The Boy in the Red Dress

by Kristin Lambert

  24

  I’D BE LYING if I said Roy hadn’t surprised me. I left his doorstep as I’d promised, but on the way home I contemplated what he’d told me. The Pelican was a dive like ours, but its owners were black and so, mostly, were its customers. Minty would’ve stuck out like a sore thumb there, but that was good news—someone at the Pelican was likely to remember her and who she was meeting.

  I was still mulling the possibilities when I finally walked into the apartment and found Marion climbing into our bedroom window, his feet bare and pale with cold. Cal stood by the door, casually fastening the buttons on her shirt cuffs, but there were pink spots high on her cheeks, the kind that only appeared when she was furious. Mama hovered by the radio, fiddling distractedly with the knobs and looking flushed.

  “Did something happen in here?” I said, and they all looked up at me.

  “Cops,” Cal said curtly.

  “Detective Sabatier paid us a visit,” Mama elaborated.

  “What? How did he find us?”

  A wide-eyed Marion came out of the bedroom, brushing a streak of rust off his sleeve.

  “He found some ancient tax record that showed my address,” Cal said. “I bribed a clerk a long time ago to get rid of everything, but apparently they missed one.”

  “But Sabatier didn’t see Marion, right? How—” I closed the door behind me and waved a hand toward the open window.

  Cal grimaced. “Gladys kept the cop busy while I sent Marion up the fire escape to the roof.”

  I looked at Marion, and he tried to hang a falsely modest expression over his terrified one.

  “You’re climbing out an awful lot of windows lately,” I said, trying to make him smile. “Maybe if singing doesn’t work out, you could be an acrobat.”

  Marion stuck his cold feet under a blanket on the sofa and made a face. “Maybe if being a smartass doesn’t work out, you could be a jackass.”

  I stuck out my tongue. “Too late.”

  “Anyway,” Cal said, sitting down to put on her shoes, “I think Marion could’ve danced the tango right in front of that cop’s nose, and he wouldn’t have noticed. All he did was look at Gladys.”

  “That’s not true,” Mama said, swatting at the air toward Cal, but she bit her bottom lip and her eyes twinkled. “He’s an old friend is all.”

  “Right,” I said, slicing coldly across their good humor. “Even murder is less important than Gladys Coleman.”

  “How did it go with Symphony?” Marion jumped in.

  I rolled my eyes and flopped across the sofa next to him. “She was a snob as usual. But she showed me the drawing she did of you that night at the club, Mar. It was really different from the bird one, and I got to admit it was pretty good. I should’ve stolen it to bring you.”

  “I think you’ve done enough stealing,” Cal said, moving to the table behind the sofa and stuffing her keys in her trousers pocket.

  “What about Romeo?” Marion said. “Did you get any more leads?”

  “Just one. But I didn’t get it from Symphony.”

  Marion frowned in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “I found Fitzroy DeCoursey. And it turns out you were right—it is a fake name.”

  “Knew it!” Despite his surprise, Marion managed to look smug. “Let me guess—his real name is Bob Jones.”

  I laughed and elbowed his side. “Roy Delacroix. It rhymes.”

  Cal rolled her eyes and slapped us both on the back of our heads. “Who cares what his name is? What’s the lead?”

  I ducked out of her reach and made myself settle down. “I found out where Minty had been meeting her Romeo—the Pelican Club.”

  Cal looked as surprised as I’d been when Roy told me. “Hard to picture a deb like her there.”

  “Hard to picture her at our club, too,” I said, “but she was there.”

  “Maybe she went to the Pelican because she didn’t want anyone she knew to see her,” Mama said, taking the chair Cal had been sitting in. “If I met up with some guy I wanted to keep secret, I’d go to a place my friends didn’t know about.”

  “Or she was seeing one of the patrons there,” I said.

  “Dating a black man certainly would’ve scandalized the Uptowners,” Marion said. “They get upset if somebody wears the wrong color to a debutante ball.”

