“I don’t need to wrangle up anything,” I stated, crinkling my nose at his heavy application of Aqua Velva. When I had told him a few weeks before that he was overdoing it with the aftershave, he had informed me that Sally loved it and waggled his eyebrows while adding, “If you know what I mean.” I did, so I made a concerted effort never to mention anything about his grooming habits again. I didn’t want to know about their relationship, not even bits and barbs. The thought of them being intimate disgusted me as much as his rampant hypocrisy. Mikhailovs didn’t need women until he nabbed one. Decades of brainwashing were forgotten as soon as he fucked a willing waitress. It was baffling.
“I know you may find this hard to believe, but there really is something to being with one devoted dame. You may be bedding a bunch of broads, but it’s empty, Vik. Love, that’s the important thing.”
“You see,” I began, thumbing my lower lip in an attempt to control my mouth from spouting off. “Growing up, there was this guy. His name was Taros, I think you know him.”
Sighing, he shook his head as he situated his tie.
“This Taros guy made a really big thing about how wasteful it was to invest in another person, how a fellow was better off focusing on his business ventures and taking a tumble in the sheets when it was necessary. One of Taros’ sons did a great job of tuning him out, so much so that as soon as a girl showed him any interest, he forgot everything he was taught.”
“Are you planning on getting to your point anytime soon, son? I have a date to pick up,” he stated, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Taros’ other son …”
“The mouthy one?” he interrupted, appearing quite pleased with his perceived cleverness.
“He’s more commonly referred to as the good-looking one,” I corrected, earning a laugh and a pat on the back from my old man. “This handsome son, he listened to the stupid shit that came out of his dad’s mouth, and it shaped his ideology about relationships. So, while Father-eager-egg and Brother-eager-egg find themselves wooing women, Good-looking-egg is going about his business and doing just fine.”
“Alright, alright,” my father conceded, gesturing for me to follow him to the front door, where he bundled himself up in his coat. “I won’t give you guff about it as long as you offer your congratulations.”
“What am I congratulating you for?” I asked, but I was positive I already knew.
“I’m asking Sally to marry me tonight.” He looked happy and strangely relieved.
“A congratulations would be premature since you haven’t asked her yet.”
“I know she’ll say yes,” my father said confidently, extending his hand. I shook it and watched as he opened the door. “And son? You do have plans tonight, don’t you?”
“I do,” I confirmed skeptically.
“Good. I intend to bring Sally back here for our private celebration, if you know what I mean.” He winked, and I wanted to vomit.
“You’re as subtle as a jackhammer, so I do in fact know what you mean,” I cringed, thinking I would need to down a few extra shots of whiskey to detoxify my mind.
Chicago was tired. A metropolis that had sizzled with energy for the better part of a decade had succumbed to an insolvent slumber, exhausted by the money it could not make. Traveling on the L beside the celebrators, it was apparent that the spiritedness had been sapped from them too. Faces once dewy and wide were dull and wan from worry. Perhaps I looked the same way, beaten by a bankrupt present and fearful of the fortuneless future in front of us. Our capitalistic society had made us cadavers with picked pockets and stolen watches, survival of the slickest.
As I walked the sidewalk in Streetersville, I noticed how much quieter New Year’s Eve in the neighborhood was in comparison to Towertown. It was nine and window curtains were already drawn without slivers of light at their sides. Aside from some candles on sills, there was no indication that Christmas had been a week before; the chorus of carols that had hung in the air throughout the season in years prior had dissipated in days, gaiety finding its expiration as serious thoughts hushed the holiday happiness.
Flicking my cigarette into the gravel-ingrained snow, I climbed the crumbling cement stairs to Cal’s door. I rapped with my knuckles and grinned when Cal nodded me in.
“Sit down,” he prompted, waving toward the couch, as though he was a host and I hadn’t been to his place dozens of times before.
