“Oh?”
“Well, I don’t need trouble. I’m still underage.”
“Send it through someone you trust and don’t put a return address on it. Maybe having money will stop you worrying about work the way you do and you’ll get a life. Maybe a fella with some life left in him too.” Rosie said, adding. “Do think about meeting us later. There’s a party by the waterfront.”
Hannah stretched and yawned. “I don’t know.” She hated being alone, but didn’t want Rosie to feel sorry for her.
“Well if you change your mind, it’s by the yacht club so it shouldn’t be hard to find.” Rosie’s wood heels clicked on the hardwood floor as she left.
Lazing in bed, Hannah decided to write that long overdue letter to Michael Anderson. She’d written him when she first ran away to let him know she was okay, to thank him for his proposal. He’d written back several times, but being so busy she’d never written him back.
She reached for a pen and some paper:
“Dear Michael, Bet you’re shocked to hear from me? Well, I’m fine and hope you and your family are too? Time just slips away. As you know, I got lucky meeting up with Meg. You probably wouldn’t even recognize us. I bet you are well on your way to being a lawyer now that you were able to return to school? I’ll bet your real good at it too? I got me a good job singing at a real fine place. I even got wrote up in the newspaper twice. My leaving has worked out for the best. When I left, I took money from my Mama and want to pay it back and let her know I’m okay, but don’t want them (Ray) finding me. Could you please get this money to her and tell them I’m okay without revealing more? You’ll have my undying gratitude, as well you already have my eternal friendship. Sorry I am such a bad pen-pal. Miss you, Love Hannah.
P.S. Send your reply back c/o The Jefferson Hotel, Kansas City.
She folded the letter, rolled the money into a stocking and put it into an envelope.
She felt inexplicably restless, dissatisfied like days back home when she’d had too much time and sat wishing for something exciting to happen, or that someone would come and make things better. Humph! She thought back to those early days with Ray. Sometimes she even missed him – the way things were between them before everything got so twisted.
Ray. They hadn’t met for the first time under the most propitious circumstances considering she’d been skinny dipping and naked as a jaybird. In fact, she’d half fallen asleep after her swim and had innocently started exploring the territory of her own pubescent body unaware that she wasn’t alone until something caused her to sit up. She’d almost died from pure mortification when she’d spotted a grown man hidden behind a copse of trees glaring at her with a gaze of pure hell, condemnation and something else she couldn’t quite read.
When he vanished in the foliage as quick as he’d appeared she assumed he was a drifter passing through and put it out of her mind. But, as luck would have it, trouble had come home to roost. It turned out that the man — Ray was a distant relation who had come from Texas to stay and help Mama run the farm—at Mama’s invitation.
Up close, Ray had been the best looking fella Hannah had ever seen outside of a picture book; brown wavy hair with light auburn streaks, worn a little too long and hung over his collar like an outlaw’s; eyes green as the forest, heightened by dark brows and lashes. And he was tall, bigger than her grandfather Old Pa had been, muscled, lean and clean shaven, not weathered like the men she was used to seeing and so much more handsome.
If she hadn’t been inclined to hate him — petrified he would blurt out everything he’d seen her doing, she might have swooned. But, considering Em worried that allowing her to attend public school would corrupt her, it would have spelled disaster. Mama would have plucked her out of school as fast as she plucked feathers out of a chicken for Sunday supper. For weeks, Hannah avoided the “stranger”. Ray wasn’t as old as Mama, yet he wasn’t young either. He worked real hard and could quote the Bible like a preacher, all white teeth and smiles. He’d found instant favor with Mama who had been giggling and tittering, acting like bait on a hook.
Hannah had tried her best as only a twelve-year-old girl could do to sabotage him. She took his things and put frogs in his shoes. She bad-mouthed him hoping Mama would send him away – all to no avail. Finally, one day after Emalith had gone to town, Ray confronted her. They’d come to terms and agreed to keep out of one another’s way.
