When it came down to it, I preferred not seeing the Peach. I’d seen him so rarely over the previous year that it had been easier to forget he existed. Most of my meetings with Abe had been held in the morning since he was my only club owner who woke up before noon. Going to get the orders from my other pansy parlors at night had made it more convenient for me to expel my energy there. It had also ensured my interest was mostly in the bottom line rather than wrapped up in distractions. A never-ending line of men was more comfortable to cope with than wanting one in particular. Though the mantra “Mikhailovs don’t need women” had always been my truth, I edited it in my brain to remind myself we didn’t need men, either. Unions were a liability, whether they were romantic, labor, or both. The quickest way to lose your footing was to think it was alright to fall head over heels for another person, the ultimate surrender and a perpetually unsuccessful negotiation. The last thing I needed was a distraction on my climb to nowhere, seeing as how I spent my whole life working to exist. The idea of stretching beyond stasis was daunting. Like a prudent quarterback, I belonged in the pocket, not rushing the line. I’d rather lob the ball toward something than risk everything. Cash was the goal, not glory, but it bothered me that Abraham had both.
“Do you need to be topped off?” a shaky voice asked.
I looked to my right to find Rosebud standing beside me, pigeon-toed in a pair of scuffed black T-strap heels. “Is that some kind of come-on?” I questioned, wondering why the bitty boy tried to fuck every time I was in his presence, even after he’d been consistently rejected. It was as though he lacked even a shred of pride. Perhaps hookers had happened upon hard times, too, with the conventionally employed less willing to spend their hard-earned money on private time with a prostitute.
“Not really,” he answered, pointing a slim finger toward my empty glass. “I know your drinks are on the house, and Abe trusts me behind the bar, so I figured I would get you one while he was busy. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“It’s fine,” I assured as he began to slink away. “I mean, that’s nice. I’d like another drink.”
“Really?” he asked eagerly, as if I had paid him a high compliment. “Okay. Thank you.”
He ducked through the other patrons waiting for service and hurried behind the bar to fetch my drink. I wasn’t sure what the chorus moll was thanking me for since he was the one doing the favor, but I felt less disturbed by his presence than I had before.
“Get me one too, Rosie,” the Peach called to his friend, edging in close to me as he made a space for himself to stand between two stools. Resting his elbows on the polished wood, he turned his head and regarded me curiously as if he was assessing me.
“What?” I asked, feeling uncharacteristically insecure by his appraisal. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Looking at you how? Like you exist?” the Peach inquired, raising an eyebrow. “Is there any other way to look at someone?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, off-kilter from the question.
“Your giggle juice, Sheikh,” Rosie said, sliding a generously poured glass of Canadian Club my way. “And for you, Cal.” He handed a drink to the Peach. Cal. I drank to his name, letting the liquor wet my dry throat.
“You’re not going to call me Sheikh too?” Cal asked playfully, chuckling when Rosie shook his head ‘no.’
“You’re not my type,” Rosie replied, with as much of a grin as I had ever seen on those puckered pink lips. “Not like him.” He stared at me with those sullen, cinder block eyes, and instantly the discomfort I’d felt around him during our previous run-ins crept back in.
Averting my gaze, I watched as the ice cubes in my glass glistened an amber hue, and when I looked up toward Cal again, he was gone.
I scanned the room, finally finding him in front of the stage as Rosie took his place in front of the microphone.
Dream lover, fold your arms around me. Dream lover, your romance has found me. I’m here in your spell, knowing so well dreams never tell. We two can leave the world behind us. Nobody indiscreet can find us. All dreams are of mine, secrets divine I will share them with you.
7
April 1931
The tides of change never shift as quickly as one thinks they will when there is an impetus they have long awaited with either hope or fear. Regardless of the wind’s influence on the waves, it’s the moon and sun that determine the ebbs and flows, remaining predictable and intangible. Yet, some insignificant beings made of only skin and bones believe there are ways to impact events and existences so much bigger than them simply by raising their voices, by casting a vote. As if they are more powerful than the predetermined orbit of the planets and their stars. While others tried to levee the sea, I waited on the shore, knowing the outcome would be the same for all of us despite discrepant effort. If I was in any other business, perhaps I would have been pleased that Anton Cermak was elected mayor of Chicago. But I wasn’t, and his hulking victory against incumbent Big Bill Thompson was proof positive that I was swimming against the current, headfirst into waves of people who wanted change and believed Cermak would move heaven and Earth to deliver it.
While I wasn’t convinced Cermak would make good on his campaign promises, I didn’t want to see him try. The Democrat wanted to clean up the streets and put a pin in organized crime, something Thompson had never been willing to do. It was common knowledge that the former mayor was in bed with Capone, and as corrupt as he was, his willingness to turn the other cheek was a kiss to every guy working the undertow and padding our pockets with pirate treasure. The last thing the hustlers needed was an idealist selling dreams to an increasingly desperate population of people who were ready to rally behind anyone offering relief. Cermak was the remedy, an immigrant like the rest of us, who faced challenges and remained afloat. He was a buoy to hold onto in the choppy waters of the time, who vowed to keep our heads above the breaks. The problem was that Cermak’s intention to end Prohibition would most certainly have sunk me. As soon as alcohol was easy and available, I was out of a job. There would be no need for bar owners to rely on a middleman when they could order directly from the source.