I did as I was told, settling onto the sofa as he walked to the kitchen less than five steps away. I could feel his pride, and it nearly brought tears to my typically emotionless eyes. He was happy, authentically happy with nothing more than a few rooms and a door. I’d never needed the finer things in life, but the way Cal moved around the minuscule space showed he didn’t either, and more importantly, he made the mundane merry. He was a deity, and I was humbled by the way his presence in the modest apartment transformed it into so much more than it was.
For every exposed bulb that cast a narrow yellow light, there was a candle softening dark corners, their flames flickering as shadows danced across bare walls. It felt like a secret, a haven for heathens, a hideaway from a city circling the drain.
“This is our first New Year’s Eve emancipated from The Gallery on State, so we’re celebrating,” Cal said with a ready clap of his hands. “We’re going to get zozzled and eat soup.”
“We’re living the life,” I laughed, wrapping a quilt that had been lying over the back of the couch around my shoulders.
“We are,” Cal smiled, holding up three cans of Campbell’s soup. “I got Tomato, Chicken Noodle and Cream of Mushroom for the occasion. I’m going to make all three and we can have some of each.”
“This is wild,” Rosie stated from his place on the stuffed chair. He tried to get in on the fun but failed miserably in his delivery. Regardless, Cal chuckled and nodded at his friend.
As Cal cooked, I drank, watching him stir and taste like he was preparing a feast. The sparkling sequins and songs of New Year’s past were replaced by sips of soup and stories of our hustles from the last several days.
“I didn’t realize the Fair had been so good to me until it ended,” Rosie admitted, holding a bowl in his lap. It was unnerving how everything looked markedly larger in relation to Rosie’s small frame. It was cartoonish that common objects could dwarf a boy in such a remarkable way. It really was a wonder the waif had survived the streets so long, as it seemed a gusty fall gale should have carried him clear to Gary, Indiana years ago. “I was easily making two dollars a meeting and now it’s fifty cents with less frequency.”
I considered asking if Rosie had thought about trying to find a different line of work, but it was a ludicrous question given his looks and the difficulty the common man was having finding a job.
“You’re doing well, Rosie,” Cal encouraged. “You’re going out there every day even though it’s freezing and making some dough. That’s doing well now.”
Rosie nodded, appearing to be pleased with the reinforcement. “I want to sing again. I’ve been thinking about going to one of the other clubs in Towertown to see if they’ll give me a chance to perform, and if I do good, maybe they’ll even pay me something.”
“What a great idea!” Cal exclaimed, his positive reaction bringing a smile to Rosie’s often sullen face. “I’ll go with you tomorrow to knock on some doors. Maybe 1935 will bring us new opportunities.” He leaned over to clank his spoon against mine, giving me a flirty grin that I couldn’t help but return.
“I’ll ask my three parlors if they’re looking for anybody,” I volunteered, my offer obviously taking Cal and Rosie by surprise.
“You would do that for me?” Rosie breathed, overwhelmed by the gesture.
“It’s not a big deal,” I tsked, not wanting to make it anything more than a few words and a subsequent action.
“It is to us,” Cal stated, speaking for him and his friend.
For the remainder of the conversation, Cal kept his hand resting high on my th
igh under the blanket we shared. He was always affectionate in private since I allowed it, but it seemed he was even more drawn to me after my kindness toward Rosie. As Cal told us about his latest moonshine order, he pressed random kisses to my jawline and raked his fingers through my hair. He couldn’t keep away and I didn’t want him to.
With my head buzzing from whiskey and my belly full of soup, I followed Cal into his room, shutting the door behind us. As soon as the lock caught, Cal kissed me into the wall, palms holding my cheeks as he slid his tongue over my teeth. Though the apartment was cold, we weren’t, warming with touches, hot with passion. We’d been sleeping together for over three years and though it had been good from the start, it was better with time. He knew my body in a way I never thought another person would, that I knew no one would again.
