The Wicked City: A stunning love story set in the roaring twenties

by Beatriz Williams

  But she was already leaning over the spot where he’d been looking, newly uncovered by the soggy carpet. “There’s a floorboard loose,” she said.

  “It happens. Hold on, I’ll get a hammer.” He dropped the carpet back down over the board and went to the toolbox spread out on the kitchen counter.

  Ella knelt on the exposed floor, which was covered with carpet scuz and smelled like sap, and stared at the ripple of wet carpet covering the loose board. Already the water had loosened the stink of decades from the fibers. The apartment really needed airing, but the weather outside remained chilly and damp, the kind of stubborn, miserable March that just wouldn’t end, and Ella hated the cold. She placed her palm on the wood next to her knee and wondered how long it had been covered like this. Whose feet had last trod those boards. Whether you could connect with a person from another age, just by touching the dirt left by a long-ago shoe.

  Hector returned with the hammer and lifted the carpet. Ella craned her neck to see. “That’s funny,” she said. “There’s no nail or anything.”

  “There wouldn’t be. Nails aren’t so good for feet.”

  “Then what are you hammering—” she began, and then, “Wait!”

  Hector’s arm was already raised. He startled and looked at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think there’s something under there.”

  “Sure there is. The ceiling in three D.”

  “No, seriously.” Something surged along Ella’s nerves. Stung the hair at the back of her neck. The way she sometimes felt, late at night or inside some borrowed office, when she was poring over figures and spotted an anomaly, a gap in the logic, a flaw in numbers that could not, without human assistance, deceive you. Something occupying what ought to be an empty space. She put her index finger in the crack between the loose floorboard and its firm neighbor, and as she did so, she thought that the whole thing didn’t look right, the floorboard was much shorter than the others. Didn’t fit flush. Wasn’t right.

  “Oh, come on,” Hector said. “There’s nothing there, all right? Can we get a move on? I have to take Nellie for her walk.”

  “Just give me a second.” Ella scooted closer to the board and wedged a few more fingernails in the crack. Now her nerves were really singing, her head almost sick with certainty. Like someone was yelling truth into her ear. Like someone had hooked a pair of electrodes to her neck. “Give me that hammer.”

  “I’m not going to give you my hammer! Do you even know how to use it?”

  “Do I know how to use a hammer? Um, so remember when you told me to call you on any of your sexist bullshit?”

  Hector frowned and handed her the hammer. “Just be careful, all right? Don’t split the board in half.”

  “I won’t. Jeez.” She inserted the prongs into the crack, felt the instant give of the wood. “It’s so loose; it’s like someone did it on purpose. I’ll bet it’s treasure. No. A murder weapon!”

  “Okay, Sherlock. But before you get too worked up, remember that wood is an organic substance, expands and contracts—holy crap, what are you doing?”

  Ella lifted the board away—it was only a foot long—and stuck her hand in the cavity.

  “Aw, don’t do that …” Hector groaned.

  Ella withdrew her hand, which now contained a small black enamel box, decorated in a delicate Oriental motif, edged in tiny gold lace, as fresh and new as if it sat on the shelf of some Madison Avenue trinket shop. All the tingling in her nerves and her follicles swept down into the skin of her hand, where it met the box’s surface.

  “Treasure, me hearties,” she said.

  “Let me see that.”

  “Hold on. There’s something inside.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I can feel it, duh.” She tucked the box in her left palm and opened the lid. The damp, smelly air seemed to gather up and sigh around her.

  Hector peered over her hand. “Wow. Some treasure.”

  “Shut up. It’s cool. Think how old they are.”

  “You’re excited about a boxful of old buttons?”

  “Don’t dis my buttons. I’d have thought you, of all people, would see how amazingly awesome this is.”

  “Why me of all people?”

  “Because you’re Hector.” She lifted out one of the buttons, the largest, made of some kind of brass. “Isn’t that a crest?”

  “Sure. Whatever. Look, can you put the pwetty wee buttons aside for a second and help me with this damn rug?”

  “I thought you didn’t need any help.”

  “I do if you’re sitting on the carpet.”

