Violet scoffed. “That is a very obscure old wives’ tale. So what does it mean? A scrotum gouge means good luck is coming your way?”
Julian sniffed. “It means if it continues, I will openly weep.”
“Those old wives were all dirty whores,” Wil said gravely.
“So it’s really an old whores’ tale,” Violet said.
Wil checked her makeup in her compact. “I would think those would be slightly less reliable, darling.”
“Here we are,” the taxi driver droned, pulling the car to an abrupt stop on Fifty-second Street. As Moxie was catapulted toward the front seat, Violet agilely grabbed her around the waist and stopped her forward progress.
“Whew! You okay, tomato?” Violet didn’t move her hands from Moxie’s hips.
Moxie, who had entered the cab somewhat disoriented, was certainly no better off now, feeling as though she had nearly been launched like a cannonball. She stared dumbly into Violet’s gray eyes.
The door opened and they all spilled out into the balmy evening as Julian paid the driver.
“And where are we again?” Moxie asked, surveying her surroundings for some sign or landmark.
“The Twenty-one Club,” Violet answered. “Ever been before?”
Moxie shook her head as they walked through the large cast-iron gates and down the steps to the front door. “I’m starting to think I haven’t ever been anywhere.”
Violet laughed as Julian and Wil began to sweet-talk the doorman. Moxie felt rather eager when he finally ushered them inside.
“Well, now you’re in New York, doll,” Violet assured her. “So hang on to your bloomers.” She tugged Moxie by the elbow while still carrying her terrier protectively.
The inside of the 21 Club was something that Moxie could never have imagined. The glimpses she got through the haze of smoke were of leather, brass, and dark, deeply stained wood. The place was a lot bigger inside than the outside implied, and people were everywhere—seated at tables, standing at the bar, and milling back and forth between the two.
They were led straight back to a table for four, though Violet stopped when she saw a woman seated a few tables away on the left. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she muttered, setting Clitty down on her chair.
“Who’s that?” Moxie whispered to Julian, sensing that this was not a happy reunion.
Julian eyed the petite brunette across from them. “Oh, that’s Dorothy Parker, critic for The New Yorker. Vi’s probably a little upset at the review she gave both Scandals and Lies and Vi personally. It was not flattering. I think she used the word puke. ”
“Well.” Violet approached the critic’s table. Dorothy Parker was drinking alone and looked as though she wanted to remain that way. “Mrs. Parker, as I live and breathe.”
Mrs. Parker looked up from what she was busily writing on a pad of paper. “Ordinarily, I’m not one to be a spoiler. But rumor has it, if you stop doing either one of those things, you tend to end badly.” She took another sip of her martini.
Wil looked angry as she began to peel off her gloves. “It’s a pity you aren’t speaking from experience.”
Mrs. Parker appeared both tipsy and indifferent. “I am. I learned it from most of your audience at your last matinee. Luckily, it consisted of only me, two hobos, and a party of cockroaches. So no real damage was done.”
Violet raised an eyebrow. “No wonder I didn’t see you there. I must have assumed you were part of the cockroach party. Next time just tell us you’re coming beforehand, darling, and avoid the confusion. I’d hate for someone to callously step on you.”
Wil jumped in to help her friend. “Yes, had we known you were there we would have had you seated more appropriately—in a urine puddle in the alley outside, maybe.”
The critic rolled her eyes. “If only your play had been this witty. No, wait. Your play was supposed to be a drama, wasn’t it? I suppose your repartee wouldn’t have helped much then. Never mind.”
“I hear the play’s better when you’re sober,” Violet suggested. “You should try it some time.”
Mrs. Parker scoffed. “Sobriety is overrated. Much as your play is. Is the rumor that you’re walking away from the abysmal thing and heading to Hollywood true?”
“It is,” Violet said.
“Well, I suppose they can always use another shit-peddler out there.” The critic signaled for the waiter to bring her another drink by waving her lit cigarette at him.
