Boardwalk Summer

by Meredith Jaeger

  As we stepped inside the restaurant, the scent of gravy and fried chicken hit me so strong it nearly bowled me over. Had I always possessed such a keen sense of smell? We made our way to a leather booth, and I admired the hundreds of celebrity drawings, paintings and caricatures hanging on the wall.

  A waitress approached, handing us two menus. I looked mine over, but Roxy pulled it out of my hands.

  “You wanna order the Cobb salad. Trust me.”

  “I do?”

  “It’s new. You’ll love it.”

  I looked around the restaurant, drinking in the scene. Smartly dressed men and women shared plates of food, talking casually in the booths.

  Roxy grabbed my hand, startling me. “Don’t look now, but that’s Louella Parsons over there.”

  “Who?” I asked, craning my neck.

  “I told you not to look! She’s a gossip columnist. She writes the blind items in Screen Secrets.”

  “Is that so?”

  Roxy sipped her coffee, then set it down. “Louella always asks to be seated over there by the bar. You see these vaulted ceilings? The sound carries across the room. She knows where to sit so she can eavesdrop on private conversations.”

  I leaned over the table. “Do you think there are any celebrities dining here now? That man over there looks a bit like Charlie Chaplin.”

  Roxy chuckled. “Not him. You’ll learn to recognize who’s who. Sometimes they look different off screen.” She stared at me, her blue eyes tough as steel. “Tell me straight. Who’s this fella you’re traveling with? Is he your beau or a meal ticket?”

  My cheeks burned. “Harry? No. He’s a friend. He drove me here from Santa Cruz. We took the Pacific Coast Highway. Thankfully the traffic wasn’t awful.”

  Roxy smiled wryly. “Sheesh, I came all the way from Kansas.”

  “That’s quite a distance,” I said, relieved she didn’t press me any further about Harry. “Do you stay in touch with family there?”

  Roxy’s eyes had a faraway look. “No, doll. They aren’t very nice folks, to tell the truth. I don’t ever want to see that dusty hellhole again.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, taken aback by her harsh language.

  Roxy winked at me, her smile returning. “It’s all right. Everyone has a past. I was once a sad little brunette named Mary Ellen Pigford. Is Violet your real name?”

  “It is.”

  “And your hair, is it natural?”

  “Yes.” I laughed. “Do you think I ought to keep it?”

  “The auburn suits you. Not too many redheads here in Hollywood. As for your name, keep it until you get a new nickname. Everyone around Tinseltown has one.”

  “What’s yours?”

  Roxy frowned. “The Mouth. I can’t get rid of it. Unfortunately I have a habit of speaking my mind, even when it gets me in trouble.”

  I giggled. Then I spotted a postcard stand near the register. I dug in my purse for a nickel. Ricky ought to know I’d made it here safely, and he’d appreciate the postcard.

  “Excuse me for a minute. I’m going to purchase one of those.”

  Roxy raised an eyebrow. “For a beau back home?”

  “No. Just a friend.”

  She pursed her lips. “An awful lot of friends you have. Don’t worry, I don’t judge.”

  My cheeks burned. “It’s not what it looks like. Actually, I need a place of my own. Are there any open rooms at the Tropicana?”

  Roxy’s eyes twinkled as she pulled out another cigarette. “You can stay with me. With the money we’d save on rent, think of the shopping we could do. If I could buy a dress from Betty Blanc’s, that might be the ticket to landing a lead role.”

  “Oh, you’re too kind,” I said, my stomach fluttering. “But I hardly know you. I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Roxy said, lighting her cigarette. “Get your postcard and think about it.”

  I PULLED MY cardigan more tightly around my shoulders as I followed Roxy down Hollywood Boulevard. The street had taken on a different character in the evening light, losing its luster as the sun dipped behind the Hollywood Hills.

  Vagrants dug through garbage bins, looking for cans of food. Shady men in oversize suits whistled at us as we passed. Girls in dark lipstick eyed us warily, hiding in the shadows in fishnet stockings and tight dresses.

  “Are those working girls?” I whispered, my eyes darting behind us.

