“Music to my ears,” Wil remarked happily as Fred began to pour the champagne.
“Does it remind you of your cherry?” Violet raised her newly filled glass.
“I think you overestimate Wil’s memory,” Julian added. “Wasn’t that back during the Trojan War?”
Fred accidentally dropped the open bottle into the bucket, nervously verified that no harm was done, and then darted away again.
“Fred and I are in love,” Wil explained to Julian. “We’re going to be married.”
Julian casually pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his jacket pocket. “You don’t mind that he’s queer?”
“I told you,” Violet said, pointing her index finger decisively.
“We plan to have one of those open marriages,” Wil said. “Provided that he never stops bringing me whatever I ask for, I can look past his preference for men.”
“How progressive,” Violet commented.
*
After Moxie’s set ended, Fred approached her backstage and touched her shoulder lightly. “Swell show.”
She smiled at the compliment as she dabbed her face with a handkerchief. “Thanks. That’s always nice to hear.”
“Well, then you might like to hear this as well. Table nine would like you to stop by. They told me to bring whatever you wanted to drink too.”
Moxie’s gratification quickly evaporated. “Hmm. Did the offer seem seedy?”
He laughed. “It’s probably a lot of things. But I don’t think any of them are seedy.”
At one time, Moxie tried to be gracious when strange men fawned over her, and certainly since she had been in New York, that type of attention had only increased. But she had recently made up her mind that she couldn’t bear such social contrivances anymore. She had been hit on by old geezers, married men, and even one fellow so inebriated that he had actually pissed himself and failed to notice it. Fortuitously for him, Moxie had been there to bring his condition to his attention.
While she supposed these advances were all intended to be complimentary, it was hard to feel gratitude under the circumstances. Perhaps this admirer would signal her turning luck. After all, Cotton had been telling her that was due to happen any day.
“All right, Fred. You’ve piqued my curiosity. Table nine, you said?”
He nodded.
“Just bring my usual drink.”
“You got it.” He headed back over to the bar.
Checking her face in the mirror, she ran her hands through her wavy blond hair and tossed the damp handkerchief down with the rest of her things.
As she approached table nine, she was suddenly uncertain. Two glamorous-looking women, a plump man, and a small dog sat there—certainly not what she had expected. As she got closer, she observed that the woman with the dog was watching her intently. The woman’s straight black hair was cut in a bob, a bit like Louise Brooks’s, but her eyes were incredibly light, almost gray. The combination was striking. Her elegant evening gown was sea green, and her features were soft and lovely.
The other woman at the table was pretty in a different way—red-haired and animated—and though Moxie could not make out what she was saying, her voice carried as if she were either a drunk or a madwoman. She was dressed like a member of high society, but clearly not born into it. Her boisterous and gregarious manners gave her away. The gentleman at the table seemed more reserved, and he had noticed her approach by now as well.
Moxie stopped at the table and cleared her throat as the loud redheaded woman was in the middle of a sentence.
“…and I told him, ‘Darling, you need to get that away from my vagina’—oh, hello there,” she said, suddenly noticing her.
Moxie was stunned, wondering what the beginning of that story could possibly have entailed. “Um, hello. I may have been given the wrong table number.”
The other woman at the table smiled, her smoky eyes alight with something. Perhaps amusement? Despite Moxie’s natural suspicions, the brunette’s expression and demeanor put her slightly at ease. “No, this is the right table. We asked Fred to have you stop by so we could tell you how very much we enjoyed your singing.”
Moxie remained wary, as she always did. For her, guarded and vigilant were a way of life. “That’s nice of you to say.”
“Do have a seat. I’m Violet London, and these are my friends Wilhelmina Skoog and Julian French.”
Moxie pulled up a chair and sat, feeling self-conscious around these rather stylish and wealthy people. Why had they asked to see her? They seemed so much more sophisticated than she was. Her eyes were drawn to the small, yawning reddish-brown dog sitting in Violet’s lap. “And who is this?”