  “Whoever it was, we need to go to the Pelican and try to find out,” I said. “You know anyone there, Cal?”

  “Not well enough to do you any good.” She jingled the keys in her pocket. “They’re not going to be real welcoming to someone throwing around accusations.”

  “Then what do you recommend?” I said.

  “Olive has mentioned going to the Pelican before,” Marion said, sitting up straighter. “She told me and Lewis she has a friend who plays in the band there. You could ask her to go with you and make introductions.”

  “Good idea. Come ask her,” Cal said. “I gotta be at the Cloak in five. And”—she gave me a pointed look—“so do you.”

  I’d missed a lot of work lately, and I was about to have to ask for another day off to go to the Pelican. I’d have to earn it.

  I shoved myself up off the sofa but stopped and touched Marion’s shoulder. “You going to be all right here tonight after that close call?”

  “Of course.” He faked a grin. “I’ll keep one hand on the emergency bell.”

  I smiled back in a way I hoped was reassuring. “We’ll be listening.”

  * * *

  “Your friend will help me out, won’t he?”

  Olive kept stacking clean glasses under the bar. “I doubt it. He doesn’t know you.”

  “But you could introduce me?” I propped my elbows on the bar and tried to look appealing.

  Olive cocked an eyebrow at me. “If someone came in here and said, ‘My friend needs to know something about one of your customers,’ would you just roll over and give them all the information they wanted to know?”

  Of course, I wouldn’t. “But this is different. It’s important.”

  Olive leaned on the bar, face-to-face with me. As she moved, a waft of jasmine scent floated toward me. Why did she have to smell so good? It was terribly distracting. A smile tickled the corner of her mouth, like she could read the thought in my eyes. I straightened and whirled around on my barstool.

  “If you want me to take you out to the Pelican,” she said behind me, “you could just say so.”

  I stopped the barstool and faced her again. She looked so smug I almost wanted to tell her never mind, I’ll go on my own. But the prospect of a whole evening with Olive, with no dirty glasses or washrags or customers between us, didn’t sound so bad. An image of her bare legs from the other night popped into my head, and I wondered suddenly what she would wear. At our club, she wore calf-length dresses buttoned up high to discourage grabby customers. But if we were out on the town . . .

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Take me out to the Pelican tomorrow night. Please.”

  She looked at me slyly, as if she had to consider it, as if she hadn’t just suggested I ask her. “What about work?”

  “Aunt Cal will let you off.”

  Olive looked skeptical. “You ask her then.”

  “I will. Right now.” I pushed myself off the barstool and made to leave, but Olive reached out across the bar and laid her hand on mine.

  “Millie.”

  Her eyes met mine, and I had to swallow to find my voice. “Yeah?”

  Her smile spread like molasses. “I can’t wait.”

  * * *

  “Hold still! I’m trying—to—” Marion lunged at me with a hairpin, and I dodged.

  “Go chase yourself! You’re hurting me!”

  “I’m improving you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Improvement is in the eye of the beholder. I bet Olive is
n’t doing all this.”

  “I bet she is,” Marion said. “And I’m not letting you show up to the Pelican looking like you just jumped off a boxcar.”

  “She hasn’t changed a bit,” Mama said, handing Marion another hairpin, which he jabbed at me, too. “Hated having her hair brushed as a little girl. Always went around with it sticking up every which way.”

  Marion laughed, but I glared at them both in the mirror. How dare Mama talk about when I was a little girl? How dare she act as if she’d never stopped being my mother?

  Marion noticed the shift in my mood from cranky to volcanic and said, “Gladys, would you be a lamb and fetch me that little enamel box of bobby pins? I think I left it in the bathroom.”

  She glanced from his face to mine and didn’t protest. “Sure, doll. Be right back.”

  I heard the front door click open and Mama’s heels tapping down the hall to the bathroom.

  Marion gave me a stern look in the mirror. “She’s trying, Millie.”