  Roxy shrugged. “Could be. Or perhaps they’re chorus girls, out for a night on the town. You’ll see everyone from directors to panhandlers on the boulevard here. Pimps and playwrights, kooks and weirdos, Hollywood has it all.”

  I dodged a man dressed as a walking billboard, wearing a large sign advertising a play over his dirty clothing. Passing yet another dingy storefront with a CHURCH sign in the window, I turned to Roxy. “Are people very religious here?”

  She laughed. “You’re a hoot! Those are fortune-tellers. They put the church signs up so they don’t get in trouble with the cops. They’ve got crystal balls and tea leaves—you name it. So many poor schmucks have lost their life savings and their dreams, they flock to these dives praying that their luck will turn around.”

  “I see,” I said, an uneasy feeling creeping up my spine.

  “Boulevard of Broken Dreams,” Roxy said. “That’s what some call it.”

  I stood up straighter. My drive to make something of myself couldn’t be squashed so easily. Perhaps I’d ask Harry to introduce me to his agent, or I’d find my own.

  “Do you have an agent?” I asked Roxy.

  She shook her head. “I got conned once, when I first arrived.”

  Roxy pointed to the offices above the shops lining the street. “You see up there? Plenty of shady characters rent the second-story offices on Hollywood Boulevard, pretending to be agents and movie producers. They’ll take your cash and you’ll never hear from ’em again.”

  “That’s awful,” I said, trying to glimpse one of these con men through the blinds. Good thing Roxy had told me as much, or perhaps I also would have been played for a fool. “How do you know which agents are reputable?”

  “The bigwigs are in the Taft Building,” Roxy said, cupping her hand as she lit a cigarette. “Powerful movie agents, talent agencies. I’d kill to get signed.”

  “Are there lawyers in that building too?”

  “Sure,” Roxy said, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual.

  Roxy winked. “You’re not fooling me. Can’t blame a gal for wanting to catch one. They sure earn good dough.”

  Notes of jazz music drifted onto the street, and I smiled, snapping my fingers in time to the melody. “This band is fantastic! Where is the music coming from?”

  “The Blue Lagoon,” Roxy said. “I have a friend who works there. Great blues singers perform at all the bars here on Hollywood Boulevard. You like jazz?”

  “I love it, but my hu— I mean, former beau, hated it, so I couldn’t play my Duke Ellington records at home. He wouldn’t allow it.”

  I bit my lip to stop myself.

  “Unmarried and living in sin?” Roxy smiled at me. “I didn’t take you for the bohemian type. He sounds like a schmuck. Good thing you left.”

  I looked down at my shoes. Roxy thought I was some kind of loose girl, which couldn’t be further from the truth. But I didn’t dare tell her about Charles.

  We stopped in front of a palatial white building with a neon sign and palm trees out front, the Florentine Gardens. “This club looks nice. Have you been?”

  “Used to work there,” Roxy said, stubbing out her cigarette. “But dancing in the nude gets tiring, you know?”

  I gasped. “In the nude?”

  Roxy laughed. “Don’t look so surprised. A girl’s got to eat.”

  “But it looks so upscale.”

  Roxy shrugged. “They’ve got a twelve-piece orchestra and the largest spring dance floor in the West. The
rooms are done up like you’re in ancient Italy. Men are all the same, no matter how much dough they earn. Even when they’re sipping fine wine at an expensive dinner, they just wanna see some tits.”

  Crossing the street, Roxy beckoned me to follow her. “This way, we’re almost there.”

  Turning down a side street, a green neon sign came into view, written in graceful cursive: “Tropical Gardens Nightclub.”

  Tucked in between a pharmacy and a tailor, the club didn’t appear too dodgy. I breathed a sigh of relief. Passing beneath the green awning and through the doors of the building, I thought it looked almost like a chic Parisian café.

  My jaw dropped as we entered. Palm trees stretched upward, touching the high ceilings, and colorful scarves draped from the carved wooden balcony. Round tables set with white tablecloths clustered around the stage. Green leather stools encircled a black marble bar, where a bartender poured cocktails garnished with little paper umbrellas. I removed my cardigan in the heat of the room, dazzled by the jazz band performing onstage. Men and women danced to the music, dressed to the nines.

  “This place is neat!” I called over the noise.

