“Wait a minute. This isn’t a . . . ?” What term could he possibly use without causing offense? Brothel? House of ill repute?
“No,” she said in that eerie way she had of diving into his thoughts. “My soul isn’t that far fallen.”
They came to a closed door, which she opened without hesitation. When it had closed behind them, they were in a narrow but not steep staircase lit with a single bulb. At the top was a second door, through which, as they climbed closer, he could hear faint sounds of music.
“We’re actually going over to the flat next door,” she explained over her shoulder. “It’s a whole hidden third floor—no access from its own building.”
“Smart,” he said, feeling a twinge of guilt at his admiration.
“Now let’s see,” Monica was muttering as she studied a row of switches by the door. She hummed a bit of a familiar tune, then pressed the switches in a precise sequence. Faintly, over the music, he heard the replication of her tune in a series of chimes.
“Was that ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game’?”
“Yes,” she said, pleased. “The proprietor played for the Senators for two years before they realized he was a Negro. I think this place is his way of getting revenge for that same kind of stupid law.”
It hit him then that, upon crossing the threshold to this secret room, he would be knowingly breaking a law for the first time in his life. There was no separating the excitement from the fear churning in his stomach, and those elements—combined with a very real hunger—made him feel light-headed at the moment. So much, in fact, that it seemed his mind had left his body entirely, floating away with his better judgment, leaving the shell of himself to suffer the consequences of following a pretty girl on a snowy night. Wasn’t that, in fact, the perfect beginning to a cautionary tale?
A small, square window near the top of the door slid open, and a dark face appeared, the whites of the eyes prominent as they searched out the waiting company.
“It’s Monkey Business,” Monica said, at which the little door was slammed shut, and the big door opened wide.
As soon as the door opened, the hint of music from the other side exploded into deep, layered jazz, leaving Max to wonder just how it—not to mention the sound of the crowd inside—had ever been contained.
“Monkey girl!” The man on the other side not only dwarfed Max by a good six inches, but he could not possibly be the owner of the establishment, as his nearly onyx-black skin would never allow him to pass as a white man for two minutes, let alone two years. The Monkey girl in question launched herself into his arms, and he swung her around as if she were no more than a child, then dropped her at Max’s feet, saying, “An’ who we got here?”
“This is Max. Max, this is Big Sam.”
Big Sam took a step back. “Glad to see you got rid of that other fella. Never liked him.”
“Oh, Sam,” she said, “I don’t think you’d like anybody.”
Max extended his hand, tried not to wince at Big Sam’s bigger grip, and said, “Good to meet you.”
“Max is my new boss. At the paper.”
Sam smiled, revealing two prominent gold teeth. “Well, how about that? This girl here, she somethin’ else. Come in here, what was it, about five month ago? Late September. And ever since, people comin’ in here all kinds of night askin’ if this the place that Monkey girl writes about.”
Monica turned to Max. “I come here all the time. I’ve probably written about this place more than any other.”
“We do it up like family here,” Sam said. “I ain’t gonna pat you down, but I need to know if I have to worry about you shootin’ up the joint.”
“As in, with a gun?” Max asked, wondering if Big Sam knew just how ludicrous the question was. He didn’t even own a gun, much less carry one around.
“He’s straight,” Monica said, patting Max’s shoulder as if he were some sort of show horse. “You can’t even imagine.”
“Well, then,” Sam said, backing away, “welcome to the Shangri-La.”
The accompanying gesture had ten times more grandeur than the room could absorb. The entire space was one undivided room, with a bar set up along one side and a slightly raised platform on the other. There, a four-piece band consisting of piano, drum, saxophone, and clarinet played a sultry jazz number that may have been solely responsible for half of the heat in the room. A few tables were set up against the remaining walls, where small clusters of people sat amid pillars of cigarette smoke and empty glasses, but the heart of the room was its center—a space barely large enough for couples to maintain movement.
“Take off your coat,” Monica said, shrugging out of her own and tossing it casually onto a pile under which must have been some sort of rack. “We can dance.”
“I don’t dance,” Max said. Rather, shouted, given the volume of the music. He did, however, take off his coat as the near-sweltering heat of the space demanded. His inclination to simply drape it over his arm was thwarted when Monica grabbed it and threw it on top of hers.
“Then let’s get a drink.”
“I don’t drink. You know that.”
“Well, we have to do something, or Big Sam’s gonna think you’re a lawman. And you don’t want to know what he does to sneaks.”
She took his hand and led him to the bar, where she leaned over the rough-hewn wood so far that her feet dangled off the floor and ordered two of whatever was best. The man behind the bar was dressed in a starched white shirt and collar with a black bow tie, and he filled two squat glasses with a dark liquid without a single wayward splash.
“Pay the man,” Monica said. “Four bits, am I right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the barkeep said.
“It looks trashy if a woman buys her own,” she said, as if Max were hesitating due to frugality. Of course he would pay, both as a matter of etiquette and self-preservation, though he was already promising himself these would be the first and last drinks he would buy. When he made that same promise aloud to Monica, she raised her glass in a toast and said, “To the alpha and the omega of drinks,” before downing half of it in one gulp. The other half, he assumed, would have to wait until she could untwist her face long enough to drink it.
