“Okay, let’s forget ’bout Hazel a second here.” This is bigger than Hazel. “You’re quitting school, the newspaper?”
“I do believe that’s what I just said, Bonn.” He smiles sweetly.
But no, that smile won’t work on me this time. This ain’t how things were supposed to go. “You said we’d finish school, Roy.”
“Listen, Bonn—”
“You promised me you’d get a good-paying job as a reporter.” My knuckles turn white on my handlebars. “And that I’d become a teacher.” That’s how things are supposed to be. “That’s how things are supposed to go,” I repeat out loud, needing for him to hear it.
“Things change, Bonn.”
“Things change?” My voice raises another octave. “That’s your response?”
“You’ve got that look in your eyes like you’re ’bout to have a nervous breakdown. But this is a good thing.” He holds up his hand to quiet me. “The stock market is on the up, no longer a rich man’s game. And we’re going to ride it right to the top, easy money. We don’t need me to be a reporter. Hell, if you wanted to quit school, you could. No need for you to waste your time.”
“No … What … It’s not … I don’t want to drop out of school.” I want the original plan. I want what I thought was our plan.
Roy shrugs. “Then don’t. But I’ve supported you and the way you prance ’round on that stage. Least you can do is support me in this.”
With that, he continues pedaling toward home.
* * *
Blanche twists her lips. “I don’t know what to say, Bonn. Roy is horrible?”
I press my palms into my eyes, groan, flop my hands onto the bar top at Doc’s. “He’s messing everything up.”
“Maybe he’ll change his mind?”
“Doubtful. Roy’s got a thick skull. Says he even wants to take out a loan so we’ve got more to play with.” I shake my head. “And you know what makes it worse? He tried to act like dropping out of school was a good thing ’cause he wouldn’t see Hazel anymore.”
Blanche stops mixing a drink. “He brought up Hazel?”
“Yes.” I twist my lips. “Sort of. I did first. But then,” I add quickly, “he used her to make me feel better ’bout his decision. I don’t like that.”
“So what are you sayin’, Bonn? You think Hazel gave him a helping hand in more ways than one?”
“God, Blanche. Can you be any more cavalier ’bout it?”
She slides Mr. Champagne Cocktail a drink, then looks at me. “Shoot, you really do.”
I bite my lip, finally saying, “I don’t know. My brain has been ticking through things. Remember at Buck’s place, when I mentioned Hazel, Roy skirted ’round it with that bumbling apology? And Hazel spouting her mouth off doesn’t mean much, ’cause, I mean, she spouts off ’bout everything. But then”—I shake my head—“Roy responded poorly when I brought her up today. And using her as an excuse … To me, that screams guilt.”
She clucks. “Maybe.”
“So I ain’t being paranoid for no reason?” I slide a beer to a customer who walks up, knowing it’s what he wants before he has to ask.
“I don’t know, Bonn. You got your hand caught in the cookie jar, right?”
I cock my head at her.
“Your kiss with Henry.”
I rub my eyes again. “I try not to think ’bout that. And we weren’t married then.”
“Try as you may, but you did. And cookie stealers are more likely to think that someone is trying to steal their cookies right back, ’cause they know how it’s done.” Blanche runs a hand down my arm. “A light touch here, a sexy glance there. ‘Oh, your lip is bloody? Let me help you with that. Silly me, I’m too far away. Here, let me move closer. Wow, I never noticed the specks of brown in your—’”
Mr. Champagne Cocktail bursts into laugher, the sound covering how I holler Blanche’s name.
“Blanche, sweetheart,” he says, “you sure know how to string some words together.”
“Seriously,” I say, under my breath.
She waves her hand. “Nah. Bonn’s the one good with words. I just know ’bout cheating, prior to Buck.”
Mr. Champagne Cocktail snaps his fingers as if his luck has run out. “In that case, I’m going to stop wasting my time at the bar.” He slides off his seat, and Blanche blows him a kiss.
“So now I’m legitimately worried,” I say to her. “And depressed. What a combination.”
“Where is Roy tonight? At the plant?”
“No, but he said he was going to stay away from the tables.”
“Oh good. So he’s at home reading a book?”
