Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business

by L. A. Meyer

  House of Chen Shipping

  Boston, Massachusetts, USA

  To the Devils That Dwell in My Mind,

  I cannot help it. I cannot stay away. I try to resist the urge, but I cannot. I go to her place. I watch her dance. I watch her sing. Watching her perform, her face radiant with joy, it tears me apart.

  I cannot stand it. Although I do my duty to the House of Chen, my mind always goes back to her.

  I saw Ravi on the docks today, selling peanuts. I bought some and they were good. He appears to be doing quite well.

  Pig and Whistle was lettered on the side of the cart. I can imagine who did that and where it was done. There is a large pot in the center of the pushcart, with a scoop. Larger amounts are sold in crudely sewn bags made out of feed sacks. Smaller amounts are put in cones made up of cut-up newspapers.

  I shamelessly pumped Ravi for information. “Yes, Memsahib has many friends—most friendly with mens—sing and dance most pretty. She friendly with everyone.”

  I’ll just bet she is . . .

  J. Fletcher

  Chapter 26

  We’ve got the curtains manned, the bar set up, the footlights lit, and we’re ready to go.

  “Open the door!” I cry. John Thomas pulls the latch and the crowd begins to pour in. “Clear for action!”

  Tickets are taken and the customers directed to their proper places, whether it be pit, balcony, box, or standing room.

  I duck behind the curtains to join the other performers, who are primping and getting ready. I adjust my high comb and lacy black mantilla, smooth out my black Spanish dress, take a deep breath, then get in line and wait.

  Eventually the crowd settles, and except for an occasional cough and shuffle of feet, the place goes quiet. I nod to Señor Fracelli; he lifts his hands above the keyboard and brings them down. The organ booms out the notes of our opening number and we all sing as the curtain rises . . .

  Come all ye roving minstrels

  And together we will try

  To rouse the spirit of the earth

  And move the rolling sky

  I stand at center stage, holding hands with Clarissa on my left and Polly Von on my right. On either side of them stand Mr. Fennell and Mr. Bean, and flanking them are Solomon Freeman and Jim Tanner. Behind all are the choral group and the rest of the cast.

  After the chorus, the ensemble falls silent while Señor Fracelli continues to play the melody and I advance to the front of the stage and sing . . .

  Those who dance will dance for you,

  And those who play will play,

  In time to list our merry tunes

  That we will sing for you today!

  Then the rest of the cast sings the chorus again and I step back as the curtain falls and the audience erupts in applause.

  I do love it so!

  And so we swing into the night’s performance. Yes, I do my Spanish act, which goes over well—“La Paloma,” “Los Bibilicos,” “Solo Tu,” and all, complete with pounding heels and castanets. Then Clarissa sings the aria from Escape from the Seraglio, standing next to Señor at the organ, with poor Ravi at its bellows. She gets great applause. I do not know whether it is for her fine soprano voice or her beauty, amply displayed in my fine white Empire dress, but who cares. Then we present Mr. Solomon Freeman on the guitar, playing and singing songs of the South. I smile to note that “Miss Jacky and the Big Black Snake” is one of them. Moments later, dressed in my sailor togs, I pop back out for a few rollicking sea songs. After that, Mr. Fennell and Mr. Bean put on a raucous skit that concerns the humorous conversation of two country bumpkins, which draws gales of condescending laughter from this city crowd, and then, just before Intermission, I add a new skit, which I call “The Lady in Red,” wherein I don’t sing at all.

  “Hurry, Ravi, button me up!” I hiss backstage as I struggle into my very new, very tight, very red dress, as Fennell and Bean are finishing up their bit.

  “Yes, Missy,” he says, “but very tight. Not all of parts of Memsahib fit into it very easy. Much scandals.”

  “Don’t worry, Ravi, it’ll serve,” I say, tucking the parts to which he refers into the low bodice. “Here I go . . .”

