‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I mumbled, the way people always do. ‘You seem to know most of the lyrics of the popular songs. If you like, I’m sure I can arrange it with Peter and Cam Kerr for you to sing in the cocktail lounge for an hour or so some nights when it’s, you know, quiet on River Street. I can accompany you on the piano, you can put on your green dress, maybe make a couple’a extra bucks doing requests?’
Juicy Fruit looked at me in astonishment. ‘Jack, you could do that?’
‘No, I can’t absolutely promise, but I can try. Of course you couldn’t, you know, solicit.’
She nodded. ‘Of course! I don’t anyhow,’ she replied, then went on, ‘but . . . but will I be good enough?’ She looked me in the eye. ‘Jack, I don’t want no favours, eh? I can or I can’t. I want you to be honest, no —’
‘Patronising?’ I interrupted.
She scowled, not sure what the word meant. ‘Yeah, if that means no favours.’
I laughed. ‘You sing well already. I suspect you’ll do just fine. No one can be sure about these things but let me put it this way, I can’t afford to have a second-rate singer beside me at the Brunswick. We’ll do a little practising at the Caribou Café for a few mornings, get our phrasing right, work up a bit of a routine and repertoire.’ I grinned. ‘Maybe even throw “Santa Lucia” into the mix in memory of your papa. What do you say? A bit of practice . . . instruction . . . never know your luck, eh?’
‘Oh, Jack!’ Juicy Fruit jumped up and sat on my lap, put her arms around me and kissed me passionately. When she finally drew back she said, ‘I would’ve bought twenty raffle tickets!’
Juicy Fruit’s gratitude made me feel slightly uncomfortable, because I had plans that I was not prepared to admit to her or anyone else just yet. I guess after my single night’s education at the hands of Juicy Fruit I was like a kid in a candy store confronted with all the choices in the world. Anything seemed possible now, and I wanted to taste every piece of candy in the shop. Given the generosity of women towards me all my life, my aspirations seemed thoroughly unworthy and ungrateful, and considering my tender age and lack of experience, possibly foolish and arrogant as well. I knew I could never be the sort of man my father was, treating women brutally and cruelly, nor even a man like Mac who accepted whatever marriage and family life handed him. I wanted to be a man who truly loved women but I was uncertain that I could love or be possessed by only one of them. All this was entirely hypothetical, since I had never had even one romantic relationship with a woman. But, I told myself, I wanted these potential dalliances to be more or less on my own terms; I didn’t ever want to be tied to one woman in the usual death-do-us-part manner. Most of the men I knew thought of marriage as a trap and children as a burden. Some, like Mac, endured, others were violent and some appeared to be reasonably happy family men. Nonetheless most men saw women as objects, necessary objects perhaps, but still a kind of general factotum to have at their side, almost as an unpaid servant. The worst of them saw women as simply a way to ‘get the dirty water off their chest’ as the saying goes.
I told myself I didn’t want to endure any of this; I wanted something quite different. I wanted women to want me, not as a good little boy who did what he was told and played the piano nicely and worked hard, thereby giving them a certain amount of personal satisfaction. I wanted them to be falling over themselves to get their hands on me, but I never wanted any of them to own me. Nor did I want to be the kind of cruel, ruthless and violent man who seemed to attract women. At the Jazz Warehouse you would often see beautiful women, perhaps driven by some misguided primordial instinct, who seemed deeply attracted to absolute unmitigated bastards. Joe would shake his head and say, ‘Ain’t it strange, Jazzboy? Sometime the most beautiful wo-man, she fine herself a cruel asshole, then she happy.’ I had grown up in Cabbagetown during the Depression and had witnessed every kind of male behaviour – desperate, mean, violent, ashamed, mean-faced, sour, miserable, beaten. Usually men took out their misery on hapless and generally blameless women and kept what joy they experienced for their drinking buddies.
I didn’t want to be that kind of man, but I wanted independence. It was, I thought, my only way of getting to know who the hell I really was. I never again wanted to be beholden, not to women or anyone else. My last experience of doing what I was told would be the army. After that I wanted to be free.
