrown off our shoes when there was a knock at the door and a waiter entered with our drink supplies.
“Shall I make you a drinkie-poo, Dottie, darling?” asked Jane, pulling off her gloves. “You look spent.”
“Straight up, would you, Jane?” I replied, throwing myself spread-eagle on the sofa.
Jane handed me the shot, which I threw back before returning an empty glass. “Thanks, I needed that.”
“I can see that,” said Jane, looking me over, and then, with her index finger lifting my chin to better look into my eyes, “Whoever’s ghost you saw really frightened you, didn’t it?”
“Oh, I’m fine now, you know,” I said, shying away from her deep scrutiny. “It’s been a nasty couple of days, and it ended so suddenly when the priest murderer was killed. I suppose there’s been no chance for the fact to sink in that there is no longer anyone to fear. The bad man is dead.”
I got up and walked over toward the window, parted the draperies to look out onto the street below. People bundled up against the cold, rushing along to their various destinations, traffic moving rather briskly, a delivery truck idling across the street, and somebody’s magnificent new creamy-yellow Duesenberg—four doors, closed carriage, huge headlamps, hooded wheel wells, sleek running boards, sparkling chrome grills—pulling to the curb under the Algonquin’s canopy.
There was nothing at all out of the ordinary with the scene below; rather, the street was brightly lit, and newly hung holiday ornaments and colored lights displayed in storefronts along the street lent additional cheer to the evening. There was nothing sinister out there. All appeared benign, unthreatening. No, there was nothing evident, and yet there was something that lay concealed beneath the surface, lurking under the asphalt like a cancerous malignancy. I sensed it, even though I couldn’t see it or give name to it. Whatever “it” was. Perhaps I was having a precognition of gloomy future events? There were gypsies somewhere in my line, after all, and my life, which to most readers of Frank Adams Pierce’s column appears blessed with glamour and excitement, has really been a series of gloomy events with intermittent reprieves in the jovial, clever company of the Theatre elite.
It was foolish, this heavy feeling of doom, I knew. Jane’s eyes bore into me, and I willed myself not to tremble. “Just my imagination gone off with me.”
When we arrived at Neysa’s studio, she was putting the finishing touches on a commissioned piece she’d spent the day working on for the cover of the Saturday Evening Post. We took pity on our friend, and suggested that instead of Neysa cooking dinner we walk down the block to the Dragon’s Tail, a Chinese restaurant and front for a speakeasy. There we could have an inexpensive dinner of chop suey and enjoy a pot of potent “tea.” By ten o’clock I’d pretty much washed away any residual feelings of dread that lingered. We made our way onto the street to walk Neysa back to her apartment house, and then went downtown by taxi to Jane’s, where upon arrival we were greeted with gales of stale cigar smoke and loud, ribald voices.
I helped Jane carry in the catch of the day—her many purchases from the Fifth Avenue department stores, which we’d been shuffling around town all evening. We found sanctuary in her bedroom for a time, until we heard what sounded like the movement of furniture on the floor above, the location of Aleck’s apartment. We left the room and joined the others, or rather, the meeting of the Thanatopsis Literary and Inside Straight Club, conducting the business of the week at Jane’s dining room table.
The table was strewn with overflowing ashtrays, tumblers of booze, peanut shells, and the ravages of salami-and-cheese sandwiches. Jane stepped on something squishy, which upon further examination we determined to be the remains of a dill pickle for its greenish juices that squirted when heel met flesh.
“I dread going to the bathroom,” she told me. “Who knows what I’ll find. What’s going on upstairs, Aleck?” she asked, removing her shoe and examining the debris on the carpet. “Sounds like creditors are repossessing your living room suite.”
Jane was about to pick up a wet rag from the floor. “Who’s missing a wet sock?” she asked, recoiling.
“You’re disturbing me, woman!” Aleck balked. “Are you trying to point the fickle finger of fate at me? Can’t you see I’ve got to—hit me with three, Ross,” he said, discarding that number of cards.
“Three, two, one.”
“Do you have to say it every time, ‘three-two-one’?” bellowed Aleck. “We can take a visual count, for cry’n’outloud!”
“It’s the way I do things, fat boy,” said Ross, as he proceeded to deal out four cards at the request of George S. Kaufman, who sat expressionlessly, ignoring the squabble.
“Four, three, two, one . . .” said Ross, with slow deliberation. “And two for Frank: two, one. And for me . . . .” Ross laid his cards face down and made a series of peculiar faces. He twitched his mouth from side to side, flared his nostrils, knit his brows, and tried to look deadpan. The facial contortions amounted to the unpleasant expression one might see on a disgruntled vulture that lost its dinner to a street sweeper.
Finally, “Hummmm, I’ll take one card,” he said. But before doing so he took a horse chestnut from his vest pocket and with a circular motion rubbed it over the deck three times.
“Idiot,” mumbled Aleck under his breath. “So, what have we got here?”
Bills were thrown onto the center of the table. The men studied their cards and then furtively studied each other as if to catch someone’s bluff.
“Just a minute, Heywood!” said George S. to the rumpled, crumpled journalist. If anybody needed a new suit, it was Broun. “We agreed: Anyone looking at Connolly’s face is cheating!”
“I’ll raise twenty bucks,” said FPA, throwing cash on the table and an inch-thick cigar ash onto his lap.
&n
bsp; “I fold,” said Broun, throwing down his cards, along with the remains of his salami-on-rye.
“Well, Connolly?” said Aleck. “We gonna sit here all night while you pray to St. Jude to fix your hand?”
“Yeah, all right, me, too, I’ll fold,” said Marc, his elbow knocking peanut shells onto the floor. Marc, a talented playwright, is an abysmal card player, therefore always encouraged to join the game.
“Too bad, boyo,” said Aleck, “I could have used the extra cash.”
“I’m in,” said Ross, rising from his chair, crumbs scattering like dander from his clothes. In a ritual dance, he circled the back of his chair and resumed his seat.
“Can’t you sit still? It won’t change your hand, ding-dong.”
Sherry tapped his cards for luck and kept his eyes down.
“Get this lad a drum,” said FPA.
“The percussion section of the George White Follies ain’t gonna change the bastard’s luck,” said Ross.
“Go fuck yourself,” said Sherry.
“Would if I could,” said Ross.
The men chuckled, and then Aleck took over:
“I’ll see your twenty and raise you fifty,” said Aleck, an eyebrow cocked up high above his spectacles.
“Ah-ha!” said Ross, “You’re bluffing.”
“I told you not to look at Aleck, either!” said George, relaxing back a little in his chair; but that shift in body position was no indication of whether George held a good hand. He threw in fifty bucks. Ross followed suit.
The men turned to face Swope.
The New York World publisher was sitting in this evening, and the multimillionaire could put a wrench into things if he so chose. It was not uncommon for him to raise the stakes a thousand dollars just so that he could take a fifty-dollar pot. When he was bluffed into showing his hand, it was a fine night for the poor jerk who’d met his bet with a worthless IOU. And it was high stakes that could get Ross into big trouble. “I’ll see your fifty,” said Swope, beneficently.
[Dorothy Parker 02] - Chasing the Devil Page 11