  I part the curtains and sweep through as Señor hits an ominous run of sad chords on the organ. I do not stop at the stage but instead put my forearm across my brow in obvious distress and stumble down the stage stairs and over to the bar, where stands Davy Jones in white shirt and green gaiters just above his elbows, polishing a glass.

  I go over and slump on the bar as Solomon Freeman sings out from the side of the stage . . .

  ’Twas a cold winter’s evening.

  The guests were all leaving as

  O’Leary was closing the bar.

  When he turned ’round and said to the lady in red,

  “Get out, you can’t stay where you are!”

  Actually, it is Davy as barman, who bellows out that last line with a certain relish and points to the door. I hang my head as Solomon continues to sing . . .

  She wept a sad tear in her bucket of beer

  As she thought of the cold night ahead,

  When a gentleman dapper

  Stepped out of the crapper.

  And these are the words that he said . . .

  At this, Arthur McBride, dressed in his finest suit, steps out from behind the curtain and sings, in a fine Irish tenor . . .

  Her mother never told her

  The things a young girl should know,

  About the ways of Boston men

  And how they come and go . . .

  This gets a cheer from the Boston men, and Arthur comes down from the stage, places his arm about my waist, and sings the last verse . . .

  Though age has taken her beauty

  And sin has left its sad scar,

  Remember your mothers and sisters, boys . . .

  And let her sleep under the bar!

  There is a roar of applause as I slip down to lie on the floor, my hands folded under my cheek, a look of sweet repose on my face.

  There is another roar as Arthur lifts me once again to my feet and I call out, “That one was dedicated to our fine sisters of the Committee on Women’s Suffrage! And in that spirit, I declare it to be Intermission and the bar is open!”

  Yet another roar as all head for blessed refreshment.

  Molly and Joannie are dishing it out as fast as they can, even as they manage to get a pint into my fist, which is good, as my throat needs it. I look to see Ezra Pickering at my side.

  “Well met, Ezra,” I say. “A glass of wine with you?”

  “That would be nice, Jacky, thank you,” he says. “A very good crowd you have here. Although I don’t know how that last bit will go over with the Temperance movement.”

  “Why, Ezra,” I reply, “‘The Lady in Red’ is a moral lesson on the dangers of Mr. Booze. How could they be angry?”

  “Well, that costume . . .”

  “Look. There’s Wiggins over there, sucking up my ale. He’s not sayin’ anything.”

  “Yes, but you don’t know who else might be here. I don’t like the look of some of them . . . There’s too many in black suits of a common cut, scattered about, in certain places.”

  “Wot?”

  “Look at those two, leaning against the back wall.”

  I shift my gaze and spot the pair he means. Both are thick of neck and low of brow and each looks as if the black jacket he wears on his back is the first one to ever ride there.

  “I see them, Ezra. So what?”

  “So there are two more over there, and two by each of the two side exits.”

  I look around, and sure enough, there they are—all big and stupid-looking, and all dressed in the same jackets.

  “Ah, well, Ezra, we’ve got to let in anyone who buys a ticket. There are a lot of sailors in here who look a lot rougher than them. Nay, don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of my bully boys in here tonight. They’ll take care of things.”

  Ezra si
ghs and continues to survey the crowd. “I hope so . . . but my lawyer sense tells me that something big just might happen here this fine evening.”

  It is then that I notice the Hunchback is once again in attendance. Hmmm . . . I wonder at that, but then turn back to conversation with Ezra and Arthur till Ravi comes through, ringing his chimes and signaling the end to the Intermission.

  “Well, whatever, Ezra, the show must go on.”

  Back on stage, I run through my fiddle, pennywhistle, and concertina numbers. This is followed by Fennel and Bean proceeding to murder Shakespeare with the Death of Caesar scene from Julius Caesar, complete with the entire male members of the cast dressed in togas. With their white and hairy calves sticking out below the sheets, this gets more laughs than anything else.

  Mr. Bean, the larger of the two thespians, plays Caesar, who, when he is stabbed by the rabblement, confronts Brutus and beseeches, “Et tu, Brute?” Then, after Brutus stabs him in the heart, he cries, “Then fall, Caesar!” and with that, the curtain also falls.