“Not quite as smooth as Uncle Ed’s whiskey?”
“Not by half.” After a shuddering exhalation, she held the glass out to him. “Have a drink.”
“No. But thanks just the same.”
“If you don’t, I’ll have to drink it all. Can’t let it go to waste.”
“As you wish. But as soon as those glasses are empty, I’m taking you home.”
Her face lit up with the thrill of a challenge, and he instantly regretted his words. Once again she brought the glass to her lips and tilted it, leaving a slick taste of the liquid on her lips.
“It’s going to be a long night, Mr. Moore.”
She left him little choice. He picked up his glass and took a burning swallow. Though he was inexperienced in the world of alcohol, he knew this was cheap but powerful liquor. By the time he set the empty glass on the bar, the stuff felt like it was burning a hole in his stomach. Monica, managing to keep the rim of the glass pressed against her bottom lip, laughed.
“My goodness, what you won’t do to take a girl home.” She opened the snap on her purse and pulled out a tuft of folded bills. The action caught the attention of the barkeep, who came immediately to her.
“Another round, ma’am?”
“Listen.” She counted out the bills, four of them, and slid them across the bar. “I have a very important job for you. You see these glasses?” She clinked hers against his empty one. “No matter what, even if you have to drizzle in a few drops at a time, until I say so, don’t let these go empty. Got it?”
He looked briefly at Max as if apologizing for his loyalty before saying, “Yes, ma’am.” There was definitely more of a spring to his step when he scooped up the bills, left, and returned with a bottle. Max’s glass was full again.
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�Clever,” he said, genuinely impressed. “But I’m not drinking that.”
“It’s drink or dance, Mr. Max.”
Everything about her was inviting. The way her lips perched on the edge of the glass made him want to do the same. The way she swung her foot brought his own to life in the wake of the music. Reluctantly, he took his eyes away from her and surveyed the men and women coupled on the floor. The jazz sounded like a menagerie of moans, like heartache set to music, and the dancers clung to each other in the center of the room. It was a sight he’d never seen before. Not only because of the setting and circumstances, but the men and women—dark-skinned cheeks pressed against fair-skinned faces.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen Negroes dancing before. Or just not with whites? Certainly they let the races mix in California.”
“I’m not the authority,” he said. “In fact, I’ve never given the subject much thought.”
“What do you think about it now?”
His fingers closed around the glass, and he found the second drink to go down much smoother than the first. The moment he set it back down, empty, the bartender was on the spot to fill it again.
“That bad?”
“Not at all.” How could he explain that this was one more layer to a strange new world he’d never had any intention of exploring? The music and the whiskey were twisting together, tying him in place, anchored by Monica’s eyes. All night long he’d thought of nothing other than keeping her safe, and the way he felt right now, the greater the distance between them, the safer she’d be. “Finish your drink.”
Her eyes checked his glass. “Finish yours.”
“On three.”
By agreement, they counted together, glasses less than an inch away from their respective lips, and when they declared, “Three!” he waited to see her follow through before doing the same. By the time the last drop had disappeared, he was wobbly both in his legs and in his head, but he somehow summoned the stealth to snatch her empty glass away and slam it upside down on the bar, his own beside it. When the bartender arrived yet again with his trusty bottle, Max put his hand over the upturned bottoms and said, “That’s okay, buddy. We’re done.”
Monica pouted but hopped down from the stool. “Do you plan to devote your life to destroying other people’s fun?”
Keeping his eye on her for all but the briefest of seconds, he crossed the room to get their coats. Not trusting her to leave under her own power, upon his return he took her arm, though with her drink to his three, she hardly needed the support, and ignored her question. The door to exit was on the opposite side of the entrance, to facilitate an evacuation in case of the threat of a raid, according to Monica, and there was no path to it other than traversing the dance floor. Suddenly, the result of inevitable friction with the other couples, Monica was pushed fully against him. Then, without his intent or permission, they were dancing. Rather pressed together, moving in a rhythm semirelated to the music around them. His mouth was full of the taste of liquor, his head with the smell of smoke, and his arms with this tiny, soft woman. None of it right. He might appear to be a man determined to destroy the pleasure of others, but for a few minutes at least, he would do nothing to spoil his own.
He bent low, felt her hair soft and sleek against his cheek, and asked, “What did you write about this place?”
“Just the things that are good. And pure.” He felt her words through his skin. “Like you said to before you said to.”
Nothing about this moment felt good or pure, and it wouldn’t get any better by staying. He put his hands firmly on her shoulders, stepped back, and said, “There. You’ve had your drink and your dance. You won. Happy?”
“Blissful.” By the look on her face, he almost believed it.
“Then we need to go.”
This time he would not make the mistake of touching her at all. He waited for her to take the first step in the right direction and followed, stopping every few steps as she kissed cheeks and exchanged jokes about the boss man cutting short all her fun.