When we arrived in Moose Jaw I was surprised to see the Brunswick Buick waiting for us. The train usually carried people for the hotel but John, the regular hotel chauffeur, had received strict instructions from Peter Cornhill to give us priority. ‘What the bell captain wants, I do, Jack,’ he’d laughed. ‘No arguments, that’s how any good hotel is made to run smoothly. Get on the wrong side of the man at the front door and you may as well pack it in, find another hotel.’
He dropped Juicy Fruit off first and then drove me to Mrs Henderson’s, just in time to change, after which I barely had time to walk to the Brunswick to start my shift. I’d no sooner finished playing in the cocktail lounge, when Reggie Blunt appeared. ‘Evening, old chap, I take it this is a brand new Spayd I’m digging? Care for whisky now you’re a man?’
‘Mr and Mrs Kupple! That was pathetic, Reggie. Thanks for nothing. Sheer bastardry,’ I said with a grin.
‘Sorry old chap, spur of the moment.’ He didn’t appear the least upset by my rebuke. ‘Well, we couldn’t get much out of Miss Juicy Fruit on her return. Very circumspect, I must say. The girls did their best, gathered around like crows at a road kill, but she simply smiled. Must have been good or it would be all over River Street by now. Harlots don’t hide these things as a general rule. A man’s performance with his pants down is passed around, part of the sisterhood conspiracy. Not a peep from Mrs Kupple, though. You haven’t answered my question. Whisky?’
‘Reggie, what is it with you? How come you were even around to ask?’
‘Ah, even harlots have to have a confessor, a man they can rely on for guidance, and after three decades or more playing piano on River Street, they’ve chosen me as their confidant.’
‘Sure, but the raffle, you organised that; you and Madam Rose were thick as thieves.’
‘Intermediary, old chap, like I said, father confessor. Besides, I’ve come to think of you as my protégé, Jack.’ He smiled a smug, whisky-nosed, weepy-eyed, grey-stubble smile. ‘Couldn’t have you carrying your virginity around like a sad sack, could we now, old boy? I’ve known Rose O’Shannessy since she was a young gal. She started working on River Street at the start of the Great War. Likes a wee dram herself.’
‘Reggie, thanks for the offer of a scotch, but I still don’t drink.’
‘Jack, there’s a saying among men, “Never trust a man who doesn’t drink”.’
‘Sounds like an excuse rather than an aphorism, Reggie.’ The conversation was developing into the usual flurry of competitive ripostes and I wasn’t in the mood. ‘I haven’t had breakfast or lunch and —’ I glanced at my watch, ‘I’ve got half an hour to have my dinner. Afraid I’ll have to pass on the offer of a drink, even a soda pop, but thanks anyhow, Reggie.’
Reggie Blunt ignored my refusal. It was as if he hadn’t even bothered to listen, too busy constructing his next remark, making sure it came out in the usual pontifical manner. ‘Damned lucky you got one of Rose’s girls, Jack. A most fortunate choice, fortunate indeed! Lady Luck smiled on you, dear boy. But then you’re a lucky young sod, noticed that in poker on several occasions. Lucky with cards, unlucky in love, eh? I daresay Miss Juicy Fruit will eventually tell Rose and I’ll pass on her take on the weekend for your elucidation, dear boy. Whore’s worthy words, eh? Still, couldn’t have done worse than me and the dearly departed Olga, the vestal virgin, ha ha.’
I rose from my piano stool. ‘Reggie, I have to get something to eat or I won’t get through tonight. You really must excuse me.’
Reggie grabbed at my jacket. ‘Jack, never mind the drink, I wanted to talk to you about a poker game – Monday night, thr
ee weeks’ time, out-of-towners, farmers, railroad men, couple of older “commercials” from the east, harmless types. They’re looking for one or two locals to sit in on the game.’
‘Bunnies, you mean?’ I said, half joking.
‘No, nothing like that, old boy . . . just between the two of us, nod and a wink if you know what I mean, they’re in town to use Madam Rose’s establishment, the poker game is incidental, a bit of a tradition, post-coital recovery, ha ha. Something I do . . . arrange every year. Thought you may like to sit in?’
‘And you? You’ll be playing?’
‘No, I’m usually the dealer. Thought you might like to try your luck, old son. Nothing you can’t handle I assure you, but a bit too rich for me. Think about it? Could be fun. I’ll wait for your answer in the cocktail lounge after you’ve played the dining room.’