  He guided a brush through the curls he’d created in my hair, softening them into waves. I was pretty sure they’d be stick straight again in half an hour, so all of this was a waste of time.

  “She’s not trying that hard. You only care because you’re sick of hearing us bicker.”

  Marion’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t deny it. The tap-tap-tapping of Mama’s feet returned.

  “Found it!” she said brightly, avoiding my eyes as she set down the little box on the dresser.

  I shoved back the stool and stood up, knocking Marion off balance. “You’ve curled and shellacked me all I can take. Can’t I go now?”

  Marion’s hand gripped my shoulder like he was afraid I would bolt. “You don’t even have the dress on yet.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” But I grudgingly let him and Mama help me into a pair of Mama’s heeled T-straps that were a bit too pinchy in the toes and Marion’s delicate silver-spangled dress, which we’d smuggled out of the Cloak. It skimmed close over my hips and floated around my calves. Rows of silver beads lined a deep V cut in the back.

  “Cal! Come look at this!” Mama called, and Cal popped her head into the bedroom.

  “Hot damn!” she said. “Who knew our Millie had legs for days?”

  “Anybody with eyes, that’s who.” Marion beamed and nudged me with an elbow, but I wanted exactly none of their compliments.

  “I feel half naked in this chandelier. You sure I can’t just wear—”

  “No,” Marion said.

  “Hell no,” Mama said.

  “I have an idea,” Cal said, and disappeared into the living room. She reappeared moments later holding her black tuxedo jacket. “Try this.”

  She helped me shrug into the jacket. I turned to the full-length mirror on the door of the armoire, and for the first time since Marion had started dolling me up, I liked the reflection shining back at me. The silver dress and the V of skin at my collarbone peeked out from between the lapels of the jacket, and the strings of tiny beads swished below it. I imagined Olive’s eyes on me in this outfit, and I wasn’t displeased.

  “I see you smiling,” Marion said, nudging my hip with his.

  “I’m not smiling,” I lied. “I’m leaving.”

  I grabbed Marion’s absurdly tiny silver handbag and lurched out of the bedroom in my impractical heels.

  “Wait! You need earrings!” he said, chasing after me with bits of shine in his hands, but I didn’t stop. I stuffed my switchblade in the pocket of Cal’s tuxedo jacket and ran for it.

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Mama said, leaning out of the apartment door.

  “Don’t do anything she would do!” Cal called. “And don’t get that jacket dirty!”

  * * *

  Olive waited under the streetlamp outside the Pelican. Even in the harsh light, she was beautiful in a gold dress that contrasted with the burnished brown skin of her shoulders. Instantly, my earlier confidence drained away, and I felt too tall, gangly, ridiculous in this outfit.

  My steps slowed, and I swallowed hard. I reminded myself the point of this date was to get information about Arimentha McDonough’s romantic escapades. It didn’t matter what I looked like, so long as I got into the Pelican and got the details I needed.

  Olive turned, and the moment she spotted me, her mouth popped open in a pretty O. Her lips were painted a deep berry red, almost black in the light of the streetlamp.

  “I hardly recognize you, Millie. You look so . . .”

  “Uncomfortable?” I tried to smile. “Blame Marion. I do.”

  Olive laughed gently. “I just never dreamed I’d see you dolled up like this.”

  I wrapped Cal’s tuxedo jacket tighter over the sparkly dress. “Is it such a bad thing to take a night off from being Millie Coleman?”

  Olive grinned and offered me her arm. “I happen to like Millie Coleman.”

  Warmth rushed up from my belly, and I bit my lip to stop the smile creeping across my face. I happen to like Millie Coleman. I locked that one away in my memory to savor again later.

  Olive led me into a walled courtyard off Esplanade and knocked five times in quick succession on a side door. The door was half hidden behind a giant camellia bush studded with hot-pink blooms, and the ground under our feet was littered with petals, their sweet scent wafting up with every step we took. It reminded me of the night we broke into Arimentha’s house, and my blood sped even faster in my veins. I had to keep my mind focused on why I was here. Not on how Olive smelled or the way her hand was so warm in the crook of my arm, even through the tuxedo jacket.

