by Libba Bray
“Honestly, I’d invite you in, but I’ve managed to avoid getting arrested for petty theft. I’d hate to go to the Tombs for perversion.”
“Whatever it takes to get you out of my uncle’s museum,” Evie quipped. “I’ll wait.”
“Suit yourself, doll.”
In the museum’s musty lavatory, Sam washed his hands and left the tap running. Whistling, he sat on the cracked tile floor and watched the shadow of Evie’s feet under the slit of the door as she paced. She’d get bored eventually. He opened Jericho’s wallet, which he had lifted while the blond giant was occupied in the stacks. Trusting fella. That was a dangerous habit—trust. Sam removed a five-dollar bill, replacing it with two singles. It was the oldest trick in the book: If you stole the Abe’s cabe outright, the other fella could make you for a thief. But if you took a large bill and left some singles, the mark would think he’d spent the big dough and just didn’t remember getting change.
From his jacket pockets, Sam removed two small silver ashtrays, which he’d managed to take from the library unnoticed. These he hoped to sell later to a disreputable pawnbroker on the Bowery for a few bucks. For now, he wrapped them in one of the bathroom’s hand towels and hid them behind the toilet bowl. He had big plans, and plans took time and money.
Evie’s shadow disappeared. Sam opened the door a crack and saw that the hallway was empty. He closed the men’s room door again, turned off the tap, and stared at his reflection in the tall wooden mirror. Two shocks of his dark hair hung down on either side of his gold-flecked eyes. The devil-may-care expression was gone, and in its place was one of hard determination.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Sam Lloyd. Tell me where she is, or…”
Sam stopped. Though he’d played the scene over in his mind many times, he was never really sure what he would say when that day came. He only knew that he wouldn’t be going in blind. Sam pulled up his pants leg and removed the gun strapped there, turning it over in his hands, examining the barrel, feeling the tension in the trigger. He opened the chamber and spun it around. There were no bullets yet. The ashtrays would bring enough for those. This job at the museum had been a stroke of good luck, easier than hustling magic tricks on the streets of Times Square. All he had to do was hold on for a little while—long enough to find out who needed to pay for what had happened to his family. And they would pay.
In the mirror, Sam was scowling. He looked older than his seventeen years. He straightened his collar, eased the scowl into a hard smile, and raised the gun, taking aim at his reflection.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Sam Lloyd. Tell me where she is, and I might let you live.”
Sam heard footsteps and hurriedly replaced the gun in its holster. The door swung open and Jericho came in. Sam made a show of washing his hands. “Something the matter?”
“I seem to have lost my wallet.”
“Aw, gee. Tough break, pal,” Sam said. “Want me to help you look?”
Jericho squinted at Sam, evaluating the offer. “Thanks.”
Sam accompanied Jericho through the museum, making a show of looking, pointing out spots where a wallet could possibly hide. When they reached the library, he shook it free from his pants leg near one of the many bookcases. It wouldn’t do for Sam to suddenly find the wallet; he needed to make Jericho think he’d found it himself.
“Did you look up here, big fella?”
Jericho frowned at the phrase big fella. He took the spiral staircase to the second floor and walked the stacks until he spied his wallet on the floor. “I found it,” he called. He opened the wallet and frowned. “I could’ve sworn I had five dollars. But there’s only two here.”
“Gee, that’s rough. Better hold on to those rubes,” Sam said evenly.
Evie skimmed the pages of a book titled Religious Fervor and Fanaticism in the Burned-Over District. The author appeared to have written the book with the express purpose of putting his audience to sleep, and Evie had difficulty retaining anything she read. She resorted to skimming the pages, stopping suddenly when she came to an illustration near the back. There was the same symbol used in the murder. The inscription read THE PENTACLE OF THE BRETHREN, BRETHREN, NY, C. 1832.
The telephone rang, echoing through the empty museum. Evie turned down the corner of the page to show Will later and ran for the phone.
“Hold a moment. I’ll connect you,” the operator said. There was a click and a hiss, and then Theta’s voice crackled over the wires.
“Hiya, Evil. It’s Theta. Listen, you still want to catch the show?”
“And how!”
“Swell. I’ll leave a pair of tickets for you and Mabel at the theater for tonight’s show. There’s a party in Greenwich Village after, if it’s not past your bedtime.”
“I never go to bed before dawn.”
“Attagirl! And Evil, wear your best glad rags.”
“They’ll be the gladdest rags you ever saw.”
In the privacy of Will’s office, Evie jumped up and down. Finally! Tonight, she and Mabel would be out with Theta and her smart set. She danced back into the library, humming a jazzy number.
“What just happened to you? You win the Miss America contest or something?” Sam said. He gathered Evie’s book into a tall stack of volumes to be reshelved.
“I will be the guest of Miss Theta Knight at the Globe Theatre for Mr. Ziegfeld’s latest revue tonight, and at a private party afterward.”
“Swanky. Need a date?”