Ray had sealed the deal with a handshake, a promise and by offering her a drink – her first whiskey and a smoke. It hadn’t taken much for her to get splifficated and to learn to inhale cigarettes without choking and from that day forward they’d shared a secret camaraderie and lots of liquor and smokes. Ray was the only adult to ever treat her like a grown-up, like she mattered. And she grew to adore him. Problem was, the more she grew up, the more complicated things got between them.
All that had led her here, to Kansas City. Were things so different after all? There, she’d wanted to be independent with no one telling her what to do. Here, she was independent but still had people telling her what to do. There she’d craved a colorful life. Here, she’d gotten much of what she’d wished for, but she still felt like things were missing. Would she ever be content?
Prohibition had her spooked. Were Meg and Rosie right? Did she need a steady fella, someone more substantial than Seymour or the stage door Johnnies who admired who they thought she was? Was having a special fella in your life the answer?
Piqued, she reached for her flask and took a defiant nip. Then another. Whiskey had a way of calming a body. She kept telling herself she didn’t need anything except her job, her admirers and her friends, but she knew she was lying. For while it was easier to be alone with only yourself to care for, it wasn’t enough sometimes, like now.
Tonight….tomorrow.
She sipped, played with her swizzle stick, and poured some more. She felt so alone it hurt. She hoped if she drank enough it would erase the generous dollop of self-pity she was feeling and fill the hollows inside. But, it didn’t. The room swirling, she drained the bottle dry, collapsing in a boneless heap upon her bed, still empty.
1920
“Wild Women Don’t Have The Blues.”
Ida Cox and the Coleman Hawkins Quintet
8 CHAPTER EIGHT
Everywhere in America behind false fronts or inside existing establishments, blind pigs, speaks, or scatters replaced closing taverns. Watchers lurked behind peepholes; passwords, codes and connection keys became the rule.
Tony’s Place, formerly a saloon known as Ossie’s Blue Room was in a huge Victorian deep in the heart of Kansas City’s Little Italy. Its ceiling replicated Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. Its hanging cheeses, carafes and ceramic grapes placed it as an eating establishment. Few questioned jovial proprietor Tony Amada’s foresight when months before he closed for repairs. Or why he was back in business serving great food before the ink was dry on Title 11, Section 3 of the National Prohibition Act.
Business was brisk. Bustling waitresses and hungry dinner guests lined up to sit amid red checked table cloths, gilded statues of the Virgin and oil paintings of Venice. And, every so often well dressed men wearing fedoras bypassed the waiting patrons to enter a small alcove hidden from public view and vanished into thin air, and no one seemed to notice.
Three men entered the small alcove. One of them approached a door with a brass panel and muttered ‘Joe sent me’. As if by magic, a bulletproof door, thick as a vault opened to reveal a sprawling stairway. When the men reached the top landing, Tony greeted each of them cheek to cheek. Walking over to an etched glass mural covering an entire wall, he hit a switch and the glass and wood cabinetry panel moved aside to reveal another room containing more people, a well stocked bar and the coup de grace, gaming tables.
Gianantonio Gallo, Johnny to friends, hadn’t been weaned on the roughest streets of New York to be anyone’s fool. He’d come up the hard way, as a teen in Brooklyn’s notorious Five Points Gang. He was trusted by
men who didn’t trust easily. He grew up with Johnny Torrio, Charles Salvatore “Lucky” Luciano, Frankie Yale, Alphonse Capone and the young, Joe Adonis. They were all visionary young men destined for a certain kind of greatness. He, like them saw opportunity where others saw obstacles. They all had the kind of single-minded dedication only growing up poor can breed. On the plus side, no true vices owned Johnny except his passion for the finer things in life. The lure of a heist was still his greatest weakness, but maturity had taught him patience. Wisdom had come harder; he’d learned that serving time.
Johnny’s dark eyes quietly reflected his approval. “This joint’s the aces. No question you’ll be rakin’ in the dough, piaisano.”
“Of course, you did warn me about what was coming and lent me money to do this, but maybe you can make me a better deal,” said Tony.
Johnny spoke calmly, but forceful. “Can’t. With all these damned laws now and the Feds breathin’ down our neck, there are a lot more obstacles, more hands to grease.”