Sliding under the heavy quilts, we tumbled and tangled our limbs like strings, desperate to be closer than humanly possible. The smacking of lips and slapping of skin filled the room as I let him take me away. Our chills turned to sweat as the furnace burned between us, igniting our bodies, surrounded by sparks. Digging my fingernails into his broad back, I gasped and shuddered, so gone on Cal that any resistance was futile. He held me tight as we came down and I fought the words that threatened to tear through my walls, eradicate every one of my defenses. I felt it though I’d never said it and had never heard it, but for the first time in my life I knew it was there. It was love.
“I …” he began, his voice filling the quiet room. I love you too. “I want you to move in here with us, with me. I want this every night. You. I want you every night.”
“Alright.”
“Alright?” he chuckled. “It was that easy? I’ve asked you so many times before.”
“The sex was really good,” I joked, garnering a hard pinch on my ass.
“It’s always really good.”
“There’s a right moment for everything.”
“And this is it?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow. “The right moment?”
“This is it,” I confirmed, feeling like it was. This was it. He was it. It was happening, and I didn’t feel half as bad as I should have.
“Happy New Year,” Cal said, pecking my lips. “Here’s to many more moments like this.”
“Happy New Year, you eternally optimistic queen.”
“I’m rubbing off on you,” he assured, snuggling in close. “I can tell.”
“There are moments,” I smirked, wrapping my arms around his waist.
And that was more than I could have ever asked for.
20
February 1935
For as long I had known Vlad, I’d recognized it was best to stay off his radar as much as possible, so that’s what I did. I took care of my accounts, made sure to get him his cut on time, and kept my head down. Despite my efforts, Vlad had summoned me to his condominium to discuss business. No matter how I tried to sidestep it, I was aware the conversation was inevitable considering what had happened in Towertown.
A few days into the new year, my three remaining pansy parlors had been shut down by police. According to David, one of the owners, a padlock was hung on his door without warning and beside it was a memo citing the club for indecency. After he’d done some poking around, David had learned it was the same story at every surviving establishment in Towertown, including The Gallery on State. Though I hated to admit it, news of the shutdowns had bothered me, but thinking The Gallery might be finished made my chest ache more than the rest of the report. I didn’t think I was a sentimental guy, but it felt wrong for a place so steeped in my history to be gone.
Indecency. When I asked Igor and Maks if their favorite joints had suffered the same fate, they confirmed what I’d suspected—they hadn’t. None of the North Side clubs bore a paper admonishing their indecency, other than those that catered to queers. After years of flourishing while facing the challenges of Prohibition, they were taken under by a bullshit paper emblazoned with the word indecency. It didn’t take a scholar to see where things were headed for Cal’s homosexual revolution.
Though I knew I couldn’t, I’d tossed around the idea of not telling Cal what had happened. The fact that I had promised to ask the owners about having Rosie sing for them didn’t allow me much space to maneuver around the admission. My roommates were exceedingly anxious for the outcome of those inquiries, so it was sooner than I would have liked that I had to break the news that the parlors were closed.
“What do you mean closed?” Cal had asked as he rolled flour putty in his hands.
“I mean closed, not open, locks on the doors, lights out.”
“All of them?”
“All of them,” I confirmed, sighing at the bewilderment on his face. “The city shut them down for indecency.”
“Indecency? Didn’t the repeal of Prohibition make bars decent again?”
“It’s not all clubs, only the queer ones.”
“So, the indecency isn’t drinking then?” he asked. “Hmm.”
Cal turned to press the putty against the lid of his pot while I debated what to do next. Deciding on affection, I looped my arms around his waist and rested my lips on his clothed shoulder blade.
“Are you going to tell me you told me so?” he questioned, the irritation in his voice taking me by surprise.
“No, I’m not.”
“Because this is a mistake.”
“What’s a mistake?” I asked, so terrified he would reply “us” that I said it first. “Us?”
Cal had taken me surprise, spinning around to slam me into the refrigerator, farm-strong hands pressing on my chest. “Don’t you ever say that again,” he growled with more anger than I thought he’d had the capacity to possess.