Luckily, Cermak was only human, and he was facing a force of nature in Capone, dealing with a drought of money, and entering a temperamental political climate. One man backed by a sea of screaming supporters could not change the landscape of the city by the lake or the trajectory of the country as a whole. I refused to brace myself for his impact because I doubted there would be any. Like the rest of the government, it was a matter of time before Cermak would prove himself static and find himself treading water rather than walking on it.
My feet stayed on cracked asphalt streets, rooted in my reality, pounding the pavement between pansy parlors. I hadn’t lost any accounts yet, but it was hard not to notice the abandoned buildings that had belonged to establishments I never held on my ledger. Though they were not top-tier like The Gallery on State, less than a year before they had been full of painted faces, sparkling spaces that glistened no more. At night, Towertown still came to life, vibrant and free, but for how much longer could the doors stay open when the country was closing in on itself, holding its knees? While I didn’t want to admit that perhaps those, like my brother, who feared a failure in America’s financial infrastructure may not have grossly overreacted, I didn’t see the level of despair they had predicted. When the baseline is sky-high like it was in the twinkling twenties, anything nearing the ground feels like rock bottom.
“It’s finally warming up,” Maks noted as we walked on Wabash Avenue toward the L. “Which is good for them,” he added, gesturing toward a bum sitting on the curb, draped in blankets. He was a corner constant, having occupied the spot since his return from the Great War.
I nodded, still able to feel the chill of the long winter in the early-April air. “Baseball soon.”
“You’re ready for more heartbreak?” my cousin asked, forcing me to remember my team’s loss in the national league
championship the year prior.
“Cuyler should have another good season, and now we have Smith and Welsh from Boston, so we’ll see.”
“Your optimism regarding the Cubbies continues to astound me,” Maks grinned. “I guess we all have our bright spots, huh?”
“I guess so,” I confirmed, lighting a cigarette and flicking the burning matchstick to the sidewalk. “You’re a blabbermouth; what’s the word on Ig?”
“What do you mean?” Maks asked innocently.
Narrowing my eyes, I shot my cousin a look that ensured he knew I wasn’t interested in his bushwa.
“What do you want to know?”
“Word on the street is she’s a scag. Is that true?”
“What street did you get word from? State? Millie ain’t their type,” Maks teased. “She’s alright though, not nearly as ugly as him.”
“That’s a ringing endorsement,” I laughed. “Millie’s her name then?”
“Sure is. I don’t know why you can’t ask your brother about her if you’re curious.”
“I’m not curious,” I lied.
“You’re asking …”
“We don’t talk about broads, and I like it that way.”
“You probably like it that way because you don’t have any broads to talk about.”
“I like it that way too.” I grinned at Maks, who promptly smiled back at me, though we didn’t discuss the implication. “Are they serious about one another?”
“Ig and Millie?” Maks clarified. “It seems like it to me. She’s trying to set me up with her friends.”
“Oh yeah? How’s that going?” I asked, raising an eyebrow in interest. While Maks was as handsome as he was charming, he had zero luck with the ladies.
“Don’t ask.”
“I just did.”
“Well, don’t ask again.”
Chuckling, I took one last drag of my fag before stomping it out and following Maks onto the train. I slid into the seat across from him and placed my hands behind my head, studying his amused face. “What?”
“You know,” he began, tapping his index finger on his lower lip. “I don’t understand the Taros brand of Mikhailov man.”
“I thought we were talking about you?”
“It seems we moved on,” Maks grinned.
“And I’m a part of the Taros brand of Mikhailov men?”
“You’re the commercial success.”
I laughed. “Don’t tell my old man that.”
“Don’t pretend he doesn’t already know,” Maks chuckled. “But really, Taros had a few heartbreaks and somehow he convinced you fellows to swear off relationships for some janky gentlemen’s club that’s so exclusive you idiots are its only members. Now, Igor’s so worried about breaking the crumby code, he’s hiding his dame from the two of you. That’s bananas!”
“It’s bananas Ig thinks I give a shit.”
“You don’t?”
“It’s weird,” I admitted, and it was. While I knew we all sought physical dalliances from time to time, it had been a Mikhailov motto to keep things uncomplicated. I wondered how badly my father had fucked me up that I never thought of anything more. Obviously, he hadn’t gotten to Igor in the same way he’d affected me, or perhaps that was due to my proclivities more than my brother’s sudden immunity to the poison. It was strange to consider that we were brought up a certain way because of my father’s pain, but maybe all children were raised that way. Regardless, Igor opening the door to have something more than we had had the propensity to complicate things for me, a fact that didn’t settle well. I thought I would live my whole life never having to explain why I wasn’t married or committed to a dame, and it would be assumed it just wasn’t what we did. Lucky for me, time was on my side. I didn’t predict the trajectory of Igor’s situation with Millie, or anyone else, would be swift, for the only changes that had the capability to stick were those done at a snail’s pace.