Violet crossed her arms defiantly. “You know, Mrs. Parker, it’s statistically impossible for you to hate everything in the world except gin. Are you saying that there isn’t the tiniest part of you, albeit deeply repressed, that might want a job in Hollywood?”
“I’d rather pass a hairbrush through my colon, actually.”
During the ensuing moment of silence everyone no doubt pictured the haunting image.
“Well,” Wil said flatly, “as always, it’s been lovely.” She put her arm around Violet’s shoulders and led her back to their table, where they took their seats.
“Damn her,” Violet whispered angrily as she moved Clitty onto her lap.
“Don’t let her ruin your celebration.” Moxie felt a pang of sympathy for her. This had been the first moment since she met Violet that she was not composed and sharp-witted. “You are celebrating a role in a Hollywood film, while she’s here alone. So who really comes out on top?”
“I suppose you’re right. Though it’s hard to shake the sting of someone who completely eviscerates you for sport.”
The waiter arrived at the table to collect everyone’s drink order.
“A gin rickey,” Julian said.
“I’m ready to move on from champagne,” Wil said. “Bring me a Bronx, darling.”
“What are you having?” Violet asked Moxie. “It’s on me.”
“I’m actually a little tipsy. I probably shouldn’t have anything else.”
“Do you like licorice?”
“I suppose.” Moxie wasn’t sure what that question had to do with cocktails.
“If you’re still feeling adventurous, I have an idea. You’re under no obligation other than to taste it.” Violet motioned to the waiter. “A bottle of absinthe and three glasses.”
“Very good,” the waiter said, heading back to the bar.
“Absinthe?” Moxie asked.
Wil smiled as she lit a cigarette. “Ah, absinthe—the green fairy. I have a love-hate relationship with her.”
“Which makes it just like every other relationship in your life,” Julian said.
“Darling, be kind,” Wil chided. “I’m still trying to get over Fred. He broke my heart.”
“What color fairy was Fred?” Violet asked.
Moxie laughed loudly, covering her mouth with her hand.
Wil looked amused. “Well, look at that. Mary Pickford over there is finally coming around.”
Julian smirked. “You must be rubbing off on her, Violet.”
“With any hope at all,” Wil muttered under her breath as she brought her cigarette holder to her lips.
“You know,” Moxie said, “before I came to New York, I thought I had been around the block.”
Violet’s eyes softened. “We have longer blocks here.”
For a moment, Moxie sensed that something was hanging unspoken in the air. But before she could ponder that thought further, the waiter arrived with the drinks. When he set the bottle of bright green liquor in front of her, she had second thoughts. It definitely did not look safe to drink. “What the hell is that?”
“Mother’s milk,” Wil answered.
“If your mother happens to be a leprechaun,” Moxie said with a snicker.
The waiter uncorked the bottle and set down three glasses, three ornate metal utensils, a pitcher of what looked to be water, and a bowl of sugar cubes before he disappeared back into the crowd.
Violet filled one of the oddly shaped glasses with liquor, to the point where the round bottom part of the glass met the straight up
per section. She picked up one of the silver utensils in one hand and a sugar cube in the other. “Watch this.”
“You need a special tool to drink this? Please tell me this stuff goes in the mouth.”
Violet laughed as she balanced the flat slotted spoon on top of the absinthe glass. “Well, since you’re a beginner, I guess we can make an exception this time.” She then set the sugar cube on the spoon and poured the water over the top of it until the glass was about two-thirds full. The clear, emerald liquor turned a light milky green as the water, sugar, and absinthe mysteriously coalesced. “This is called the louche.” She removed the spoon and took a sip.
“Louche?” Moxie asked. “What does that mean?”
Violet offered her the glass so she could assess her mixing skills. “The louche is kind of like taking something already remarkable and, by adding some other unrelated exceptional ingredient, making it beautiful in a whole new way.”
The poetry of Violet’s words impressed Moxie, and she wondered if other things in life combined to create a louche—perhaps people. Regardless, Moxie decided to try the drink without reservation. She took a sip and closed her eyes as she swallowed. “Damn! That’s not bad.”
