Murder Knocks Twice

by Susanna Calkins

  “Show this young lady around the store. The Signora,” he said, pointing meaningfully at the floor and the speakeasy below, “wants her to learn what we do here. Show her how to stack the shelves and make a fizzy drink, would you?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Rosenstein.” Benny smiled at her. “This way, miss.”

  “Name’s Gina,” she ventured, looking around. She wondered about how the Castallazzos had come to control the pharmacy. Had they taken the establishment over when they set up the Third Door, or had they invited Mr. Rosenstein to set up his pharmacy as a front? Did it even matter?

  Over the next hour, Benny showed her how to scoop ice cream, stack cans on shelves, and check boxes of goods against an inventory. Throughout he kept up a running commentary about baseball. Cubs, White Sox, Red Sox, Yankees—who was expected to be traded, who had a big year ahead of him, whose career was over. “I did get to meet Bobby Williams, shortstop, though.” His eyes gleamed. “Plays for the Chicago American Giants. They won the Negro League World Series in ’26 and ’27. He even signed a ball for me after a game!”

  Gina smiled in response to his excitement, though she didn’t care so much about the sport herself. When she was growing up, her papa had mainly followed boxing. Although it was Aidan who’d shown her a few basic boxing moves, before he’d gone and gotten himself killed in France.

  As they stacked cans, she noted other advertisements and warnings. On the one end, there were clear POISON signs, complete with skulls and crossbones. COMPLETELY DENATURED ALCOHOL, one sign proclaimed above a row of dark and slightly dusty bottles. TO BE USED FOR ART, MECHANICAL, AND BURNING PURPOSES ONLY.

  She pointed to the sign. “People really drink that stuff?”

  “That’s why the antidote is just below. Emetics of mustard.”

  Peering at the sign, Gina read the smaller print out loud. “Completely denatured alcohol is a violent poison. It cannot be applied externally to human or animal tissue without seriously injurious results. It cannot be taken internally without inducing blindness and general physical decay—Goodness!—ultimately resulting in death.”

  Benny nodded a bit mournfully. “Some people just see the word ‘alcohol.’ So when they bring up a vial of this stuff for purchase, we usually direct them to the other shelf. In case what they really need is ‘medicinal alcohol.’” He waved to the signs that hung above the next row, over bottles of Aspironal and Sani-Tone. BETTER THAN WHISKEY FOR COLDS AND FLU, one sign read. Another proclaimed itself a “health-protecting” tonic.

  Gina shook a bottle of Sani-Tone, the thick syrupy substance causing her stomach to lurch at the sight. The vodka and gin she’d had at the Third Door had been hard enough to swill on its own. The medicinal liquor looked positively lethal. She put it back on the shelf.

  Benny headed over to the soda counter. “Want some Coca-Cola?” Benny asked, pouring himself a glass from the tap. “Mr. Rosenstein don’t mind if we have one glass when we work.”

  Grateful for the refreshment, she took the proffered glass. “Did you see Babe Ruth when he was here?” she asked. She remembered that Lulu had said that the home run king had visited the Third Door. “What was he like?”

  Benny chuckled. “Girl, I’ve seen him. At the ballpark, when I could spare a buck for the ticket. Other than that, believe it or not, the Babe and I have never met.”

  “Oh, I thought—” Then she stopped, confused.

  He nodded at the back door that led down to the speakeasy. “You thought I work down there?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Nah, this is a real job.” He waved at the pharmacy counter. “At least it is for me.”

  “How long have you been working here?” Gina asked.

  “Almost a year now. A bit of a story about how I ended up here.” Benny began to rinse out the two soda glasses in the small sink affixed to the back wall. “Originally, I tried to apply at Vincenzo’s Market. You know that place, over on Halsted?”

  Gina nodded. She’d frequently bought meat and vegetables from them. That market had been around as long as she could remember, the Italian family who owned it having been there at least three generations. She knew guys from the neighborhood who had worked there. “They’re always hiring young men, aren’t they? I’ve seen the Help Wanted sign in their window.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.” He began to towel dry the glasses. “When I asked about the position, they made it clear that they didn’t want to hire the likes of me.”

