We each had private cells. We made our beds, scrubbed our floors and toilets. At a signal from the matron, we lined up to turn in our cleaning gear.
“I am harboring a book beneath my jail costume,” my mark said, falling in behind me. “Would you, perhaps, care to borrow it during our break?”
Jail costume? Talking in line was a punishable offense; a belly laugh surely would have been worse. I swallowed and turned slightly. “Of course,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth. “How kind of you to offer. Thank you.”
I might be a fledgling operative, but I was not so naïve as to believe she was being kind simply to be kind. Dante had warned me. I was the new kid on the block, and she would want to test me. The offer of the book, I suspected, was step one.
The matron collected the scrub tools from the inmate in front of me. She dropped them into a receptacle. The tools hit home with a crash and I moved with the distraction. My hands slipped behind me and the Countess pressed a thin leather-bound volume into my waiting grip. The cover held her body heat. I slid the slim book through a gap in the front of my jumpsuit. Her warmth transferred to my skin, giving me goose bumps.
“It’s my bible,” she said softly.
Inwardly I groaned. The thought of reading religious materials—in jail or otherwise—repulsed me, for I had spent my youth treading in a sea of them.
Back in my cell, I discovered she had not been speaking literally. The “bible,” actually a self-improvement guide, was titled Personality Unlimited. Leafing through the contents, I found chapter headings such as Make-up, Dress, Manners, and Character Improvement. Below, paragraphs of fine print covered the proper use of lotions, potions, necklines, hemlines, “may I’s,” “shall we’s,” and even “how to tell white lies.” I shook my head. Even with nothing else to read, the book held about as much appeal to me as pickled pigs’ feet.
“Never say whoa in the mud.” Now there was a tip I could relate to. My Uncle Chance said it all the time. And of course he was right. Surely I could learn something about my quarry from studying her guide. I flipped to the chapter on make-up and began reading about skin care, my eyelids growing heavier and heavier.
***
The muffled sounds of two women engaged in conversation next door nudged me from my nap. After first checking to be sure the giant cockroach I’d glimpsed earlier hadn’t returned, I arranged my pillow against the wall, leaned against it, and tuned in to the exchange.
“If I may be permitted to say once more, it is not your derriere, Bill-lay, that you must emphasize.”
“Say again?” The puzzled, sassy voice was that of Billie Workaday, one of the spy’s two select cellmates. Dante had said that Billie operated under an alias inspired by the Queen of the Blues, having decided that in reinventing herself she could also change her destiny. I could relate. For I had taken a name prompted in part by someone famous, too.
“You have more to offer,” the Countess continued, “than your Rubenesque—how shall I say—uh, posterior.”
“Countess, honey, no need to be uppity here. If you’re talkin’ about my tub’a lard ass just say so. In real English, please, so’s I can understand, okay?”
Zeroing in on what the Countess had to say had been easy work so far. Canadian by birth, she spoke with a broad “A” accent impossible to confuse with the others. I smiled as several seconds of silence passed. The effusive Countess, fluent in French, German, Hungarian, and who knew how many other languages, appeared to be having a devil of a time finding the plain English demanded by Billie.
“All of us possess at least one outstanding characteristic,” she said, at last. “The idea is to drah-matize that one gift, and the others will take care of themselves.”
Billie sounded lost. “Un-huh…”
“Yes? Do you mean, yes?”
Billie released an audible sigh.
The Countess and Billie made an interesting pair: a prostitute and whiz on the ins and outs of life behind bars contrasted with a woman born into privilege and convent-school educated in France who considered herself an intellectual and a gifted orator. So much so that she had arrived in Detroit posing as a professional lecturer. At ease with position and wealth, she directed her first assault on the city’s social set. Easy prey for her arsenal of fine clothing, jewelry, and charm, awed by her knowledge of European centers and culture, the ranks parted. Hostesses vied for her presence; society pages blazed with all the news about her every movement.