“In all the time I’ve known you, when have I ever steered you wrong?”
“You’re right. It’s been a very pleasant few hours.” She watched Violet fill another glass with only water and offer it to the dog in her lap, which drank happily, but sent water flying all around him. Amused, Moxie couldn’t pass up the opportunity to comment. “Your Clitoris is making a wet mess.”
Violet smiled seductively. “Thanks for noticing.”
“Er…Do you take him everywhere you go?”
“Yes, for the most part. I found him one night as I was coming out of the theater.” The dog stopped drinking, then lay back down in her lap contentedly and closed his eyes. “He was a sad, bedraggled little mess. And once I took him home, washed and fed him, he never wanted to leave my side.”
“I’ve had dates like that, darling,” Wil said, taking a long sip of her Bronx cocktail. “One time I had to pretend I was dead to get the son of a bitch to leave.”
Julian laughed. “Was that before or after the sex?”
“During, actually. You know men in bed.” She looked at Violet and paused. “Oh, well…” She turned to Julian. “ You know men in bed. They’re happy if you participate, but it’s not really necessary for them. It’s like the difference between a four-course meal and a five-course meal. They’re happy to get dessert, but if need be, they’ll just double up on dinner rolls.”
Violet began to mix a glass of absinthe for herself. “Well, hopefully the poor man didn’t think his lovemaking had killed you.”
“I was more likely to perish from the boredom than from anything else.”
Julian traced the path of his mustache with his index finger. “Well, if he ever buys tickets to Scandals and Lies, he’ll get the shock of his life. Our deceased Miss Skoog will be there illuminated by the footlights.”
“I thought I was changing my name,” Wil reminded them, taking a long drag of her Chesterfield. “Let’s hear some suggestions.”
They mulled for a moment.
“Urethra Dejeuner,” Julian offered.
“Darling,” Wil said. “As delightfully French as that sounds, I don’t know that I want to be known as Pee-hole Lunch, but I suppose it’s a start.”
Violet set down her spoon as she pondered further. “How about Veneria Dungbottom? You could be V.D. for short.”
Wil frowned. “Sounds a little too folksy for me.”
“Play off the red hair,” Julian suggested. “Go with something blatantly Irish, like Jiggles McTavish.”
“Too ethnic,” was all Wil replied.
“Genitalia Finkelstein,” Moxie said, starting to settle into the rapid-fire discourse enough to add her two cents.
Violet seemed pleasantly surprised at her participation. “No, I knew a Genitalia Finkelstein in high school. She might sue.”
“Pity,” Moxie replied in amusement, sipping her absinthe. “It’s such a pretty name.”
“Yes, and she was a lovely girl. But she was far too sensitive.”
Everyone laughed loudly.
Moxie let the fast-paced, witty mood wash over her, flush with the revelation that the banter was even more enjoyable when you were a direct participant. “So what is this movie you’re off to make?”
“It’s called Manhattan Rhapsody, ” Violet replied. “It’s a Pinnacle picture.”
Moxie giggled. “You’re going all the way to California to make a film about New York?”
“Apparently most of Manhattan can be reproduced on the back lot. They just rub it with a little filth and, presto—instant New York.”
Wil set down her now-empty cocktail glass. “Well, darling, do let them know that I’m available anytime to be rubbed with filth.”
Julian smirked. “That’s common knowledge, dear.”
“Pinnacle Pictures?” Moxie was even more in awe. “That’s T. Z. Walter’s studio, isn’t it?” Violet nodded. “So what’s it about?”
Violet’s face lit up as she started to talk about her project. “Well, a wealthy socialite—”
“You,” Moxie interjected.
“—loses everything in the stock-market crash.”
“So it’s a comedy,” Julian remarked dryly.
Violet continued. “She has to learn how to do everything for herself, for the first time. So the audience gets the joy of watching her struggle.”
“And in the end?” Moxie asked.