“You’re lousy at this. You know Roy can’t make it two pages before he drifts off. He said he wanted to talk to Buster more ’bout stocks. I’m sure he’ll be dipping into our account again.” I shake my head. “Money I work so hard for. But, as Roy says, I can stop working after he strikes it big. Not that I want to. Moron.”
“Boy had a taste of luck and now he wants to slurp down the whole bowl. Little does he know, that’ll just lead to a bellyache.”
I stare at my best friend. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”
She slings her arm ’round my shoulders. “Honestly, I don’t know. My mouth just opens and gibberish comes pouring out. But I do reckon you’re being paranoid ’bout Hazel.”
I scrunch my face, unconvinced. “I think you’re tryin’ to make me feel better.”
“How ’bout this? It’s a fact that Hazel will do whatever she can to get under your skin. Implying she got cozy with your husband is child’s play to her.”
I nod, exhale. “You’re right. Okay, I’m focusing on that. I’m letting it drop.”
I need to let it drop.
“Please don’t break anything else,” Mary jokes, but her concentration is on someone out on the floor. “Have you two seen that man before?”
“Who?” Blanche says.
Mary nods her head toward the tables. “There, at the table with Raymond. Raymond let him in, then asked Buck to switch with him at the door.”
“Why?” Blanche says. I stare at the red-haired man. He does look vaguely familiar.
“Raymond wants to keep an eye on him. He’s been in once or twice, asking lots of questions ’bout the place.”
“Police?” Blanche asks.
“Nah. We’d be pinched by now if he was with the law. I think he’s poaching us.”
“Which means…” Blanche says.
“Bet ya he’s opening another speakeasy in town, seeing how it’s done.” Mary rubs her lips together, thinking. “If only we could find his joint. I need to know what Doc’s is up against, if their place is a threat to ours.”
“We’ll find it,” I say, without missing a beat, and motion between Blanche and me.
“There you go again, volunteering.” Blanche grins. “But you know I’m in.”
“Good,” Mary says.
Yes, this is good, a good distraction from Roy’s upheaval of my plans. I ain’t ’bout to let Doc’s be taken from me, too.
26
“I’d really prefer if you lassies waited here.”
“Nope,” Blanche says to Buck. “Can’t shake us now. Besides, this was our idea. You’re the one taggin’ along.”
“My idea,” I say from the backseat. I take a puff of my cigarette and blow it out slowly, an earlier argument with Roy still swirling ’round me like the smoke. I tried to get him to reconsider going back to school after winter break, but he’ll hear nothin’ of it. In fact, he’s been working less, playing the stock market more. I don’t like it. It’s too fickle—not like holding down a job, not like finishing school to get an even better job.
At least he’s not playing cards, hasn’t even stepped foot in Doc’s in months. It saves us from fighting ’bout that, though we haven’t been doing much talking, in general, almost as if we’re living in different worlds. I haven’t even told him we’re tracking down Red Head, as Blanche refers to ou
r poacher.
Buck shifts uncomfortably in the driver’s seat of Big Bertha and glances ’cross the street at the darkened grocery store. I don’t bother sayin’ anything more; they can quarrel all they want ’bout if Blanche and I are going inside the Supper Club or not.
My door ain’t locked.
After Red Head left Doc’s the other month, Raymond followed him home. Once we knew where he lived, trailing him a few times wasn’t hard. It didn’t take long for Blanche, Buck, and I to find his hole. From there, we only came late at night, letting the days pass in between visits, as not to raise suspicion, waiting for the perfect time to make our move. Our trio has been nothin’ but thorough as we scrutinized the joint and how it works, paying people off for information.
The Supper Club doesn’t have the same rules as Doc’s, where we stagger letting people in. Doc’s is also in the heart of Dallas. This here club is off the beaten track. Just an hour ago, the grocery store went dark. People started slipping into its alley not long after. Same thing has happened every night we’ve come.
Buck taps his finger on the steering wheel. “Going to ask one more person the password.”
Blanche sighs. “We already know it. Monday is ‘escargots,’ Tuesday is ‘duck confit,’ Wednesday is ‘ratatouille’…”
I roll my eyes at the ridiculousness of the passwords, as if anyone ’round here could afford these fancy French foods.