  “Oh,” Gina said, lost for words.

  Benny continued. “Then the next day, a funny thing happened. My mom, she got an advertisement from Vincenzo’s, inviting us to shop at their market. She said to me, ‘Benny, there’s no way in tarnation that we’re spending even one penny in a store that don’t see fit to hire you.’” He smiled at the recollection. “My mama and me, and some of our neighbors, too, we all walked right into Vincenzo’s and told that to the man himself. You should have seen his face when we walked in! He probably thought we were gonna bust up the place.”

  “Your mama sounds tough,” Gina said.

  “Yeah, she sure is. ‘Don’t mess with Mama,’ we always say. There she was, talking to Mr. Vincenzo, telling him how I was real smart and was just trying to make some money for the family. That I wasn’t some criminal.” He began to wipe the soda well down, with quick vigorous strokes. “You know what the best part is? We’d barely walked two steps out the door when Mr. Rosenstein came up to us and offered me a job—this job—on the spot.”

  “Golly! Why’d he do that?”

  “Because I am a Jew,” Mr. Rosenstein said, appearing suddenly beside them. He’d evidently overheard at least the last part of Benny’s story. There was a slight quaver to his voice as he continued. “In my homeland, too often have men like me been held back. In Benny, I saw myself.”

  “I’m gonna be a doctor,” Benny said, puffing out his chest. “Mr. Rosenstein’s already taught me all kinds of stuff about pharmacy.”

  “Oh yeah?” Gina asked, trying not to sound skeptical in the face of his enthusiasm. She’d never heard of a black doctor.

  “Yeah. The thing is, black folks can’t get much service from white doctors, at least not around here. Believe it or not, there are medical schools that educate black men to be doctors.” He smiled broadly. “I’m saving up now to attend Howard University Medical School. Mr. Rosenstein gave me some books to study. Chemistry. Math. Anatomy.” For a second, the brightness in his eyes dimmed. “Just gotta make enough dough to get me there.”

  “You will, so long as you get back to work.” Despite his scolding tone, there was a fondness there as well. The pharmacist glanced at Gina. “Speaking of which, it’s nearly six o’clock. You’d better run along. You don’t want to keep the Signora waiting, of that I am certain.”

  * * *

  “Two Rum Runners,” Lulu called to Billy, a few hours later.

  Hearing the order, Gina smiled to herself. It was at least the eleventh call for the same drink since she’d started her shift. Big Mike had made Rum Runners the drink of the evening. One of his little jokes, since they’d learned that the bootleggers who’d seen their shipment seized had been mysteriously released from jail overnight. Mysterious indeed. From Big Mike’s pleased smile, she suspected he knew something about whose palms had been greased to make that escape possible. Regardless, at twenty cents, the drink was a bargain, bringing extra cheer to the evening.

  As she waited for Billy to make the cocktails, Lulu put her elbows behind her on the counter. “Must be nice,” she said, bouncing a bit to Ned’s piano playing.

  “What?” Gina asked, following her gaze. A beautiful woman with a shimmering headdress and a white fur coat with spotted trim flung about her shoulders had sauntered down the stairs. Behind her a much taller, immaculately dressed older woman followed, a pinched expression upon her face. The younger woman moved as if she were ready to dance the evening away, while the other looked like someone had pushed her down the
stairs with a pitchfork at her back.

  “That’s Genevieve Beering,” Lulu whispered to her, indicating the woman who had slipped out of the fur coat to disclose a shimmering gossamer gown. “One of Chicago’s finest.”

  Everyone had heard of the Beerings. Like the McCormicks, the Wrigleys, and the Searles, they were Chicago royalty; their social and philanthropic doings regularly filled the society pages. Even here at the speakeasy, there was some bowing and scraping going on as if she owned the place.

  “Who’s her companion?”

  Lulu squinted, obviously less interested in the other woman. “Oh, that’s Greta Van der Veer,” she said. “I think.”

  “What a beautiful necklace Miss Beering is wearing,” Gina said, returning her gaze to the heiress. “I wonder what it cost.”