He was expecting another series of labyrinth-like tunnels to take them away from this place and was surprised to find that the door led straight to a third-story fire escape with a narrow iron staircase leading down to the alley behind the building. It wasn’t until he began his descent that he felt the full effect of his drink, and he gripped the handrail despite its burning cold. After all, Monica was still walking ahead of him. One slip and they’d both tumble, with his body landing flat on top of hers. Nothing good or pure could come of that, either.
“You still going to take me home?” she asked when they safely reached land.
“Going to put you in a cab,” he said, taking a quick mental count of the money in his wallet. There was still the question of getting himself home too.
“Not in this neighborhood you won’t. Streetcars don’t even stop here after ten.”
“You might have told me that.”
“You might have asked. But don’t worry. A few blocks and you’ll be in more familiar territory. The fresh air will clear your head.”
Now there was a point they could agree on. She walked beside him; he not only matched her stride but trusted her to lead him, even though she’d given him no reason to trust her at all.
“You should read it sometime,” she said after a substantial silence.
“What?”
“My column. About this place. Last October, I think, in case you have any of the old issues.”
“Uncle Edward has them all in his office.” And depending on just where they’d be able to hail a cab, he was closer to the office than home. “I’ll look for it.”
“I think you’ll be surprised. Maybe I’m not such an empty-headed flapper after all.”
“I never thought that for a minute. The whole reason I suggested the anti-flirting assignment is because I think there’s more to you than what Monkey Business itself allows.”
“Just read it,” she said before breaking away and throwing her entire body into the hailing of a cab.
Unsurprisingly, a sleek auto with the word Taxi painted on its side headed straight for them. When it stopped, he opened the door and she climbed in immediately, scooting to the far side and patting the seat beside her in invitation. Max poked his head in, assessing the small, dark space, her smile, the fuzzed edges of his judgment.
“Tell the driver your address,” he said, and upon the cabbie’s estimated fare, handed a folded bill across the seat.
“What about you?” she asked, pouting again.
He touched his glove to his temple. “Head’s not quite clear enough. Think I’d be better off walking. And one more thing?”
“Yes?” He must be imagining her hopefulness.
“I’ll need your column tomorrow morning. First thing.”
“Ten o’clock? Sharp?”
“Nine.”
“Call Trevor. Tell him I’ll have it at eight.”
She leaned over, took the door’s handle, and slammed it shut, leaving him to watch her disappear into the night.
“All the Dirt on Anti-Flirt”
This little Monkey doesn’t like to brag, but she’s been known to turn a few heads. What can you expect when a girl walks around in a perfect little package? Stylish clothes, careful makeup, and a hairstyle that will never see a braid or bun. She’s a modern girl with modern dreams, and she likes all the perks that come from living free from pantaloons and petticoats. And so, what’s a girl to do once the heads turn? To flirt or not to flirt? That is the question. If a man winketh, shall we not wink back? If he honketh his horn, shall we not smile and wave? Monkey’s new club has the answer, and that answer is “No.”
You might have noticed a little item in the papers, way in the back where nobody cares. Miss Alice Reighly and her group: the Anti-Flirt Club. If you’re a woman ready to crawl back into the last century and wait for your cotillion escort to favor you with a dance, this might be the place for you. If you believe women should be silen
t, invisible, disappearing meekies, then you are a candidate. (Ladies only, please. They might find the presence of a man to be too frightening.)
There’s a motto at the Anti-Flirt Club: “Those who flirt in haste repent in leisure.” Ha! Ha! Any girl who’s batted her eyes at the wrong sheik knows if she flirts in haste, she gets him first, before some other sheba takes him away.
Miss Reighly also says we aren’t anybody’s baby but our mothers’. True enough, I guess, but this Monkey remembers her mother marching in the streets for the vote. For equality. And what better way to show you’re equal to a man than to give to him as good as he gives to you? Don’t be fooled, my little monkey girls. Your power isn’t in your vote. It’s in your eyes. It’s in any part of you that you can use to bend his will. Bat your eyes and blow a kiss. No reason you can’t close the bank later.
I never gave away anything without wishing I had kept it; nor kept it without wishing I had given it away.
LOUISE BROOKS
THE NEW EDITION of Capitol Chatter looked out from its familiar perch in the magazine rack on the pharmacy wall. On the front cover, modest yet above the fold, a small, serious picture of Max Moore presided over the headline “The New Voice of Capitol Chatter,” directing readers to the editorial on page two where Max-the-editor promised a new direction in content and tone. He’d kept the actual text secret from the staff, and Monica knew she’d have to shell out her own nickel if she wanted to read it. That, or wait for the first disgruntled, disappointed, blood-lusting customer to toss their copy in the gutter.
Then again, she could always just browse.
She ordered an egg cream at the counter before sauntering over to the newspaper rack, where she ran her finger along the titles, pretending great interest in each one. There were few other customers in the place, and the gentleman in the white apron was occupied with her egg cream, so with a nonchalant look around and behind, she slid the paper from the rack and opened to the second page.
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