  We scurry about behind the curtain, setting up for the last big number of the night, The Villain Pursues Constant Maiden. It is accomplished quickly, and the curtain rises.

  Clarissa stands there as Prudence Goodheart, looking glorious, wringing her hands in sorrow. Any who have seen my little play know that the Goodheart farm is in serious financial trouble. She speaks . . .

  “Oh, whatever shall we do, dear Brother? The crop has failed and we must go to Banker Morgan for help!”

  “No, dear Sister, not him! He is evil and will bring us to ruin!”

  I know it is stupid, but I do love seeing this thing performed. Sin of Pride, I know . . . And hey, Clarissa is doing a great job.

  Eventually Banker Morgan comes to collect on the dreaded mortgage and proposes that Prudence give herself over to him in return for tearing up the paper.

  “Woe is me! Oh, what shall I do? Keep my sacred honor or give in to the fiend’s demands? Oh, what shall I do?”

  Mr. Fennel, playing Banker Morgan, complete with long mustache, leers at her . . .

  “Make up your mind, girl, as my patience grows short!”

  With that, Fennell, as Morgan, performs the showstopper: He reaches over and rips the tear-away dress from Clarissa, revealing her standing open-mouthed in naught but chemise and drawers. She screams, but that is nothing to the howls from the audience. Clarissa crosses her arms on her chest . . .

  “Oh, I am undone!”

  Not yet, my lovely, but—

  And, true enough, it appears that Prudence is actually right in thinking herself undone . . . For in the middle of the lower audience, a large figure of a man rises up, throws off his cloak, and points at Clarissa. “I am General Virgil Howe,” he bellows, “and I have no daughter!”

  Oh, my God, Clarissa’s father?

  With that, he turns, throws his cloak about his face, and rushes out of the theater, pushing all in his way roughly aside.

  Clarissa stands stunned . . . Daddy? I hear her whisper, but then, to her credit, she snaps her head around, straightens her back, and goes on with the play.

  “Shall no one save me? Must I yield to dishonor?”

  Well, it’s not dishonor to which she must yield . . . no, it is to a well-thrown and overly ripe tomato that hits her squarely in the face. Another catches her on the chest and stains the front of her once white chemise a sickly red. It appears that Wiggins’s minions have allowed a troop of angry COWS through the front door, while shooing out loyal patrons through the side exits. Many protest, but to no avail. Move along now, that’s it. Police action here. Move along . . . .

  “SIN! SIN! AND DISGRACE! CLOSE DOWN THIS DEN OF INIQUITY NOW! NOW! NOW! SAVE OUR YOUTH! CLOSE THIS HELL HOLE!”

  The men in black coats now open them to reveal shiny tin stars on their vests. “These men are my deputies!” shouts Wiggins. “Anyone who touches them will be guilty of assaulting a police officer! Do you understand?”

  My bully boys have gathered in a line facing Wiggins’s thugs, with a furious Arthur McBride at their front. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouts at the Constable.

  “I am merely protecting these fine ladies in a lawful demonstwation. Bill of Rights and all that.”

  About ten women are standing in the aisle and slinging vegetables and other foul things at the stage and those upon it. I rush out only to be clobbered with a slimy cabbage on my nose. I brush it off and head straight into the melee. I spot the large figure of Mother Shinn right in the middle of the pack.

  “Charge on, ladies, charge on! Fear not! Right is on your side! Charge on! Bring down the Forces of Darkness! Charge on!” she shouts, rallying her troops.

  They don’t need much rallying, no. They come on with grim determination. Now they are flinging rotten eggs, and the stench of them is spreading through the place. Rage rises in me, but it pales next to that of Clarissa’s. With tomato juice and rotten eggs sliding down her face, she races up the aisle and launches herself at Mother Shinn.

  “You miserable old sow!” she screeches. “I’ll rip your ugly face off!”