“Thursday is—”
“I know,” Buck says. “Just want to make sure. We ain’t kind to people who show up off schedule, ya know. Can’t assume this place is any different if ya futz the password. And it’s Saturday … They could mix things up tonight.”
He scratches his temple with some rolled-up bills.
Blanche huffs. “We don’t got time for this, and I don’t like those other gals working my shift while I’m sitting in Big Bertha.”
Buck goes to respond, but I’m already shrugging off my coat, snatching the bribe money from Buck’s hand, and climbing out of the car. I saunter toward a couple approaching the grocery store and flick my cigarette to the ground.
“Excuse me,” I say, startling the woman. She gasps, covering her mouth. After an eyeful of me, equally gussied up, she lets out a soft giggle.
The man tips his hat toward me. I close the distance between us, pressing my lips against his ear. “Filet mignon?” At the same time, I press the money into his hand.
When I pull back, his lady wears a scowl like she’s ’bout to leave a handprint ’cross my face, but the man is clearly amused, smirking. He nods, and I’m gone, practically skipping back to Big Bertha and leaning in Buck’s open window.
“Filet mignon,” I repeat.
“Oh, really?” Blanche says sarcastically.
Buck narrows his eyes in a playful manner. “Let’s go.”
“Good.” Blanche pulls on a brunette wig. “’Cause Mary ain’t happy we’re missing so much work.”
“She won’t be happy if we get caught, either, and bring unwanted attention to Doc’s.”
I shake my head at their bickering, and Blanche throws another wig at me.
Wigs on—a mustache for Buck—the three of us casually walk down the darkened road and turn into the alley for the first time.
“I’m regretting not asking Clyde to come,” Buck says to himself.
I startle at Clyde’s name, having not heard it for so long.
“You get that boy into enough trouble,” Blanche retorts.
Taking careful steps ’round the potholes, so reminiscent of the alley where I first saw Clyde, there are two things I wonder: what trouble Buck has gotten his brother into recently, and why I’d feel safer if Clyde were here.
Pushing the thoughts away, I wrinkle my nose at the alley’s foul smell and rub my arms, trying to chase away winter’s chill. We find the door, barely visible from the road, at the back of the alley.
Buck hesitates, then whispers, “Shit, what if there’s a special knock?”
Blanche rolls her eyes, steps up, and raps the door three times. A little square in the door slides open, and in a true-to-form Blanche Caldwell sultry tone, she recites the password.
The square slides closed, and I scour the alleyway. Going into Doc’s is one thing—it’s my illegal establishment—but walking into someone else’s lion’s den to snoop ’round gives me a prick of heebie-jeebies.
The door silently opens. We’ve been accepted, so far.
Blanche goes first, past the muscular doorman, with Buck second, me last—just in case they get any ideas of letting only us gals in.
There’s nothin’ but shadows in the room we enter, and I glean that it’s similar to the back entrance to the diner I used to work at—crates, shelving, and boxes. But this room has a trapdoor, with light seeping up through its cracks. It’s the only form of light in the room, giving us no choice but to walk toward it.
“Looks like we’re going down,” Buck whispers.
He pulls open the trapdoor, and when Blanche and I stand there like dolled-up mannequins, he descends the ladder first.
Blanche goes next, grumbling ’bout how this place marginalizes women and their shoes by making them climb down a pencil-thin ladder. I awkwardly lower myself through the hole, never having been one for athletics. My arms shake as I descend each rung.
The three of us squeeze into a room barely big enough for two, with a lone door inches away. Music pulsates through it.
“Let’s do this,” Buck says, now grinning, and double-checks that his mustache is in place.
A Rosie-like voice hits us as we walk in. A glowing THE SUPPER CLUB sign hangs behind her. Scanning, I see poker tables, a dance area, the bar.
“It’s almost identical,” I say.
“Only bigger,” Blanche says. “A lot bigger.”
“Twice the size,” Buck adds.
“But they don’t serve food,” Blanche says matter-of-factly.
“Baby, neither do we.”
“Sure,” she counters. “But we don’t put it in our name.”