“Tell me about it,” grumbled Tony. “Things are worse than ever. I thought when we voted for a Democrat things would get better.”
“Unfortunately for New York, Pendergast ain’t no chump,” said Johnny. “He ain’t gonna let anyone cut into his action, but he ain’t no miracle worker neither.”
When Johnny wanted anything, whether object, goal, or just to promote goodwill, he found listening an asset. A fella learned a lot that way. He could be as charming as his good looks, variable interests and quiet demeanor demanded. He prided himself on being a keen dresser, a loyal soldier and that most rare of things, an honorable thief. He was ambitious but sensitive, aware of his place in a world where breaking code could be lethal. And it didn’t hurt that he had a knack for never forgetting a single detail, no matter how insignificant. He had a slow burning temper he kept reined in tight. Few would guess it by looking at him. When his temper did ignite, he acted swiftly, viciously and sometimes violently.
Johnny was in Kansas City because Brooklyn’s reigning capo, Little Augie, had sent him there, not only to avoid heat for some side job he’d pulled, but because Augie wanted to broaden his influence. He wanted to organize and merge liquor supply and disbursement routes across the country. Johnny being a third cousin on his mother’s side to John Lazia, a Tom Pendergast insider was a natural for the job of spy/diplomat.
“So tell me, Johnny,” said Angelo, a bricklayer. “Now that Tom’s people are taking over all the commissioner posts, is he going to send some work my way?”
“He said he’d personally green stamp any worthy projects presented to him. Just get me the paperwork, Angelo. I’ll see what I can do.” Angelo thanked him.
Johnny hadn’t worked his ass off biding time in Kansas for nothing. He’d already made several important deals. And, even though Tom wouldn’t let New York dominate his liquor market, he had agreed to sanction and support select businesses, including his and cousin John Lazia’s new soft drink business.
“Hey, some swells downstairs askin’ for ya,” said a waiter bending close to Tony’s ear, but loud enough for Johnny to hear. Tony excused himself.
Admiring the elaborate two-way mirror system, Johnny looked down into the restaurant below. He spotted a gorgeous blond wearing a robin’s egg blue dress. It fit her like a glove. Her back was to him as she headed towards a table full of people. She had a walk that was so enticing a cold shower wouldn’t be enough to cool a fella down if he watched her too long.
“Want to play poker?” His cousin patted him on the back.
“Nah, you go ahead,” answered Johnny watching Tony making his way through the restaurant, smiling and greeting people. “I just want to look around.”
And, look he did. Some fella was pulling a chair out for the blonde. Johnny wondered if she looked as good up front as she did from behind. He wondered why the hell he even cared.
Still, something about her got his attention. He wondered if she’d ever turn around. Did he even want her to? Probably had a face as ugly as a horse.
He stamped out his cigarette. He walked over to the roulette wheel and plunked down twenty bucks. Most skirts expected more of a fella than he was willing to give anyways and dames were downright nosy too. He preferred dames who kept their mouths shut and knew the score. Any fella old enough to have hair on his balls could show appreciation to a pretty piece from time to time, but only a pantywaisted dimwit let a gal sink her claws into him. He believed in keeping it simple, letting a dame know right off who was boss.
The roulette wheel rippled to a halt, doubling his money. Fighting the urge to look below at the blonde again, irritated he even was thinking about it, he placed two more bets. He let his money ride on the fifth roll and won again. By the time he left the roulette table he was up by five hundred bucks. He lit another smoke, walked over to the blackjack table and took another look downstairs.
The blonde and her party were leaving. Tony was standing by the door talking to them. Her profile was riveting, her nose pert as her breasts, her lips full, her neck long. He watched as she spoke to Tony, her entire face animated. Okay, so she didn’t look like no horse, but she did look familiar.
Later, Johnny asked Tony who the hot tomato he was talking to downstairs was.
Tony grinned, kissing his own fingers, shaking them as if they were burnt. “You mean the blonde? That’s Hannah Glidden, used to sing over at the Jefferson Hotel.”
Johnny nodded. He instantly remembered meeting her. The girl with the sapphire eyes.