  The door opened inward a crack. The bouncer’s broad face appeared and looked us up and down.

  “Who’s this?” he said to Olive.

  “A friend.”

  He snorted and gestured to me. “Since when you friends with girls like her?”

  Olive set her hands on her hips. “Since I felt like it. You the cops now?”

  I stepped forward. “I know you let in white girls sometimes. In fact, that’s why—”

  Olive jabbed me in the ribs to shut me up. “Just let us in. She won’t make trouble.”

  The bouncer looked me over with disdain again. “Looks like she’s walking trouble.”

  Olive cracked a smile. “You’re not wrong. But I got her. I promise.”

  The bouncer hesitated, then finally swung the door wider and stepped aside. “You better.”

  “Ready?” Olive said to me.

  I grinned. “As I’ll ever be.”

  We followed a narrow corridor and emerged into the din of the Pelican. Compared with the Cloak, it was like a kitchen instead of a train station—hotter, dimmer, and smaller but every bit as loud. Some of the customers turned to look at us, but most kept to their own business.

  “Let’s get a table,” Olive said. “We can sit and watch everything for a bit.”

  I nodded, still feeling unsteady, out of my usual element. Maybe it was the shoes, or the fact that I was the only white person in the room. I was happy to let Olive be in charge for a bit while I got my bearings back. She picked out a table with two chairs near the band.

  “Which one’s your friend?” I said.

  “There. His name’s Boots.” Olive pointed to the guy playing the upright bass. He wore a gray fedora and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Sweat shone on his forehead as he concentrated on making his bass thunk out a rhythm.

  “He’s good.”

  Olive crossed one leg over the other and kicked her foot in time with the music. “I know.”

  A waitress came to our table. “Hey, Ollie,” she said, friendly enough, but her eyes slid warily over to me. “What do you and your friend here want?”

  “Just bring us a couple of Coca-Colas,” Olive said. The waitress raised her brows but left without comment.

&n
bsp; “When that waitress comes back, you should ask her if she’s seen Minty.”

  “Or you should.” Olive slid a glance at me. “She won’t bite.”

  I felt heat creeping into my cheeks and hoped she couldn’t see me blushing in the darkened, smoky club. When the waitress returned with our two Coca-Colas in glasses, I shot a look at Olive and said, “You ever seen a blonde girl in here? About my age but rich looking?”

  The waitress’s brows lowered, eyes narrowed in distrust. “We don’t get a lot of blonde folks in here.”

  “Maybe you’ll remember her then. I’ve been told she came here at least a couple of times in the past month or so.”

  “I don’t try to remember the folks who come in here.”

  I could respect that. It was our policy at the Cloak, too. But I couldn’t let it rest. I had a murder to solve. “Is there someone else here who might remember?”

  The waitress’s mouth puckered. “I doubt it. But good luck.”

  “Swell. Thanks.”

  Olive hid a grin behind her hand, but I could still see it in her twinkling eyes as the waitress walked away. “Got all you need to know?”

  I ignored that question. “Guess we’ve just got to hope your friend Boots is more chatty. When do you think his set will be over?”

  “Sooner or later.” Olive winked at me. “In the meantime, want to dance?”

  “Me?” I stared at her in surprise. “And you? Here?”

  “I wasn’t planning to ask the waitress.”

  I bit my lip. I hadn’t considered trying to dance in these shoes. Or trying not to make a fool of myself in front of Olive. But the band was playing a popular tune with a quick beat, and Olive was looking at me expectantly.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s dance.”

  Olive stood up and offered me her hand. I took it, and she tucked it through the crook of her elbow and led me onto the dance floor. Being led anywhere was not something I was used to, but my body didn’t seem to mind. Every nerve seemed to be urging me to get my skin closer to hers. Then Olive hooked one arm around my back, and I wished I wasn’t wearing this jacket after all.