  “You could probably sell ciggies for the next ten years and still not be able to afford it,” Faye said, overhearing their exchange.

  “Oh, no, surely not that long, Faye.” Jade jumped in. “Maybe just nine years. Nine and a half, tops.”

  Gina laughed along with the other women, although she had the feeling that the laugh might be at her own expense. Jade and Faye sashayed off, back to their respective tables.

  Miss Beering seated herself grandly in her chair, nodding her head graciously and accepting accolades as a princess might receive her subjects. “To the manor born,” she had heard a character described in a talkie once, and it reminded her of the heiress now. Miss Van der Veer, on the other hand, looked decidedly uncomfortable with all the attention. Her back was straight and her face wrinkled and pallid, as if she wanted to be anywhere but the speakeasy.

  Nor was she drinking, Gina noticed, although the heiress had already downed two red-hued cocktails in rapid succession. No cheap drink of the evening, not for this woman. Mary Pickfords, from the looks of it. Gina wholeheartedly approved of that tasty concoction, appreciating the light fruity flavors of the pineapple juice mixed in with rum and grenadine.

  When Gina stopped to sell some Chesterfields to a couple of college boys at a nearby table, she heard the Signora glide over to greet Miss Beering in a gracious but not overly solicitous way.

  “Take me to your darling husband, would you?” Miss Beering asked, more a command than a question. She touched her necklace. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with him.”

  Although the Signora’s expression did not change, she straightened to her full height. “I’m afraid the Signor is busy,” she said, with a gracious and well-trained smile.

  “Oh, but Big Mike will see me,” Miss Beering replied. She smoothed her hair, causing a silver and amethyst bracelet to slip down along her slender arm.

  Her smile never wavering, the Signora inclined her head. “I shall see if he’s available. Please, follow me.”

  With a graceful gesture, the Signora moved toward the back room. As Gina moved over to collect the women’s empty glasses, she saw Miss Van der Veer clutch the heiress’s arm before she walked away. “What are you doing?” Gina heard her hiss.

  Miss Beering shook off her companion’s hand. “I know what I’m doing, Greta,” she hissed back. “Now leave me be. Have a drink, for God’s sake. Loosen up.” With that Miss Beering easily caught up with the Signora, without a backward glance at her companion.

  Not missing a beat, Gina walked up to Miss Van der Veer, who had moved over to the bar, still staring in the direction that Miss Beering had just gone. “Can I get you something?” she asked, indicating an empty stool at the end of the bar. The table that the two women had vacated had already been taken by another couple.

  “A fizzy lemonade and a pack of Marlboros,” Miss Van der Veer replied, sliding stiffly onto the stool. She continued to look around, her nose wrinkled.

  Billy Bottles slipped the drink in front of her, and the woman tapped the glass impatiently with one long fingernail.

  “Does she come here a lot?” Gina whispered to Lulu, with a nod in the direction that Genevieve Beering had gone.

  “Sure. A few times. I’ve seen her play cards,” Lulu said, as she placed the drinks on her tray.

  “She’s come for a game? With the servicemen?” Gina asked, surprised. It was hard to imagine that elegant woman, dripping with jewels, sitting at the same table as those disfigured men with their injured bodies and patched-up faces. Hardly the usual companions of a wealthy heiress.

  Lulu laughed. “Hardly. Twice a month or so Big Mike organizes a high-stakes game. Real dough gets passed out there, from what I understand.” She gestured toward Miss Van der Veer, who was still scowling down at her lemonade. “That one, not so much. A real sourpuss, she is.”

  “Tell Billy to slip some gin in that drink,” Faye whispered, evidently catching the last bit of conversation as she whirled by, tray in hand. “She’s souring the whole room.”

  Sure enough, as Miss Van der Veer continued to look anxiously toward the beaded doorway where the heiress had disappeared, Billy added a dollop of sweet sherry to her drink.

  About half an hour later, Gina leaned over to light some smokes for some men who’d been talking nonstop about stock prices and market shares since they had first strolled in. The men kept chuckling about the gains they’d made for their clients, and by extension for themselves. She didn’t know much about the stock market and speculation, but it was clear that the rich were getting richer while the poor got even poorer, and that’s how the rich people liked it.

  Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of the heiress stalking out of the back room, directly toward Miss Van der Veer. Her companion had already hopped off the bar stool, and met her halfway across the floor. “Time to go, Genevieve,” she said, almost as a mother would speak to her wayward child.

  The heiress gave a terse nod and allowed Miss Van der Veer to escort her out. As they passed, Gina watched the heiress’s dark expression slip away, to be replaced by her usual gracious and beautiful mask.

  * * *

  “Here you go, Mrs. Dugan,” Gina said, carefully placing a cup of steaming and spiked cider in front of an elderly woman seated in Mrs. Metzger’s tea shop.

  This was her third day working in the tea shop, and she was getting the hang of serving hot drinks, pastries, and other light fare to customers. Despite the prim lace curtains and delicate teacups, the place was not nearly as stuffy as she had expected it to be when she had first walked in a few days before. With very few men on the premises, the women tended to joke around with each other more. It probably helped that most took the “extra dollop” in their teacups. For those in on the secret, Mrs. Metzger’s tea room offered a reputable place for married women and widows to have a quiet drink, without being bothered by their husbands, handsy gin-swillers, or the Drys.

  Some of the women had fascinating stories, and Gina found herself lingering as two women discussed their time driving ambulances during the Great War. It was hard not to think about Aidan then. Had he even made it to an ambulance? Or had he just died on the spot? Killed in action was all the telegram had said. She shook her head, trying not to think about it.

  She was adding hot water to a teapot when a ruckus out on the street caused all of the patrons to fall silent. It sounded like someone banging on drums and shouting.

  “What in heaven’s name is that?” Mrs. Dugan asked.

  Mrs. Dugan’s companion, another elderly woman with bright blue eyes, tugged on Gina’s sleeve. “Don’t just stand there gawking, girl. Take a peek.”

  Seeing Mrs. Metzger give her a nod, Gina opened the door of the tea shop to find out what was happening out on the street. There she saw five women in gray and white dresses, all with starched white aprons and white caps, walking down the street toward the shop. One woman was banging on an enormous drum that had been strapped to her neck and waist. Another was tooting discordantly into a small tin horn. The other three were chanting something that was hard to discern.

  When they reached the tea shop entrance they stopped, the drummer still pounding away. “No m
ore alcohol,” one of the women shouted, pumping her first in the air.

  The shouts continued.

  “Alcohol ruins families!”

  “Alcohol kills!”

  “Alcohol is the devil’s drink!”

  Gina recognized them. They were temperance workers—those humorless women who had helped bring about Prohibition ten years ago, and who still sought to bring about absolute sobriety and temperance. She didn’t know if they were part of the Anti-Saloon League or Woman’s Christian Temperance movement or some offshoot thereof, but it didn’t really matter. She stepped back inside the tea room, shutting the door behind her.

  Undeterred, the temperance workers just shouted more loudly, clearly audible even through the closed door. One of the women slammed her hand on the tea room window, staring directly at Mrs. Dugan. “There is sin here!”

  Though initially startled, Mrs. Dugan recovered quickly. “To think I was just about to ask for another nip,” she stage-whispered to her companion. “I suppose we’ll need to hold off now. Given the sinful nature of this establishment.”

  Both women giggled. “It does take the chill off, now don’t it?” her companion replied, reaching up to the sash that held the lace curtain back. “How about we just close the curtain?”

  The smiles slipped from their faces, though, when the door opened and the temperance workers pushed their way inside. They renewed their chants and drumming. In loud and grating voices, they called, “Pour out your devil’s drink! Alcohol kills!”

  One of them began to lay pamphlets on the tables. Gina expected the patrons to get up and leave, but they continued to look on with interest, as if about to take in a show. She looked to the proprietress for guidance.

  Mrs. Metzger just looked annoyed. “Gina,” she said, jerking her head toward the back door. The implication was clear. Get some help.

  Gina exited the tea room through the back door and called to Little Johnny, who was sitting behind the green door, keeping watch on the alley. He didn’t seem surprised to see her.