My heart had pounded as I anticipated the punch that didn’t come. Silently, I debated if I would clock him back, if we’d fight in the kitchen until we were bloodied with an outpouring of repressed emotions.
“We are never a mistake. We could be the impetus for the destruction of the world and we wouldn’t be a mistake,” he insisted, giving me the most aggressive kiss I had ever received. “They made a mistake and they’ll fix it.”
It was then that I had begun to worry that Cal’s optimism had given way to delusion, but I hadn’t said a word, helping him make his batch instead.
I wanted to be wrong. I wanted so badly to be wrong, to have assumed the worst when the situation was far less sinister, but I wasn’t mad enough to believe it had been a misunderstanding, easily remedied by an explanation. The prediction I had made years prior was proving true, and though I wished I was wrong, I knew I’d been right all along.
It was awful to be correct about unsavory things, which was why my lack of doubt regarding the reason Vlad had called for me was unsettling. Not turning in a month’s money was an unforgivable offense, and while I hadn’t actually made any clams in January, I knew I was going to have to deal with my comeuppance.
I’d only been to Vlad’s home a handful of times as his meetings were typically held at his “office” on the West Side. He didn’t want a line of lackeys heading in and out of his apartment, alarming his hoity-toity Lakeshore neighbors. The good news was there was no way he was going to pop me in his place and ruin the carpets. The bad news was … everything else.
As I entered the lobby of Vlad’s building, I was smacked in the face by the wealth surrounding me. While it had always been an impressive space, the chandeliers were grander and the paintings richer when juxtaposed with the bleakness beyond its walls.
I gave the doorman my name and was waved into a gilded elevator. As the lift went up, my stomach dropped to my ass. I wanted to run in the opposite direction, but I forced my feet to walk along the marble floor of the hallway until I stood outside my boss’ door.
“Viktor,” Vlad greeted coolly as he shook my hand. “You made it.”
As if I wouldn’t. An invitation from Vlad wasn’t one that could simply be responded to with regret.
“It’s been a while,” I n
oted, following him into his ostentatious apartment. It looked as though famous French artists, whose names I should have known, had vomited pastel paint all over the fucking place, while the only true piece of art was Vlad himself. I wanted to gauge my eyes out for the way they looked at him, as if he was more than the man who held my life in his hands while caring so little about it beyond what it was able to provide for his pocket.
“It has,” he nodded, handing me a glass. “Should I think you’re avoiding me?” He grinned and poured Smirnoff into my cup. I must’ve pulled a face, because Vlad asked, “You’re still Russian, yes?”
“So they say,” I answered. To Americans I was too Russian, and to Russians I was too quiet.
“Na Zdorovie,” he said clanking his glass against mine.
“Na Zdorovie.” I threw the shot back and grimaced through the burn. I’d spent so much time with whiskey, I had forgotten the clear liquor packed so much punch.
“We’ll have one more as congratulations for your father and brother,” Vlad decided, preparing another round. “It’s a big time for the Mikhailovs. It seems you’re the lone holdout.”
Fuck my family. My father’s lapdog had gotten engaged to Millie mere weeks after Taros and, as expected, their corny show of commitment had put a spotlight on me. I downed the drink, suddenly thankful to have it.
“You don’t have a wife,” I pointed out tentatively.
“I have many,” Vlad assured with a wink, walking into the living room and nodding for me to sit on the seat across from his.
“The Italians have a wife and many girlfriends.”
“Do you have either?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in challenge.
“I have no complaints,” I answered, pleased when I drew a laugh.
“I bet you don’t,” Vlad hummed, looking me over. “You see, Viktor, the Italians don’t have the benefit of Russian brains. Wives are entitled to your money, girlfriends are not.” Vlad’s bottom line as always. “I envy your queens,” he began, my throat tightening at the reference. “They’ll never have half their assets taken in a divorce. It’s the deviants who derive the greatest benefits, right?”
In the City by the Lake Page 13