“I think she meets a rich man and marries him and her problems are solved…or some shit like that.” She took a drink.
“I suppose that is the proverbial happy ending,” Moxie argued weakly.
“What I’m hoping I can do, before the picture wraps, is to talk them into a better ending. One where a rich man offers to take her away from her poverty, and she gives him the finger and tells him, ‘No thanks, Bub. I’d rather work for a living.’”
Julian took another drag on his cigarette. “So I was wrong. It’s not a comedy. It’s a fantasy.”
“We’re not all just aspiring to be bought and paid for,” Violet countered. “Some of us are more than happy to be given a chance to succeed all on our own.”
“Hear! Hear!” Wil said. “Though you might feel differently if you enjoyed sex with men.”
“I can be kept just as easily by a rich woman as I can by a rich man,” she explained. “So I don’t know if I buy that argument.”
“Ha!” Wil dismissed that assertion with a wave of her cigarette holder.
Everything was now clicking into place for Moxie. The long admiring looks from Violet, her compliments, the wry comments from the others. Perhaps everything she had heard about theater people was actually true—eccentric, hedonistic, sexually capricious devil worshippers. And while none of them had mentioned Satan all night, he could certainly still come up.
Violet was still trying to make her point. “Why is it acceptable for only a man to have ambition that doesn’t include living off someone else’s fortune?”
Julian scoffed. “And why should marrying well be a goal that only extends to women? Darling, find me a rich man and I’ll settle down in a second.”
“Whatever happened to true love?” Violet asked. “And what happened to integrity?” She turned to Moxie, who was unsuccessfully trying to look as though she weren’t surprised at the disclosure that Violet was attracted to women. “Didn’t you marry your husband for love?”
“Who? Oh, him! The husband. My husband. Yes, we’re madly in love.”
Violet cocked an eyebrow. “What’s his name?” Her voice was tinged with suspicion.
Moxie searched her mind for an answer. “Filbert,” she finally answered.
“Your husband is named after a nut?” Wil asked.
“Ha,” she said awkwardly. “I suppose so.”
As Violet studied her, Moxie
was alert enough to realize she was clearly intoxicated and making an abominable attempt to perpetuate her earlier lie. Violet glanced at Moxie’s left ring finger, which sported no wedding band. What could Violet be thinking about her? Would she jump to the conclusion that Moxie was deluded? Or would she simply write her off as a filthy liar?
“Darlings,” Wil said. “I’m feeling a little restless. You know what I need?”
“Satan?” Moxie asked timidly.
Wil stared at her for several seconds. “Well, no. But if he pays his own way I guess you can bring him along. What I need is a touch of the white lady.”
“I’ll second that,” Julian replied.
“Who?” Moxie whispered to Violet.
“It’s more of a what, actually. And it means heading to Harlem—to a buffet flat.”
“A buffet flat?”
“Come on along,” she said. “If you think what you’ve seen so far is amazing, you won’t believe this place.”
*
1:50 a.m.
“Where the hell are we?” Moxie asked as they made their way through a small crowd and into what was undoubtedly someone’s West Harlem home. “Who lives here?”
“Two-finger Flossie.” Violet placed her hand on Moxie’s back and gently guided her through the house.
“She’s only got two fingers?”
Violet leaned in close to her ear. “Flossie’s famous for ‘two fingers of gin and two fingers within.’” She waggled her first two fingers in unison as though to elucidate.
Moxie’s brain wasn’t working to full capacity. “She puts her fingers in the gin?”
“Under the circumstances, I sure as hell hope not.”
Before Moxie could ponder Violet’s meaning further, they arrived in the crowded parlor and stopped to observe the crowd. In the corner, someone was playing ragtime on the piano. The room was filled with people of all races dancing, drinking, and smoking. Two men sat on a plush love seat locked in a tight embrace and kissing deeply. A naked woman was balancing a half-full bottle of gin on her forehead, while several men crouched on the floor throwing dice for cash.
Seduction of Moxie Page 3