Every day in Chicago was borrowed, so who knew if I would be around to see the next one, if any of us would. People romanticized too much, while the universe moved in spite of them.
“You don’t think you’ll ever want to get to know someone in a special way?” Maks pressed. “That this thing with Igor will open the door for you, even a crack? That it gives you the opportunity to spread your wings or something?”
“I like my door locked, and I never wished for wings,” I retorted, staring out the window at the city blurring below us.
His mouth turned up into a smile. “You never wanted to fly, cousin? Every child wishes to fly.”
“Why fly when you have feet?” I asked, holding one of mine up before knocking him in the knee with it.
“You should dream more,” he admonished, kicking me back.
“I do dream,” I assured. “Every night.”
“About what?”
“You shutting the fuck up.”
And at that, my cousin crossed the seat to put me in a headlock as we laughed our way back to the West Side, unchanged.
8
October 1931
Abraham had told me he would be away in the middle of the month, which was when I typically came around to take orders, so I put him on the end of my list, figuring he would have returned from wherever he’d gone by the last weekend of October. Evidently, I was wrong.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Cal the Peach said, opening the door to Abe’s office to let me in.
“You’re taking over The Gallery?” I asked skeptically, sitting down in the chair across from Abraham’s desk when he gestured for me to do so.
“Only until Abe comes back,” Cal confirmed, taking the owner’s seat. He looked natural and powerful in the spot of authority, as if he belonged there. It was as irritating as it was attractive.
“Where is he?”
“Did he tell you where he is?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
I shook my head, garnering a smirk from the redhead.
“Then why would I?” Cal reasoned, opening Abe’s ledger.
“Did he get taken to the big house?” I pressed, disconcerted by the possibility. It had been a week since Al Capone was convicted of tax evasion and sentenced to eleven years in a federal prison, a stint which was supposed to start in May. Though I wasn’t pulling in anywhere near the amount of dough Capone was, I was concerned that eventually life, and the taxman, would catch up with me. Perhaps both had already taken hold of Abraham.
“No,” Cal answered, crinkling his nose at the question. He regarded me for a pregnant pause before focusing on the papers.
I barely paid attention to a word he said, too consumed with how he said them. His melodic drawl leaked from his lips like honey, and I lapped it up. Between his twang and his face, Cal was distracting as hell.
“Why does he call you Peach?” I asked, once I’d noted the number of pallets Cal confirmed.
Though I attempted not think about it, I was possessed by thoughts of his milky skin, curious if it got marked up if he was held that night.
“Because I’m from Georgia,” he replied. “Georgia’s known for peaches.”
“So that’s where you get that accent.”
Cal laughed and leaned back in the chair, grinning at me impishly. “I have an accent?”
I nodded, wondering why it felt so good to have his eyes on me. “What part of Georgia are you from?” I didn’t know anything about the state, but I knew I wanted to hear him speak, so I tried to figure out a way to make it happen.
“Douglas. It’s a small town full of farms and not much else,” he replied. “My family owns acres of tobacco. They’re still there picking, and thankfully, I’m not.”
“Is it tough work?”
“Being around my family? Very.” He chuckled, and I internally groaned at myself for thinking he was so goddamn clever. “Do you want to hear a fun fact?”
“Alright.”
“Douglas was named for Stephen A. Douglas, the Senator from Illinois who lost to Abraham Lincoln in the presi
dential election of 1860.”
“I thought it was going to be something about you.”
“It is about me,” he stated. “My hometown was named for a loser and now I’m living in the land of Lincoln with a man named Abraham. My Emancipation Proclamation.”
I considered telling Cal about my birth day explosion but decided it wasn’t necessary to share, too bothered by his reference to Abraham to want to say anything else at all.
“Well, I thought it was interesting,” Cal said, seemingly unfazed by my lack of reply. “I need some fresh air.” He stood up and I did as well, preparing to say goodbye though I wanted to stay in the office, even just to look at him. “Come on.”
“Where?” I asked, my feet instinctively padding after his as he crossed the club and opened the main door.
“Does it matter?” Cal asked.
It didn’t.
I offered him a cigarette and watched his lips wet the paper filter as I cupped my hands around the roll and lit it for him.
“This is the only tobacco my fingers will ever touch again,” he informed me, blowing a plume of smoke into the crisp air.
I walked beside him to Oak Street Beach, unsure of why he had interrupted his afternoon to come and stand in the sand during the dregs of autumn, long after the last of summer’s saccharine memories had faded away. I was even more confused as to why I felt compelled to stand next to him, my lungs full of so much apprehension I feared I would cough out every ounce of my courage if I tried to take a deep breath. We stood for ten minutes or so, side by side on the sand, staring at the lake as the salty breeze lapped at our faces and chilled our bones. I was never one to fill the space with words, but as much as I didn’t know what to say, I knew I needed to speak, the weight of the endless moment too heavy to bear.
“Why are we here?” I asked, cringing at the croaked question, my voice waking up from its short hiatus to reflect how shaken I was by the scenery I often saw but rarely looked at, and by him, who I saw even when I tried not to look.
In the City by the Lake Page 5