“Private party!” Evie sang out. She reached up and grabbed her scarf and hat from the giant stuffed bear’s paw, where she’d hung them earlier.
“Say, I was wondering, either of you know anything about this?” He pointed to the newspaper clipping on top of the stack, about the girl with the sleeping sickness.
Evie glanced at it as she tied the scarf into a loose bow at her neck. “It’s one of Unc’s strange scraps. He collects these odd little ghost stories. That’s his job, I suppose. Why do you ask?” Evie said.
Sam forced a smile. “No reason. Just trying to keep up.”
Evie patted his cheek. “Good luck, Lloyd.”
Evie left the museum and walked along Central Park West. Ten blocks farther up, she could see the gothic spires of the Bennington peeking above the roofs and trees. It was a pleasant late afternoon, and a sudden optimism seized Evie—the feeling that all good things were possible, and that she could pull her deepest wishes from the air like a magician with a coin.
At a newsstand, a young boy hawked the late-edition paper by calling out the headlines, but Evie was too preoccupied with thoughts of the perfect evening awaiting her to pay any attention. Dreaming of what she would wear, she passed harried mothers corralling children on the edges of the park as well as an organ-grinder who was accompanied by a tiny monkey dressed as a bellhop. It clicked its teeth and screeched at passersby until they rewarded him with pennies for his small tin cup. Two girls in matching capes advertising a nightclub offered her a flyer.
“What’s this?” Evie asked.
“For the Nighthawks Club. We’re having a Solomon’s Comet party!”
“A what?”
“Jeepers, the comet?” the taller of the girls said in a thick New York accent. “It’s comin’ t’rough New York in a coupla weeks. It comes once every fifty years or somethin’. ’Posed to be a—whaddaya call it, Bess?”
“Event of heavenly significance,” the other girl enunciated carefully. “Like magic or something. All them magicians and holy rollers thought it was a sign. Anyhow, the club’s having a real swell party for it. You should come. Oh, your coat is the cat’s meow!”
“Thank you,” Evie said, pleased. She looked over the flyer. It was a caricature drawing of a flapper dancing up a storm, her cocktail glass sloshing its contents. Above her, a magnificent comet arced over the skyline of New York City. The artist had given the comet a face, and it smiled down at the fetching girl. Its fiery tail showered sparkles on the city.
“You don’t wanna
miss out on the most magical night of the year, do you?” the taller girl asked.
“Not on your life-ski,” Evie said.
Solomon’s Comet. An event of heavenly significance. Perhaps it would bring her luck. At any rate, it was a dandy reason for a party, and thinking of the night ahead and the nights to come, she went merrily on her way, clutching the flyer. At the corner, she waited for the traffic cop to signal the all clear with his white-gloved hands. He blew his whistle, spurring the crowd into action again, and Evie turned toward home.
Behind her, the newsboy held the late-edition paper aloft, shouting the headline to anyone who might have a nickel. “Extra! Extra! Madman threatens to kill again!”
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
Outside the Globe Theatre on Forty-second Street, the lighted marquee blazed FLORENZ ZIEGFELD PRESENTS NO FOOLIN’: A MUSICAL REVUE GLORIFYING THE AMERICAN GIRL in tall letters. People in eveningwear drifted into the grand beaux arts theater, excited to see stars like Fanny Brice, Will Rogers, and W. C. Fields, along with the talented singing, dancing chorines and the celebrated Ziegfeld girls, beautiful models who crossed the stage in elaborate headdresses and elegant, barely-there costumes. It was the epitome of glamour, and Evie could scarcely believe they were taking their very own seats up in the curved balcony beside all the swells in their furs and jewels.
Evie nudged Mabel. “Oh, look, there’s Gloria Swanson.” She nodded toward the lower level, where the seductive motion-picture starlet, draped in ermine and velvet, enjoyed the stares of admirers. “She is the elephant’s eyebrows,” Evie whispered appreciatively. “Those jewels! How her neck must ache.”
“That’s why Bayer makes aspirin,” Mabel whispered back, and Evie smiled, knowing that even a socialist wasn’t immune to the dazzle of a movie star.
The lights dimmed and the girls squeezed each other’s hands in excitement. The conductor lifted his baton and a rousing opening song rose from the orchestra pit. The curtains opened, and a bevy of smiling chorus girls in brightly colored bathing suits tap danced in perfect synchronization while a tuxedo-clad gentleman sang of beautiful girls. Evie had never been so excited. She loved everything about the show, from the funny yodeling number set in the Alps to the swirling dance that took place in the harem of a sheik of Araby. She wished it would never end, but she could see from the program that they had come to the finale. It was said that Mr. Ziegfeld always saved the most spectacular number for last. The lights flickered to suggest lightning. From the orchestra pit came the crash of cymbals and the sharp shriek of violins against a violent drumbeat. Smoke pooled near the footlights and crept out into the audience. Onstage, barefoot, skimpily dressed girls wearing tall, beaded headdresses writhed suggestively below a replica of a golden altar. A blond beauty draped provocatively in golden silk stood on top of the altar. She danced as if in a trance while the music swelled and the lightning flashed. The beauty sang sweetly, begging the spirit world not to take her as a sacrifice to the golden idol. Along a catwalk, elegant Ziegfeld girls promenaded like ghosts. It was mesmerizing, and Evie sat forward, rapt.