  “Oh! Sorry.” Ella stood up and stepped away. Her knees were all wet; she hadn’t noticed. “You know what? I think it’s the Harvard school crest. Look. VE RI TAS. Truth.”

  “You know it that well?”

  “Patrick went to Harvard. He’s got the crest everywhere. It’s practically tattooed on his forehead.”

  “Ironic,” said Hector. “Also typical. Most people I’ve met from Harvard, it’s the first fucking thing they tell you.”

  She laughed. “Sometimes, if you don’t ask, they get frustrated and try to slip it into conversation. When I was at school in Cambridge …”

  “Status markers. Look, are you going to carry that box around all day, or are you going to take out your anger on some helpless carpet?”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “The devil you aren’t. You’re pissed as hell. You are one seething, bubbling cauldron of righteous rage, Ella Gilbert, and the sooner you break loose and sound your barbaric yawp, the better. Now grab hold.”

  “Carpet diem?”

  “Exactly.”

  Ella closed the lid and set down the black enamel box on the kitchen counter. “Ouch!” she said, jerking her hand away.

  “What happened?”

  “Like something stung me!”

  “What? Let me see.”

  She rubbed the back of her hand. “I’m fine. Just startled me, that’s all.”

  “Ella, let me see it.”

  The sharp tone of his voice surprised her. He held out his hand, palm up, and the compulsion to touch him was so strong, Ella didn’t bother to resist. She stepped forward and placed her hand in his. He drew it close to his face and ran his finger along the skin.

  “Here?” he said.

  “Right in the middle. Below the knuckles.”

  “There’s no mark.”

  She pulled her hand back. “Like I told you. It’s nothing. I’m fine. Probably just a nerve twitching or something.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Hector, you doofus,” she said, “do you see any blood?”

  “Smart-ass. All right. Let’s finish this job up so we can play a little music before the sun sets. Deal?”

  Ella picked up the X-Acto knife and flicked it open.

  “Deal.”

  THE SUN HAD LONG SET by the time they finished playing and lay, side by side, on the floor of Hector’s apartment, staring up at the skylight.

  “So. I feel kind of guilty about something,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “I shouldn’t have said that stuff about your husband.”

  “What stuff?”

  “About his going to Harvard. And the irony thing, you know, veritas meaning ‘truth.’ Totally out of line.”

  “Out of line how? I mean, you were right. Right about his lying, cheating ass.” She poked him with her elbow.

  “Maybe, but it’s not my place. That’s between you and him. You’re still married. You haven’t even talked to a lawyer yet, have you?”

  “No,” Ella whispered.

  “So I shouldn’t have said anything. I just—well, it really pissed me off, when you told me what happened. And sometimes I have a hard time keeping my righteousness on the inside, you know?”

  “Understood. No worries. Didn’t change my opinion, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  They weren’t touching. Ella la
y just close enough to sense the heat of his body without actually feeling it. Overhead, the rectangle of sky was clear and silvery with moonlight. She was drowsy and content and still faintly electric, almost dizzy, having eaten an obscene amount of pasta and drunk a glass of red wine. She wondered what would happen if their fingers touched, and then she remembered Claire and lifted both hands to her chest and stuck them firmly together. She could still feel a slight echo of the sting she’d received in the kitchen. Pressed her thumb against the spot.

  “So I saw Patrick today,” she said.

  “You did?”

  “In the lobby. On my way in. We’re supposed to have coffee tomorrow.”

  Hector allowed a few seconds to pass before he replied. “You okay?”

  “Sure. I’m fine. It wasn’t as bad as I thought. He hadn’t grown horns or anything. Same old Patrick.” She paused. “He just really wanted to talk. Which is fair. I think I’m ready.”

  “Good. That’s good. You two need to start talking. Figure out where to go with this.”

  “You know, I can almost hear your wheels creaking. Trying to be fair.”

  He laughed. “I just hate to see a friend unhappy, that’s all.”

  “Well, I appreciate that. And I appreciate that you’re so cool about it. For some reason it’s easier to talk to you than my family.”

  “What about your girlfriends?”