At the same time the Countess was busy conquering the social front, she also began appearing before women’s groups. The Birmingham League of Catholic Women, the Colony Club, and the Charm School at the YWCA were some of the organizations she dazzled. Initial presentations covered the life of women in war-torn Europe and the use of ersatz products. Her reputation grew and she began giving chatty talks on foreign affairs. “The Oppression of War,” “Into the Light of Freedom,” and, prophetically, “I Saw the Nazis in Central Europe,” were a few of the titles Dante had mentioned. When she expanded her programs into advising the city’s smart-set on how to increase their personal allure, almost overnight she became known as Detroit’s most popular “charm consultant.”
This ability to mix it up with the elite, get them to let down their guard, was part of a bigger scheme for collecting confidential personnel and production information for Hitler. Luckily, before she could exploit her strategically developed contacts, the FBI had interceded. She went from enlightening nabobs to bestowing tutorials on sister inmates.
Billie spoke again. This time her voice, still earthy, had airs. “That is correct, ma’am. It is ‘yes’ that I mean. But distinguish myself? What for?”
The former consultant cleared her throat. “You have many competitors in your, uhm, chosen profession, correct?”
“Un-huh, I mean, yes. At times the streets, especially the stop-and-go corners, get elbow to elbow.”
There was a pause, during which I envisioned the Countess scrutinizing Billie’s face.
“You should accentuate your eyes, for example. The upward tilt at the outer corners makes them divinely exotic. Hmm, yes. We must reshape the brows to emphasize their slant, perhaps smooth a little dark rouge near the sockets, finish up with mascara on the tips of the lashes—and voila! Your eyes will appear larger, more dramatic.”
“And…” Billie’s voice held both a note of hope and uncertainty.
“And, you will stand out from the others. You will be remembered for your remarkable eyes. You will excel, attract more business than all your other sisters combined.”
“A-men! Billie, you must to try what she say. Big success mean you not be living under thumb of pimp no more.”
This forward-thinking suggestion came from a new voice, Irina Popov. Irina was from Russia and, like Billie, the path she had followed to Detroit and eventually to jail had been paved with hardship. A band of Holy Rollers had saved her, so her arrest statement claimed.
There was a pause, followed by the rustling of cellophane, then the striking of a match. A sensitive snout was one of my outstanding features. I detected the smoke of their cigarettes almost before they lit them.
Up to this point, the Countess’ tone had reverberated with enthusiasm. Now it turned petulant. “Of course, as we have no make-up, an application lesson will have to wait until we are out of here.” She sighed. “Meanwhile, we will request some tweezers from the matron.”
I chuckled. I couldn’t help it. The way she put it, requesting an item from a matron was no more complicated than ringing up room service. But while I liked her verve, the time had come to unmask the Countess and delve into the part of her core that I could never like. Nudged by the metallic sounds of breakfast trays being handed through a food slot in the cellblock’s steel door, I rolled from my bunk.
Three metal picnic tables were bolted to the cement floor of the common area as if someone might actually try to walk away with them. The Countess, Billie, and Irina went directly for what I assumed was
their favorite table while I, unsure of myself, placed my tray on another. The Countess, without hesitating, said, “Please, won’t you join us, Miss Lewis.”
With little time to rehearse a cover story, it was decided I would use my own name to avoid getting tripped up using a false one. The Countess, with a grand sweep of her arm, directed me to sit on the bench directly across from her. Billie and Irina, appearing to resent the intrusion, ignored me while I slid between the bench and the table.
“Girls—” The Countess’ voice strained with patience and good manners. “Being kind in one’s relations with others is the simplest definition of charm. This is our chance to practice.” Friendly, albeit strained “hellos” followed.
Breakfast consisted of oatmeal, tepid milk, a slice of dark bread, sugar, and coffee. Silence prevailed as we nibbled at the food and I slyly observed the others. I had been briefed about them, too.