Buck and I can’t deny that; Blanche’s logic makes sense, for once. We fumble through the too-crowded dance floor to the bar and order drinks. Chewing on my straw, I peer over my glass, taking in the room, but mostly watching the girl onstage. With Christmas not far away, she’s got on a Santa hat.
I lean toward Blanche and talk into her ear. “Rosie is better.”
Blanche nods. “So are you. You see Red Head?”
“Nah,” Buck says. “But that’s fine. We got what we need, now that we’ve seen the inside. Our location is better. We’re more exclusive. And as Bonn here said”—he winks at me—“the entertainment ain’t as good. Mary won’t be happy, but she won’t be piss mad either. This place ain’t a real threat.”
I exhale a breath I hadn’t even known I was holding. With Roy turning my life upside down, I needed this. I needed Doc’s not to be in jeopardy.
“Well,” Blanche says, “we might as well make the most of the night.” She grabs Buck’s hands, tapping her feet like she wants to dance. He laughs.
“You two have fun,” I say. “I’ll keep the bar company.”
Blanche pats my butt, and I climb onto a recently vacated stool, watching them go off to the dance floor. The familiarity of the speakeasy puts me more at ease. I order another drink and begin to watch the people. Among the flailing limbs, I spot Blanche in her red dress and fake dark hair.
She once said she was jealous that Roy and I were each other’s firsts. With how she smiles now, I reckon none of that matters to her anymore. She may’ve found Buck after going through a laundry list of men, but it’s like Buck and Blanche were always meant to be. Like Roy and me. Right?
Roy—he’s obviously on my brain, ’cause I spot a fella who looks eerily similar, striding toward the bar. I sip my drink, swallowing slowly as his eyes pass over me. Every fiber in my body tightens. The square chin, prominent brows, slicked-back blond hair … That ain’t a Roy replica; that’s Roy himsel
f.
I force the drink down my throat. It burns. I cough and massage my neck, my eyes glued on Roy. He pushes through the crowd, his torso twisted to one side, one arm trailing behind him.
Anger flares inside of me, adding to the burn. What the hell is he doing here? Roy promised me he’d stop gambling after he got himself into trouble, but here he is, walking away from the poker tables. I stare at him, willing him to acknowledge me so I can catch him in the act. Brunette disguise or not, there’s no way Roy won’t recognize my glare—he’s seen it plenty lately. I shake my head, sipping through my straw, waiting, almost anticipating more sharp words with him. But his eyes pass over me.
He creeps nearer and nearer to the bar, finally breaking through the crowd, and behind Roy, fingers intertwined with his, a blonde girl leans forward to whisper something to him.
I choke on my drink. The smile that crosses Roy’s face is a punch to my gut. That smile steals my resolve, and I turn my body, putting my back to him, protecting myself from seeing any more. Staring at the bar, I grasp my drink with shaky hands, cursing myself for losing my will to confront Roy, cursing myself for ever trusting him.
Roy squeezes up to the bar, next to me, and flicks his hand toward the bartender to catch his attention. Breath neither enters nor leaves my lungs. The closeness of Roy—with another girl—freezes every part of my anatomy, including my brain. He bumps into me, and the rigidness of my body sloshes the drink in my glass, spilling it.
“Oh, sorry.” Roy passes me a napkin, our bodies entirely too close. I feel his breath on my face, reminding me to breathe, and our eyes meet.
“Bonnelyn?”
I stutter something incoherent.
Over the next few seconds, his face transforms, the paleness of his skin turns pink, his nostrils flare. “Did you follow me? In a disguise?”
“No,” I manage, now hating myself for sounding so weak. But I ain’t weak. And Roy is the one whose voice should be trembling. Not mine.
The blonde girl wraps her body ’round Roy, peering to see me. A deep sound rumbles in my throat. “Baby, who’s this?” she says.
That does it. Seeing the possessiveness in her eyes, the anger in Roy’s—both reactions snap my wits back into place. I think of Hazel. I think of myself, sans my dark wig. I think of this tramp. Ignoring her, I focus on Roy, and I ain’t going to let him treat me like this. “Clearly, you have a thing for blondes, baby.”
Becoming Bonnie Page 22