  She snorted. “What girlfriends? I’m pretty much surrounded by men at work. And between work and husband, I guess I haven’t really had much time for anything else, lately. Just a few friends left over from college, and none of them live in the city. Plus the wives of Patrick’s friends, I guess, but that’s just superficial social stuff, you know, making conversation over the seven-layer Super Bowl dip.”

  “But you have a sister, right? What about her?”

  “Joanie? She’s great. We love each other and all that, but we’re kind of different. And she up and left for Paris a couple of years ago, and she’s not that good at e-mail, so …”

  There was another pause. “So … what? You’re saying I’m like the New York City girlfriend you’ve been missing all along?”

  Ella started laughing. “Oh my God. You are the best, you know that? God. I don’t know what you are. You’re something else. I’m just glad you’re there, that’s all. I mean, glad you’re here. It’s just been really … really”—her giggles switched over into sobs—“really sucky these past few weeks, you know? And—shit, I’m sorry—” She was crying into his chest, and his arm was around her. She wasn’t sure if she’d turned into him or he’d pulled her over. Maybe both. “And the only good—the only good thing—”

  “Shh. Just shut up, okay? Shut up and cry a little. You don’t need to explain. I get it. I got your back, Sherlock.”

  So she let go. Let go and let him have it, all the tears, soaking up into his T-shirt. No words—thank God, no fucking words—just wet, salt tears.

  WHEN SHE WAS DONE, LAY curled up at his side, head on shoulder, staring at the wall, Hector finally spoke.

  “So you’re staying the night, right?”

  “What?”

  “Jeez, Ella. Mind in the gutter again. I meant the sofa. No offense, but your apartment smells like the armpit of a wet sheep. Also, we had to shut off your water.”

  “Oh. I guess that’s a problem.”

  “Plumber’s coming tomorrow to get you hooked up again. But in the meantime, you’re welcome to stay here. Or just to pee and shower, if you don’t think you can resist my smoking-hot proximity all night. Your call.”

  “Uh-huh. I think the question is whether you can resist mine.”

  “Oh, Gilbert. I think we both know which one of us hasn’t had sex in a month.”

  Ella rose to a sitting position. “Oh, Murray. You are so on.”

  IN THE END, ELLA SLEPT seven hours straight on the sectional in Hector’s living room, covered by a blanket that smelled exactly like him, and she woke up hearing his voice in her head, repeating those words, I got your back, which had always struck her as a masculine promise, strictly man-to-man, until now.

  So it wasn’t until she slipped downstairs the next morning to dress for work that she realized the black enamel box was missing from the kitchen counter.

  ACT III

  We Get Down to Business

  (and how!)

  NEW YORK CITY

  February1924

  1

  MONDAY MORNING after my mama’s funeral, I dress as usual and clatter down the IRT to the Wall Street station, in order to discover whether I am still in possession of a desk and chair in the typing pool of Sterling Bates & Co.

  Naturally, on the morning of my departure for River Junction, I wired an explanatory telegram to the attention of Miss Atkins, and I sent a further wire—this one bordered in black, so as to give emphasis to my grief—on the actual evening of my mama’s death. But Miss Atkins is the kind of woman who expects all family tragedies will be approved in advance, if you understand my meaning, and you don’t ever want to disappoint Miss Atkins’s expectations. Girls have a way of disappearing around here.

  So you might say that frozen February air lies a little loose in my lungs as I shuffle through the dark-coated nine o’clock herd, down the slope of Wall Street to the trio of bronze revolving doors cornering the stock exchange, each of them topped by inspiring scenes of battle carnage in bas relief. I enter beneath the siege of Troy and make for the elevators. Clackety-clackety-clack go our heels on the vast marble floor. The smell of cigarettes surrounds us. Bronze doors slide open, herd moves forward. Minute groans of frustration from those cut off. My palms are damp inside my gloves. Blood all cool and light. The needle moves slowly, stopping at every damn floor, until we arrive at the fourteenth—really the thirteenth, as I remind myself daily—and three of us file out, all women, dark coats and cloche hats, valuable hands sheathed in leather. Meat for the grist, and by grist I mean Miss Atkins.