  Clarissa has her fingers crooked into claws, and they are searching for her tormentor’s face, and I know from personal experience, they can do some serious damage. But, alas, they do not reach their target. No. Instead, Constable Wiggins appears by Shinn’s side, grabs Clarissa around the waist, and then hands her off to one of his deputies.

  “Here. Take this one. Put her in the wagon,” he says. Clarissa is hauled out, squealing. He then points at me. “That one next!”

  “What’s the charge, pig?” I ask, incredulous. “Why are you taking that girl? And why are you shutting me down?”

  “That girl, on a charge of assault against poor Mrs. Shinn here, and you for causing a public disturbance.”

  “What? Public disturbance? Shinn and her COWS threw the garbage at us! They should be the ones arrested!”

  “I didn’t see anything like that,” answers Wiggins complacently. “I just saw a bunch of very questionable stuff going on on that stage.”

  “Just look at this mess!” I cry, pointing at Shinn. “She did it!”

  Mother Shinn grins at me and pulls out something from her shawl. It is a small ax. “You haven’t seen a real mess yet, harlot, but now you will.”

  She marches toward the bar, where the stunned Molly and Joannie are standing.

  “Step aside, sluts,” roars Mrs. Shinn, and with her first swing of her ax, she shatters a good five bottles of my finest Barbados rum. Her next blow takes out the gin, and then the champagne bottles explode, spraying all over.

  “No!” I shout. “You cannot! That is mine! Stop!”

  But she does not stop. She continues till each bottle is smashed, its contents leaking to the floor.

  “There. Try to sell that. Perhaps you’d like to lick it up,” she says, her eyes dark little marbles of self-righteous indignation.

  That’s too much for my bully boys. Constitutional Right to Lawful Assembly is one thing, but spilled and wasted whiskey is another thing altogether.

  “Let’s get ’em, boyos,” says Arthur McBride, taking his shillelagh from his side. Behind him stand John Thomas, Finn McGee, Jim Tanner, and even Mr. Bean, still clad in toga and holding a golden scepter from some play or another. Arthur knows he cannot attack the COWS, being women, but that leaves Wiggins’s men on which to vent his anger, and the anger of Faber Shipping.

  “Stop!” says Wiggins, his hand outstretched, palm forward. “You must remember that these men are duly sworn deputies, and if you touch them, you will be guilty of a serious offense!”

  Arthur McBride considers this for a moment, slapping his club into his palm thoughtfully, then he says, “All right. We hear you, copper. Get ’em boys!”

  And the riot is on. Clubs and fists and even scepters rain down upon Wiggins and his men. Heads are cracked and howls of pain are heard.

  The melee continues as the COWS empty their bags of offal and flin
g it about. I stand in impotent fury.

  No. I will fight back. I will strangle that old bitch, I will—

  But I will do nothing, for standing before me is Constance Howell, a large red tomato in her hand, ready to fling it in my face, and all the fight goes out of me.

  “Et tu, Connie?” I whisper, my shoulders slumping and tears coming to my eyes. “Then fall, Jacky.”

  Connie looks at me, then shakes her head and drops her tomato to the floor, where it lands with a quiet plop. She turns to leave, following her sisters out my door.

  I stand and stare at the wreckage of my beautiful Emerald Playhouse, and the tears run down my face. I am devastated, but then I find that Wiggins is not yet done with me.

  “I ordered you to take that one!” he shouts to his men. “Oh, to hell with it, I’ll grab her myself!” He lunges toward me and I no longer have the strength to resist.

  Take me, beat me, do what you want with me . . .

  Wiggins, however, does not make it to me. On his way, his feet somehow become entangled in, of all things, the Hunchback’s staff. He falls down, cursing, and I hear the Hunchback’s raspy voice apologizing for the mishap. Then the surprisingly strong hand of Ezra Pickering is wrapped about my neck, and he hauls me off into a side storeroom, one that has a back door.

  “You must not be taken!” hisses Ezra in my ear. “If you are, the old sentence will be carried out and you will be beaten! Quiet, now! Out the back! I will get your friends released tomorrow morning. Now, hush!”