  Roxy smiled. “It ain’t the Cocoanut Grove, but we do get some celebrities. Follow me. I’ll introduce you to the manager.”

  I felt a wave of nausea in the heat of the room, and feared for a moment that I would vomit. Perhaps it was only my nerves—being in an unfamiliar place. Weaving through the crowd, we worked our way toward a back room. In the dimly lit hallway, the glamorous tropical feel of the nightclub disappeared. Roxy pushed aside a shabby curtain to reveal a dressing room with wall-to-wall mirrors. A few sequined outfits had been flung haphazardly over chairs, and scuffed pairs of heels touched the wall.

  Roxy walked toward a door next to a costume rack and rapped it with her knuckles. “Tommy? You here?”

  The door swung open and an Italian in a fitted pinstriped suit pulled it open. His black hair was slick with pomade, and his brown eyes appraised me. I felt myself blush at the directness of his gaze. He was dark and handsome—perhaps in his late thirties, but the way he held himself felt powerful and intimidating.

  “Who’s this?” he asked.

  Roxy touched his arm. “This is Violet Sweeting, fresh off the bus.”

  The man extended his hand, wrapping it around mine in a grip that felt overly familiar. My toes tingled. No man had touched me since Charles.

  “Tommy Ciccone. I own this joint. What can I do for ya?”

  “Um, I heard you need a new nightclub singer. I sing, you see . . . perhaps I could perform for you sometime?”

  Tommy laughed. “You and every girl in town want the same thing.” He looked me up and down. “You got a pretty face and the rest of you ain’t half bad. But if you want to work here, you start at the bottom. Then maybe I’ll put you onstage.”

  “Oh,” I said, my shoulders drooping. “I see.”

  Tommy turned to Roxy. “Does your friend here think she’s too good to be a cigarette girl? I ain’t got time for snobs.”

  “I don’t think I’m too good. I used to work as a waitress. Please give me a chance. I’ll sell all the Chesterfields you have.”

  “Excellent.” Tommy grinned like a fox. A little twinge in my gut told me that perhaps I shouldn’t trust him. “Roxy will show you where the uniforms are. And remember, the bigger your smile, the bigger your tips.”

  “Right,” I said, smiling at him, though I felt uneasy.

  After Tommy shut the door, Roxy nudged me toward the costume rack. “Here’s what we wear. What size are you?”

  I gawped as she lifted a strapless black number from the hanger, no bigger than a negligee. “That’s the uniform?”

  Roxy nodded. “Along with a pair of fishnets and garters. Don’t act so prissy. Didn’t you wear a bathing suit in your pageant?”

  “I did,” I said, looking at the short ruffled skirt. But I wasn’t standing within arm’s reach of strange men. “Give me a size small.”

  As I struggled to zip the uniform, I huffed in frustration. Drat! Was the sizing different here, to make ladies feel inadequate? I needed to lose a few pounds to fit in with this crowd. At least my weight gain had also gone to my breasts. They swelled nicely from my brassiere in a way I hadn’t noticed before.

  After zipping myself into a size medium and putting on a swipe of red lipstick, I gazed at my reflection in the mirror.

  “A knockout,” Roxy said, slapping me playfully on the bottom. “Flirt with the fellas for all the dough they’re worth. The tips will add up.”

  But I hadn’t come to Hollywood to sell cigarettes. I took a deep breath and put on my pageant smile. Pretend it’s an acting gig. This would only be temporary. If I played my cards right, I might catch the eye of someone important in the crowd tonight.

  Chapter 12

  Marisol Cruz

  2007

  Mari walked the path through the redwoods from McHenry Library, emerging into the sunlight near the Bay Tree Bookstore. A crowd of students had gathered around a makeshift podium in the courtyard, listening to a presentation. There appeared to be a job fair going on, with booths set up outside beneath blue tents.

  Shielding her eyes from the sun, Mari peered up the hill to see if a shuttle was approaching. The speaker’s voice carried on the breeze.

  “And that’s how you can become successful like me. Hustle hard, dream big, and work every day toward your goal. Don’t take no for an answer.”