Billie of the exotic eyes and Rubenesque rump had full lips, a head of wiry auburn-dyed curls, and flawless, milky-coffee skin. Tall and thin, Irina had fuzzy dark blond hair, worn medium-length, and a putty-colored complexion marred by small pink acne scars.
I looked over the edge of my mug at the Countess. The image was a far cry from the glamour shot I’d seen in the newspaper clip. This morning, absent the jewelry and make-up, her face reflecting the strain of a month-long stint in jail, with the unhealthy pallor of her skin and her scraggly hair, she was downright disappointing.
She sensed my stare. Lifting her chin, she angled her head slightly to one side, drawing her swan-like neck taut. The pose was practiced, I thought, intended to show her best side to the house lights, the effort wasted in jail where even the aura flooding from ceiling lamps was cast with gray.
Her regal bearing in place, she latched cool blue eyes onto mine. “And what are you in for, Miss Lewis,” she added as though suddenly recalling her manners, “if I may be so bold as to ask?”
“Stealing jewelry.”
Billie was impressed. “You a jewel thief?”
“No,” I answered primly. “A personal secretary. The woman who accused me, my employer—er, former employer—Mrs. Snodgrass, is elderly. Gets easily confused. Thinks I took a couple of necklaces and bracelets…” I knew next to nothing about robbery or fine jewelry and had been warned to avoid discussing the topics at any length. “Why would I take anything?” I countered hastily. “I’m a skilled secretary. I know the Gregg method of stenography. Studied it at—”
Billie let loose an earthy laugh; Irina gave a knowing giggle.
“Un-huh,” Billie said, nearly choking on another guffaw. “We all in here by mistake.”
Their levity rattled my already shaky confidence. I focused on my spoon, watching it stir figure-eights in the watery remains in my bowl. Moments passed like this, until it dawned on me: the Countess had not joined the other women in mocking me. Why not?
I looked up. A private cellblock housed with select inmates was not the only privilege she’d been granted. Jewelry of any sort was taboo in jail—the Hole’s property clerk had collected Liberty’s bracelet from me—yet she was twisting a divine diamond and ruby ring. In a flight of fancy, I imagined she was uneasy because she’d fallen for my cover and thought the fiery band vulnerable.
The ring-turning stopped. “The name of your boss, Mrs. Snodgrass, seems familiar. By chance, might she be a member of a women’s club? The Cosmos Club, perhaps?”
The porridge I had managed to get down sat like a brick. I didn’t know a Mrs. Snodgrass; the name was a random pick. “Hmm…no, Countess. Far as I know, my Mrs. Snodgrass is not a club member anywhere. May I call you Countess, by the way?”
Her eyes brightened and her lips curled in pleasure. “Yes, certainly please. The news reporters have made a mockery out of my using the title. But it is mine to use. It goes back to my great-grandfather, you see…” As quickly as it had appeared the spark left. “Ahh, but that is another story. One not for now, I think.”
A melancholy silence followed. I moved to fill it. “I’ve never met a charm consultant before. What exactly do you cover in your lectures?”
The topic turned out to be far broader than I expected and the morning’s urn of coffee had been drained before she at last concluded her musings.
“How do you get invited to speak at clubs?” And why would anyone want to sit through one of your lectures? I nearly added, instead observing, “For example, to the place you mentioned earlier. The Cosmos Club, wasn’t it?”
“The club’s Enrichment Program committee chair, Kiki, ehm, Miss Barclay-Bly, is a dear friend. It was she, Miss Barclay-Bly, who invited me in to speak. The audiences were fah-bulously appreciative. I was asked to return several times.” She sent me a significant glance meant to remind me of her illustrious past, adding, “It was Kiki’s sister, Miss Deirdre Barclay-Bly, who introduced me to my fiancé.” She began twisting her bejeweled ring again and her mind seemed to drift away.
Leaving the Countess to her thoughts, I coaxed a few additional facts about their professions from Irina and Billie.