Reggie Blunt of course knew the routine and when I would return to the cocktail lounge after helping Cam Kerr create the right atmosphere in the fine dining restaurant. ‘Starched damask, polished crystal, monogrammed silverware, flowers, rosy-cheeked country girls waiting on tables in frilly aprons and caps and some of your light classics, Jack, then Hilda’s nice tits at the cashier’s desk.’ (Cam was a tit man.) His face would split into a satisfied grin. ‘Irresistible combination. The food is incidental, except of course for the quality of the beef and pork. Every peasant on the prairies is a goddamned meat expert when we get that wrong.’
I’d had more than enough Reggie Blunt on an empty stomach, and with no more than three or four hours of sleep. To get rid of the fat little punning machine so I could get some grub into me before I faced the diners, I said hastily, ‘Yeah, okay, count me in. Unless the entry stake is too big.’ For a moment he seemed surprised and, I thought, relieved at my speedy acceptance. I put this down to imagination brought about by hunger. The poker game sounded harmless, and I’d been playing more serious poker for months now.
Playing Mondays with the boys was pleasant enough, but after studying Jacoby, I’d felt I needed some real competition. I had to make myself lose in the penny-ante game almost every Monday. Peter Cornhill solved the problem nicely. He soon had me fixed up in several late-night games that started after ten-thirty and usually went on until around one in the morning. I could sleep in until nine so the hours didn’t matter and Mrs Spragg, who ruled the kitchen so fiercely that even Mrs Henderson didn’t dare venture there, would cook me up a mess of eggs which I’d eat at the kitchen table around nine-thirty.
These games involved more serious money, but Peter had made sure there were no crooks or con men involved. I was using a much bigger stake, often taking three or four hundred bucks along with me, some of it, I confess, money I’d put aside for my mom’s operation. But I was holding my own and after three months I was ahead, not by much, but not behind anyhow. My mom’s money was still intact and I’d added a little more.
I’d long since realised that Reggie seemed to know almost everything going on at night on River Street. Now he gave me the facial grimace that passed for his smile. ‘Capital! Nothing you can’t handle these days, dear boy,’ Reggie exclaimed. ‘The two railroad men I believe you know, Grover and Fred, from previous late-night games when they’re in town. The others, as I’ve just explained, are all of them old friends.’
I nodded. ‘Nobody else from the Monday game?’
‘Lordy, no!’ He chuckled. ‘Jack, don’t think we haven’t noticed you throwing in your hands far more often than you customarily did. You’ve moved on, we’ve stayed put. We don’t belong in this game, although it’s by no means beyond you, old chap,’ he said in a clumsy attempt at flattery.
‘Okay,’ I repeated, glad to get away at last. I told myself I could always throw in my hand, call it quits if the game got too hot for me.
Now I don’t want this to sound like fairy-tale stuff, but Juicy Fruit proved, with a little coaching, to be a very capable singer. Her voice was deep with a husky edge to it, and she was naturally musical, thanks no doubt to her parents. Of course she had one or two bad habits but nothing disastrous. Moreover, this wasn’t New York or even Toronto but Moose Jaw, and I felt sure she could pass muster in the cocktail lounge and we’d use her as well in the John Robert Johnson Caribou Café Band where she’d gain further experience.
The main problem was her ‘other’ night job. I decided to bring it up before her first performance, just in case. ‘Juicy Fruit, how well are you known on River Street? I only ask because, if we’re going to do this, the Brunswick won’t have a bar of you if you’re well known for your, ah . . . other job. How come I’ve never seen you soliciting?’
‘On the street . . . River Street?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I work for Madam Rose, Jack. She keeps five of us for the wealthy out-of-town clients and the local big nobs. We don’t do the street, if you mean getting out on the balconies or standing in doorways. No migrant harvest workers for me. I’ve long since graduated.’
‘What’s that mean?’
Juicy Fruit laughed. ‘The street is for the beginners and the old beat-ups, it’s obvious you’re unfamiliar with how a house works, Jack. A good house like Madam Rose’s has street girls to attract the passing trade, and the in-house girls. Just like a restaurant – walk-in diner or fine dining, bookings only. It’s all very discreet, separate side entry from a lane, our own rooms and by appointment only. Clients arrange a time by telephone. Some of the important local citizens have their own key to the side door – we’re down a separate lane half a block from the main brothel. Oh, that reminds me.’ She dug into her purse and produced a Yale key. ‘You never know when you might need it, Jack. Five doors down from Madam Rose towards the city centre on the left is a small lane called Riverside Lane, it’s door number seven. This can be a rough town and I know you’ve been playing poker late at night.’