  Clenching her teeth, Mari recognized the speaker. Travis Harcourt stood at the podium in a pair of gray slacks and a polo shirt, his stage smile smug as ever.

  “You know, I hate to say it, but that guy sounds like a douchebag.”

  Mari turned around, startled to see Jason standing behind her.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “I walked over from Kresge College, where my office is. I was about to grab some lunch. What are you doing here?”

  “I went to McHenry Library for research,” she said, her eyes homing in on Travis. The heat of anger began to creep up her neck. “Hypocrite,” she muttered.

  “Do you know him?” Jason asked.

  Mari nodded. “He was in my graduating class. He’s the son of the mayor. Everything he’s ever wanted has been handed to him. How can he talk about the value of ‘hustling hard’ when he’s a trust fund kid?”

  Jason smiled, running a hand through his messy brown hair. “This proves I have a good people radar. I knew he was a total bro from the second I heard him speak.” His eyes twinkled. “And I knew you were cool the moment I met you at the diner.”

  Mari laughed. “You’re a good judge of character. Not only is he a total bro, but he’s also tearing down the gazebo to build luxury condos.”

  “So that’s what privilege looks like,” Jason said, looking Travis up and down. “Check out his shiny leather loafers. Who wears those on campus?”

  Mari eyed Jason’s old-school tennis shoes, poking out from beneath his black pants. He had on a T-shirt with some kind of graphic design, and a hooded sweatshirt. Not exactly work attire—though computer programmers were notoriously casual. His sense of style didn’t seem to have evolved since the grunge era, but she found it endearing that he still dressed like the skater boys she used to crush on.

  “About the gazebo,” Jason said. “Are you applying for the grant I told you about?”

  “I am. But that doesn’t mean I’ll get it.”

  “You will. You have more passion than most girls.” His cheeks colored. “I mean more conviction . . . You know what I mean. Girls in my hometown don’t want to be anything more than housewives.”

  “That would bore me to tears,” Mari said, noticing how cute he was when he blushed. “And who says I’m not passionate? I’m Latina, I can’t help it.”

  “Shut up,” Jason said, smiling.

  As the shuttle pulled into the bus stop, Mari’s stomach sank. To her surprise, she didn’t want her conversation with Jason to end.


  “Well, this is my bus. It was nice running into you.”

  “You still have my number?”

  “I threw it out,” Mari deadpanned.

  Jason looked like he’d been punched in the stomach.

  “I’m kidding! Let’s get lunch sometime. I know all the good spots on campus.”

  His smile returned. “I’d love that. Next time we hang out, you’ll be the Swanson Grant recipient.”

  Mari rolled her eyes. “Don’t hold your breath.” But when the shuttle doors shut behind her, she smiled. Had she just offered to get lunch with a guy, like it was no big deal? As the bus traveled down the hill, Mari watched the sun sparkle on the Pacific and let hope balloon in her chest. She had a chance of winning that grant money and making something of herself. And she looked forward to seeing Jason again.

  THE OCEAN BREEZE cooled Mari’s skin, ruffling the hem of her yellow sundress. Tonight was one of those warm summer nights in which magic seemed to permeate the air. Was it because she was developing a crush on someone? She smiled to herself. It’d been a long time since she’d had this feeling. The neon lights of the boardwalk rides illuminated the twilight, and shrieks of delight carried from the Giant Dipper roller coaster.

  A young couple approached her booth, arm in tattooed arm. The girl wore a swipe of red lipstick, her hair done up in a 1940s style popular with rockabillies.

  “I like your dress,” Mari said.

  “Thanks,” she answered, holding out the hem of her blue, polka-dot frock. “I got it at the vintage shop over on Pacific Avenue.”

  “We’d like to buy some raffle tickets,” the guy said, his hair close-cropped at the sides and slick with pomade. Aside from the tattoos, these two could be straight out of Mari’s grandmother’s era.

  “Sure, they’re ten dollars each. How many?”

  “Let’s get three.”

  As Mari ripped three raffle tickets from her wheel, the girl pointed at the Giant Dipper. “Do you know how old that thing is?”

  “It opened on May 17, 1924, so it’s eighty years old. It’s the only wooden roller coaster on the West Coast that’s still the centerpiece of an amusement park.”