“Ah, this is Clitty.” Violet held up the dog’s paw to simulate a friendly wave.
“That’s an unusual name.” Moxie assured herself that she had either misheard the woman or was simply the victim of her own filthy mind. The dog could not possibly be named that.
Violet took a drink of champagne and nodded as she swallowed. “Yes, it’s short for Clitoris.”
Apparently Moxie was not the only one with a filthy mind. “Uh…Why would you name your dog that?”
“Well, it seemed appropriate,” Violet replied, scratching Clitty’s head between the ears. “I mean, he has a beard.” She playfully tugged the animal’s protracted chin hair. “And he wants to be rubbed all day long.”
“But does he want to be licked?” Wil asked.
“Lord, Wil,” Julian interjected, exhaling smoke from his nostrils. “I hope you’re not offering.”
“Hardly, darling. It’s far too early in the evening for me to have lowered my standards that much.” She looked at her watch. “I won’t settle for less than a human for another three hours.”
Fred reappeared and set a bottle of Dr. Pepper in front of Moxie. “Here you go.”
“That’s what you ordered?” Violet asked.
“I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Well, you should have some champagne with us,” Violet said. “We’re celebrating tonight.”
“Oh? What for?”
“Well,” Violet said, “I’ve been cast in a movie. And I leave tomorrow on the next train to Hollywood.”
Moxie was awestruck. This woman was a film star? “That’s wonderful!”
Wil waved at Fred to get his attention. “Fred, please bring your lovely singer a champagne glass.” He looked surprised but nodded dutifully.
Violet continued. “And that leaves my understudy here ready to step into the leading role of Scandals and Lies on Broadway.”
“Ah, that’s why your name sounded familiar. You’re Violet London, the Broadway actress.” Moxie was thrilled not only to meet a successful actress, but one she had actually heard of. It was easy to see why Violet’s career was flourishing. She had an easy charisma about her—an affability that drew in others.
“For the rest of tonight I am, at least.”
“Wil, you really should do something about your name,” Julian said. “Wilhelmina Skoog neither rolls lightly off the tongue nor looks attractive on a marquee.”
“Yes,” Violet said. “You should choose something sexy.”
Wil snorted, apparently indignant that her friends would make such a suggestion. “Well, tragically, your Clitoris is taken.”
“I only wish it were,” Violet replied as Fred arrived with the champagne glass. He set it in front of Moxie and filled it for her.
“Thank you, darling,” Wil cooed. “You poured that like only a real man could.”
Fred blushed again, replaced the bottle in the bucket, and sped away.
“So, Moxie.” Violet eyed her appreciatively, filling Moxie with a combination of discomfort and warmth. “Perhaps you can convince Wil that she may not be Fred’s type.”
Moxie picked up her champagne glass and took a sip. It tasted far better than she thought it would. She had tried to steer clear of indulging in anything that might impair her ever-present prudence. “Well, Fred is—”
<
br /> “You can go ahead and say it, dear,” Julian said with obvious sympathy.
“Fred is what?” Wil asked. “A snappy dresser? A mean cribbage player? A large potato bug?”
Violet laughed and patted Moxie’s hand. “You don’t have to expose him as a potato bug if you don’t want to, sweetie. After all, that’s nobody’s business but his and the farmer whose crops he destroys.” She took another sip of champagne.
“But does he have an affinity for penises?” Julian blurted out. “Because crop damage or not, I think that might be a deal breaker.”
Moxie gasped as she inhaled a small amount of champagne into her lungs, and she began to cough violently. Violet patted her on the back helpfully, and before Moxie knew it, Violet was rubbing it in soft circles. She was surprised both by how nice it felt and the inexplicable absence of her natural aversion to physical contact with others.
“Now why did you have to go and use that word, Julian? You startled the poor girl,” Violet said.