Irina was a maid, employed by a custodial agency. The placements varied but she preferred steady work, like the position she had once held in a grand home with lovely people. She had lost the job, she explained, after too many no-shows, the absences due to injuries inflicted by her former boyfriend. Acne was not responsible for the scars on her face; they were cigarette burns. The bump on her nose was the result of one of the ex-beau’s beatings. Ex because he was dead. Irina had killed him. Shot him straight through the heart in the midst of his drunken rage. “It was either him or me,” was how she put it.
For Billie’s part, life in jail was better than facing her pimp, who by now would have heard about her plan to change careers. Billie wanted to be a performer. Fed up with hooking, she wanted to sing or dance or act. It didn’t matter which, she liked to do it all. And thanks to a loyal customer, a jazz club owner who offered her a start as an attendant in his joint’s powder room, she had nearly snagged a break. Bad luck rarely comes at a good time. In need of funds to buy the uniform required for the job, Billie had solicited a john who turned out to be a cop, the turn of events chucking her off the path to performing and, once again, landing her in jail.
The Countess, having belabored the topic of life as a lecturer, skirted discussion of her secondary career as a spy after confirming that I, like everyone else, had already read the newspaper accounts of “the misunderstanding.” Instead, she launched into her complaints about how the FBI had thwarted her and her “girls,” attempts to obtain legal representation. “The situation is unjust,” she declared.
My view wasn’t solicited, and I didn’t give it, but I thought she might as well quit her whining. Her treatment was governed by wartime rules and, according to what Dante had said, the government’s position was not likely to change anytime soon.
Our breakfast hour over, we shoved our trays back through the food slot. Irina and Billie strolled to the opposite end of the cellblock, where Billie had left her cigarettes; I accepted the Countess’ invitation to resume our places at the table.
Immediately, she leaned toward me. “Like you, I am wrongly accused,” she whispered. “I am an FBI pawn, in jail due to a breach of trust. People are working to obtain my release, but the process is slow. We are stymied at every turn. My fiancé, Mr. Butler, he was there when I was promised immunity. He will act as a witness, corroborate what they said. Immunity!”
I bent closer. “Oh?”
The Countess flicked her cellmates a stern look. “Those girls don’t understand the nuances of my case. They think everyone thrown in jail, even those who are guilty, claim they are innocent.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“I am not guilty,” she said staunchly, “and the government’s treatment of me goes beyond unreasonable. They have cut me off from the outside world. They censor what I read, delivering only news reports meant to let me know how badly the war goes for the Axis, how I am despised
by the press, and also by the public. They allow no visitors, not a lawyer, not my fiancé, it is only their agents who come.”
Her gaze flitted to Billie and Irina again. “While I have been grateful for their company, I have been without an equal with whom I might discuss more sophisticated and urgent matters.” Tears welled in her eyes before she could turn away.
While I had no sympathy for a fascist spy, particularly one who also came across as a bigoted snob, I saw my break. Reaching across the table, I patted her hand lightly. “It’s none of my business, but if it would make you feel better to discuss things…”
She pulled her hand from under mine and dabbed her eyes. “You are the only one who thinks it is none of your business. The press, the public, everyone would like to crucify me. Even the other prisoners would like to see me strung up. They call me names, Judas, skunk, verrater, hure, traitor of traitors, names you have not heard before.” Ah, but I had. Last night. “But what do they know?”
The Countess foraged in her jumpsuit pockets, extracting a pack of Camels and a mother-of-pearl holder, promptly stuffing it with one of the cigarettes. She took a drag and, scrunching her mouth sideways, let a long stream of smoke escape. “What I would like them to know is that it is the proud and pure all-American FBI who are the traitors. It is they who have deceived me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have done the citizens of America a wonderful service. I helped the FBI to entrap a bona fide ring of spies. I should be honored, not punished!”
She should be committed to a loony bin was what I was beginning to think.
“But what did they do?” she went on. “After promising that I would receive special consideration they lock me behind bars like a common criminal.”
Lipstick and Lies Page 4