Juicy Fruit’s arrangement wasn’t all that different from the twins’ in Toronto, only she didn’t go out in public with her clients and neither did she manage her own enterprise. ‘Your clients?’ I asked. ‘They wouldn’t give you away? You know, if they suddenly saw you on a bandstand at the Brunswick?’
She gave a snort. ‘Be very damned stupid if they did. But first they’d need to recognise me.’
‘Eh?’
‘Wigs.’
‘Wigs? What’s that mean?’
‘Well, Jack, even a whore wants a private life. Well . . . an in-house hooker, anyhow. We all wear wigs: I’m a blonde in-house, and I wear quite different make-up.’ She threw back her head and laughed. ‘Men are so stupid. I’ve been passed in the street and I’ve even met one or two important public figures, officials and the like, in public and they’ve never once cottoned on.’
‘You sure they weren’t . . . you know, just playing dumb, being discreet?’
‘Jack, men don’t have to play dumb when it comes to women – they are dumb, otherwise they’d mention it the next time they were in bed with me. Men simply can’t resist being smart-asses and know-alls. No way.’
I pointed to her hair. ‘But your hair was brown when we went to Regina.’
‘Of course, there were only girls present at the raffle dance, so I was in street dress.’ She looked at me and gave me what I had come to learn was her reproving look. ‘Jack, I’ll have to trust you or someone, perhaps Peter Cornhill, to tell the boys in the band not to mention the raffle.’
‘Yeah, okay, I’m pretty sure the band will keep quiet. Anyhow, they don’t know the details. But I’ll mention it to Peter; he’ll have a quiet word to them.’
The next task was getting Cam Kerr to agree. ‘Mr Cameron Kerr isn’t one of your regular clients, is he?’ I asked, just to be sure. The assistant manager of the Brunswick, as I’d previously mentioned, was a breast man and they didn’t come any better in that department than Juicy Fruit’s.
‘Lordy no! He’s number-one watchdog when it comes to keeping girls out of the cocktail bar. But I don’t use the hotels in town anyhow, Jack.’
Cam Kerr proved easy, especially as Juicy Fruit agreed to three nights’ free trial during the cocktail hour. The free part wasn’t her idea. ‘Jack, I’m a working girl, I don’t do free, eh?’ she’d protested when I’d suggested it. We’d compromised when I said she could have all the tips as well as the salesmen who wanted to be ‘recognised’ to impress their clients. This was more than she could have expected as an hourly rate for an untried singer.
If I’d expected her to be grateful and a bit humble, she wasn’t in the least. Juicy Fruit was a tough customer, willing to put in the hard yards, but she wasn’t going to be a Little Dorrit. She may not have been a professional singer but she was a professional nevertheless and didn’t do grateful. Miss Frostbite had once explained to me that to a clever woman ‘grateful’ is a weapon, not a sentiment. But Juicy Fruit didn’t even seem to need to use it in this way.
I was soon faced with another problem: she needed at least two evening gowns for the gig. ‘Jack, I can probably afford to buy one, but can you help me with the other?’ she asked, then added, ‘I know a good dressmaker who won’t charge the earth.’ She looked directly at me. ‘I’ll pay you back if I get taken on permanently. But if I don’t,’ she shrugged, ‘I can’t.’
I agreed, stressing that they should both be low cut. ‘Should be cheaper, uses less material,’ I joked, then added more seriously, ‘we’re going to need all the help we can get to persuade Cam Kerr to take you on after the trial. He’s pretty mean with a buck and won’t be easy to win over. But he’s a notorious breast man. There isn’t a single woman front of house at the Brunswick who doesn’t have good boobs.’
‘What are you saying, Jack, that I have to show my tits?’
‘Yes, I guess I am,’ I said, feeling myself blushing, but determined nevertheless to be professional. ‘I’m afraid you must make sure the dresses you choose have a plunging neckline.’
Jack of Diamonds Page 33