He polished off his gin rickey and set the glass on the table forcefully. “You act as though she’s some fawn in the woods. Just because ‘penis’ is your least favorite word, darling, doesn’t mean that everyone else can’t stomach it.”
“Sorry.” Violet had a wry expression on her face. “When you say ‘stomach it,’ what exactly do you mean?”
Wil laughed loudly, then polished off her champagne and grabbed the bottle aggressively by the neck. “Damn, doll face. I’m going to miss you,” she said as she refilled her glass. She looked up from her drink. “Oh, I suppose I’ll miss you too, Violet.”
Julian gestured to Fred to bring him another round.
Moxie’s coughing had abated, but she still sat agog, wondering what these people would say next. They seemed not only candid to the point of mental illness, but they were all decidedly oversexed, and therefore potentially a menace to others. She had never known anyone who bandied about genitalia as they did. Wait, that sounded much worse in her mind than she had intended.
“So, what kind of a name is Moxie?” Violet propped her chin on her fist and adopted an expression that implied she was actually interested in what Moxie had to say.
Thank God, Moxie thought, a normal question. “Apparently I was a rather strong-willed child.”
“Your mother has a sense of humor.”
“She did, yes. She passed on about ten years ago.”
“I’m so sorry. She must have been a beautiful woman, because you are terribly striking.”
Moxie dropped her gaze. “Thank you.” While she was used to that kind of comment from men and could readily brush it aside as so much phony flattery, coming from a woman, a famous one to boot, it somehow seemed more sincere.
“Raised by your father?” Violet asked.
Moxie shrugged. “Mostly raised by myself.”
Violet’s eyebrows arched. “You don’t say.”
“Pop passed away just two years after Mom, so then it was just me.”
“Brothers or sisters? Grandparents or aunts?”
Moxie shook her head, feeling ill at ease talking about her past. She took another drink of champagne.
Violet’s eyes warmed. “I’m guessing your childhood wasn’t all nosegays and lollipops.”
Moxie smiled in tacit agreement. “Well, I managed to stay out of the orphanage, and I learned how to fend for myself, so I really can’t complain. I had it better than a lot of others.”
“Okay, I’ll bite.” Violet was clearly interested in what Moxie was telling her. “How’d you avoid the orphanage?”
“I took jobs cooking, cleaning, singing—whatever I could get. I lied about my age until I didn’t need to anymore and just generally kept to myself.”
Violet whistled descending notes of astonishment. “That sounds like an invitation for every bindle stiff and grifter in town to take you for a ride.”
Moxie’s finger traced the rim of her glass. “I’m not saying they didn’t try, just that they didn’t succeed.”
“Clearly you’re not from New York.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because your soul hasn’t been consumed yet.” Violet’s tone was lighthearted.
“Well, it’s nice to know that I still have that to look forward to,” she joked, taking another sip of her drink. “You know, this is really quite good.”
“I take it you haven’t seen much of the nightlife in New York unless you’ve been the entertainment?”
“No, I try not to participate too much in it. I figure if the cops bust in and raid the place, they’ll let the sober people go.”
Wil smiled. “Well, aren’t you just adorable? Thinking that cops let people who aren’t political officials go.”
“Adorable is a very good assessment,” Violet said softly, looking into Moxie’s eyes for what felt like a prolonged period of time.
Moxie panicked. Was this woman—a celebrity, no less—making advances toward her? If so, this was certainly a first. But New York seemed full of firsts for her. “My husband uses that word to describe me sometimes too,” she lied.
Violet’s gaze narrowed, as though she was scrutinizing Moxie. “Well, your husband’s correct. You’re just as cute as a box of kittens.”
As Fred returned to the table with another gin rickey for Julian, Violet raised her glass. “Let’s toast, everyone.” They all held their glass to the center of the table. “To continued success.” Glasses clinked together and everyone drank.
“I hope you don’t have to sing any more tonight,” Wil said.
“Oh, no. I only have two sets a night, so far. And that was my second.”
“So you might get more?” Julian poured more champagne for all of them.