“Yeah, Pendergast’s golden canary’s got the goods,” added Angelo with a smirk. “Too bad the hotel closed after New Years without any notice. I hear Seymour Innorata never missed one of her shows when he was in town.”
“Probably banging her,” said Tony’s accountant.
“For Christ’s sake shut up, will ya.” Johnny wanted to deck the two of them.
“Used to catch her act three times a week. She can sing better than the chunk of lead Tony’s got here playing the accordion and screechin’ like a damned banshee,” said Angelo. “Pleasing on the eye too.”
Tony looked upset. “Hey, that chunk of lead happens to be my niece. I don’t hafta pay her to sing here.”
“I’d make her pay you, Tony,” shouted another as everyone laughed, except Johnny. He was thinking about the blonde, about Hannah. He hadn’t heard her sing, but she had a body that didn’t quit and a face that was the closest thing to perfection he’d ever seen. Not that he’d let some gold diggin’ vamp with a pretty face hold all the aces in his life. No way. No how. Never. It was simpler to hire quiff then to waste time courting it. Still…
Lazia looked pensive. “I say Tony should hire the singer if he can get her. With Jefferson closing so fast, she’s probably available and she’s cooking with gas.”
Angelo heartily agreed. “Yeah, but why would a class act like that want a job here?”
Johnny clenched his fist hard enough to make the thin white scar between his thumb and finger turn white against his olive skin. His scar was a souvenir he’d gotten years ago in a tussle with a knife. Anyone looking at his smooth manicured nails would find it hard to believe he was a scrapper. His eyes riveted on Tony’s, he tried to focus on the bottom line for himself and for his friend. Something about the blonde being out of work and needing a job got to him. Before he could stop himself he was talking. “John’s got a point. If she drew ’em in like flies at a classy joint like that and with places shuttin’ down because of Prohibition, we could probably get her for next to nothin’.”
Tony remained skeptical. “Irlene would kill me if I fired Terese. And this girl, Hannah isn’t Italian. And she probably would want to bring in her own musicians. I don’t have room for that.”
“You could still keep Terese for the downstairs restaurant and just hire the singer for upstairs. You got room for a piano bar,” Johnny said.
Tony looked appalled. “What happens when she realizes it’s a juice joint, with gamblin’ too? I
don’t need trouble from no outsider.”
Johnny pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “She worked in a cabaret for Christ’s sake. I say talk to her, feel her out.”
“I’d like to feel her…in and out.” Mike the accountant tittered.
Johnny silenced him with a ferocious glare. He laid a perfect flush out on the green felt table, effectively ending the game. The weasel accountant looked forlorn as Johnny took his winnings.
“You’re one lucky son-of-a-bitch, Gallo.” Angelo shook Johnny’s hand.
Tony affectionately took Johnny’s arm and sighed when they were out of range of the others. “I’d hafta take out a table to make room for a piano.”
“It’d be worth it,” said Johnny confidently. “You won’t go wrong with a sexy dame like that working here. It’ll keep the fellas spendin’ money and forgettin’ about the wife and kids waiting at home. I say hire her.”
“What if I canna get her.”
“Offer her double what she’s expectin’. We only need her two or three nights. I’ll cover it on my take, but don’t say a word to anyone and I mean anyone. John or Irlene. Also, I want receipts on every drink that gets poured at the end of the night, all of ’em,” ordered Johnny.
Embracing him, Tony agreed. Johnny chastised himself all the way down the stairs. What the hell had come over him? He’d gone out on a limb for some dame he didn’t even know. It wasn’t like him to make rapid, irrational decisions where profits were concerned. Booze and gambling were always a sure thing, but hiring talent in a place like this probably wouldn’t make a difference. In truth, he’d acted more on impulse then common sense and that wasn’t like him. “Maybe I need a good fuck so I will stop thinking with my cock,” he thought just as he heard someone calling his name.
Looking up, he recognized the woman waving, smiling and coming towards him like a torpedo. Jesus Christ, maybe God was trying to tell him something.
The Songbird with Sapphire Eyes Page 9