  Or perhaps I’m unfair. After all, her task can’t be easy, directress of a typing pool smack in the center of downtown Manhattan. Our band of sisters, each one tappity-tapping away in hopes of better things, clothed in cheap dark suits and ambition of various stripes, like Stella who sits to my right. Miss Stella DeLucca from Brooklyn, Crown Heights or someplace, dreams of sharing an elevator with a Sterling Bates partner and the elevator breaks down and there they are, stuck together for an enchanted hour while the engineers work to get the car moving, and three months later she becomes the wife of a banker and takes a honeymoon tour through Italy and comes back pregnant to an estate on the North Shore of Long Island, Oyster Bay or someplace, housekeepers and maids at her bidding, husband whisked by Packard limousine to Wall Street each day, garden parties and Pony Club and what have you. But in the meantime she wants to enjoy herself. In the meantime she’s telling her parents she’s taking a night secretarial course at Katie Gibbs, when in reality she’s stopping by the coffee shop ladies’ room after work to put on kohl and crimson lipstick and a sequined dress, and she’s heading off to some joint or another for an evening of no good. Because why? Because life is short. Because the night is long. Because it doesn’t even matter why anymore. A girl wants to have some fun, she should have some fun. She’s got a right. And poor Miss Atkins has to keep all of us girls typing in tappity-tap, error-free unison for eight hours a day plus a half-hour lunch break at noon. I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t do it.

  Anyway. Stella slides into place at my right-hand side at one minute past nine o’clock, ripping off gloves and blowing her nose into a crumpled cotton handkerchief, and she whispers, “What gives with you, Kelly? Somebody told me she heard you been in the slammer.”

  “My mama died,” I whisper back, and Stella mumbles a stunned apologia of condolence heaped high with exculpation, cut short by the arrival of Miss Atkins in the doorway of the typing room: plump, oval cheeked, wearing a navy blue suit and an expression of what you might call profound maternal concern, if your mothe
r were Catherine the Great.

  Stella stuffs her handkerchief in her jacket pocket and snatches a sheet of clean white paper, rolling rolling rolling around the cylinder.

  Now, here’s how it works in the underwriting department at Sterling Bates. Those crafty bankers, they convince some poor unsuspecting business that it needs capital, lots of capital, the kind of capital that can only be raised by an appeal to the public financial markets. And the business agrees, God knows why, too many gin martinis maybe, too many slick bankers using too many big words, and the next thing you know, the lawyers jump in and build a regular Swiss Alps of paperwork that needs to be typed up on the double, in triplicate, and that’s where we come in, we girls of the typing pool. We arrive at our desks by nine o’clock sharp, by which time some poor sucker—maybe even Miss Atkins, for all I know she sleeps here—has laid a fresh, stinking new pile of underwriting documents with handwritten annotations to the left of the typewriter, ready for transfiguration into neat, evenly spaced sentences an investor might actually be persuaded to believe he understands, which are then laid to the right of the typewriter. All very simple. And this particular Monday morning, I have arrived at my desk a whole seven minutes before nine o’clock, fresh faced and suit pressed, in order to create the impression that I am ready, nay, eager to recommence the transfiguration of whatever documents the underwriting department has cooked up in my absence. Only to discover, I’m afraid, that the patch of desk to the left of my typewriter is empty. Nothing to transfigure. Nothing to do but sit rigid and conspicuously idle in my chair, typewriting paper wound around typewriter cylinder, hands poised, thumbs pressed together, while Miss Atkins surveys the room, eyes slitted keenly behind her round black-framed eyeglasses, and starts down the aisle toward me.

  “Good morning, Miss Atkins,” I say when she arrives.

  “Good morning, Miss Kelly. Will you please have the goodness to follow me.”

  The question’s rhetorical. All Miss Atkins’s questions are rhetorical. She doesn’t even bother with the formalities of punctuation, lifting up the tail end of the sentence. Just turns away and marches back up the aisle, expecting me to follow, and for the barest tick of a half second I imagine myself telling her, as a matter of fact and to my deep regret, I don’t have that kind of goodness this morning. Fresh out of goodness. So sorry, Miss Atkins.