Moxie was too polite to refuse. “If I start really packing them in, yes. And of course the more sets I play a night, the more money I make.”
“How long have you been in New York?” Violet fed another piece of bread to Clitty.
“Only six months.” She took a longer sip of bubbly.
“What of the city have you really seen?” Wil asked.
Feeling suddenly embarrassed, Moxie gazed at the ceiling. “Um…I’ve seen the Statue of Liberty and the Chrysler Building. And I went down to Fifth Avenue to see that brand-new skyscraper that’s even taller, the Empire State Building. It’s massive.”
Violet looked disappointed. “But those are things for tourists. You live here now.”
“I know. I just don’t get out much. By the time I get off work, I don’t want to do anything but crawl home and sleep.”
“Wil here can give you a tour of the underside of every table in every gin joint in town,” Julian said in mock helpfulness.
Wil cleared her throat indignantly. “Excuse me,” she said, “but I believe you mean the underside of only the finest tables in every gin joint in town.”
He laughed. “You’re right, darling. How stupid of me.”
Moxie chuckled at their teasing and enjoyed the bubbles in the champagne a little more.
“Then you should see the city with us tonight,” Violet said. “Visit the places only the locals can take you.”
She was hesitant. “I don’t know—” All the mental alarms in Moxie’s head were still clanging away, but somehow she was becoming increasingly acclimated to their tones of danger. Whether it was the booze or the easy laughter, what had started out as sirens now sounded more like a jazzman on the vibraphone.
“Vi is right,” Wil announced. “You absolutely should come out with us. One night with us and you can stay in for the rest of the year and still feel like you’ve sowed your oats.”
“I’d like to hang on to my oats, if that’s all right.”
Violet looked amused. “Fair enough, doll. You keep a tight hold on your oats and just try to look the other way when Wil starts pelting strangers with hers.”
Everyone howled, including Moxie. She didn’t feel threatened by this trio, she supposed, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d
enjoyed herself so much. She really had been meaning to see the rest of New York, though she internally vowed to keep her wits about her at all times and leave at the first sign of trouble. “Well, I guess I could join you for a bit.”
“Excellent. I’ll wager you’ll see a thing or two you’ve never seen before the night is over.”
*
12:15 a.m.
Moxie decided—after several glasses of champagne—that not only were these folks not a bad sort, but that they were absolutely hysterical. Though they were, without question, easily the oddest people she had ever met, they were also, at least to some degree, well connected in show business, not to mention astoundingly clever. Moxie personally challenged herself to keep up with all their quips and asides, though she discovered the task was particularly taxing now that she was not completely clearheaded.
At midnight, the group determined that they wanted to head to Swing Street, though she had never heard of such a place, and they all gleefully jammed their bodies into a single taxi. Moxie almost couldn’t wait to get back to her apartment and tell her roommate Irene how she had spent her evening. She doubted Irene would even believe her.
“Um, are you from New York originally?” Moxie asked Violet in a thinly veiled attempt to use pleasantries to mask the awkwardness of sitting on Violet’s lap. She silently marveled at how Violet seemed to so coolly take everything in stride. She didn’t appear to find the arrangement in the cab uncomfortable in the least.
“Baltimore,” Violet replied, shaking her head.
“How long have you lived here?”
Violet’s eyes took on a wistful glint. “Six years. I came to town on my twenty-first birthday, determined to show everyone else that I really could live my life as a woman of independent means.”
Wil chortled. “Darling, don’t sell yourself short. Anyone who jacks people off in back alleys can be a woman of independent means.”
Julian cleared his throat. “Let us not malign back-alley jack-offs. Those have been some of my fondest times. It’s a dying art.”
“You’re such a purist, Julian,” Violet said.
“Well, you know the old wives’ tale,” he replied, picking up Clitty and moving him slightly to the right of his lap. “Why can’t this dog’s pointy elbows stop gouging my scrotum?”
Seduction of Moxie Page 2