“There’s Theta,” Mabel whispered. From her lap, she gestured discreetly to a chorus girl, second from the right. Even though she was dressed and made up to look like all the other girls, there was something special about Theta, Evie thought. The other dancers’ placid expressions suggested they were thinking about nothing more exciting than washing out their stockings after the show. But Theta made you believe she was a worshipper of Ba’al, lost to the frenzy.
Just as the action reached a fever pitch and the priest was about to plunge the knife into the heart of the sacrificial blond, the hero rushed the altar, fighting off the worshippers. He knocked the priest back, smashed the idol, and carried the bewitched girl down the lighted steps to safety. A bevy of chorus girls glissaded across the stage with huge feather fans, and suddenly the scene transformed into a wedding. The dancing girls tossed red rose petals as the now husband and wife, clad in virtuous white, sang to each other a pledge of eternal love before the curtains snapped shut on the whole affair and the show was ended.
“You were wonderful,” Evie exclaimed a short while later, as the four of them—Evie, Mabel, Theta, and Henry—walked the tree-shaded, narrow bend of Bedford Street in Greenwich Village on their way to a party one of the girls was hosting.
“Yeah. ‘Second girl from stage left’ is my specialty,” Theta deadpanned.
Henry took her arm in his. “Keep working, darlin’, and you just might be ‘first girl from stage left.’ ”
“Well, I thought you were the duck’s quack,” Evie said. “Mabel and I noticed you right away. Didn’t we, Mabesie?”
“And how!”
“You’re sweet to say so, kid. This is the joint, here.”
They’d stopped at a redbrick building. The party had spilled out onto the stoop, where a girl in a feather boa, a long cigarette holder angled between two fingers, was already drunk. She blocked their way with her leg. “What’s the password?”
“Long Island,” Henry said.
“You have to say it like this: Lawn Guy-land,” she instructed.
“Lawn Guy-land,” they all said.
“Entrez!” The girl let her leg drop with a thump and the four of them pushed their way into the foyer and up three flights of stairs dotted with birdlike clusters of people till they came to an apartment whose door was propped open by an ice bucket. Inside, the radio played a jazzy number. The hostess shimmied past them with a loud “You’ve arrived!” before disappearing into another room as if riding an unseen tide. There was a lamp on the floor, and a bust of Thomas Jefferson topped by someone’s cloche gazed at the four of them from one of the burners on the tiny kitchen’s even tinier stove. A fella crooned “I’ll Take Manhattan” for a few of the chorus girls and their friends, who sat at his feet singing along.
Mabel tugged on Evie’s sleeve. “I’m not really dressed for this party.”
“Nothing we can’t fix with a little smoke and mirrors, Pie Face,” Evie said. With a sigh, she removed her rhinestone headband with the peacock feathers and placed it on Mabel’s head. “Here, you go, Mabesie. You look like the Christmas windows at Gimbels. And who doesn’t love those?”
“Thanks, Evie.”
“Bottom’s up,” Theta said, handing them each a drink.
Mabel stared at hers. “I don’t really drink.”
“First sip’s the roughest,” Henry advised.
She took a sip and winced. “That’s awful.”
“The drunker you get, the better it tastes.”
Evie was so nervous that she downed her cocktail in two stiff swigs, then refilled her glass.
Henry arched an eyebrow. “A pro, I see.”
“What else is there to do in Ohio?”
An argument was heating up in the parlor, and a woman’s shrill voice rang out. “If you don’t pipe down about that, I’m going to call that occult killer myself and ask him to do you in, Freddie!”
Everyone began chattering about the murder under the bridge and the latest warning.
“A pal of mine who has a cousin who’s a cop told me it was a sex crime.”
“I heard it’s a beef between the Italians and the Irish mobsters, and she was somebody’s moll who got too friendly with the wrong fella.”
“It’s definitely some kind of old-country hoodoo. They shouldn’t keep letting these foreigners into the country. This is what happens.”
“Evil’s uncle is helping the bulls try to find the killer,” Theta informed them.
Everyone crowded around Evie, badgering her with questions: Did they have any suspects? Had the victim lost her eyes, like the papers said? Was it true the girl who’d been murdered was a prostitute? Evie had barely had a chance to answer even one of their questions when a girl shouted from the doorway, “Ronnie’s got the ukulele out! Boop-boop-a-deet-deet-doh-doh-da!”
And just like that, they were on to the next thing, from one thrill to the next with n
o time to stop. Evie felt small and dull beside their wattage. They were all so glamorous and exciting. Theater people who could sing and dance and act, who knew bankers and high rollers. What could Evie do? What talents did she have that made her stand out?
Evie was vaguely aware that she had one toe over the line of drunk. A tiny, urgent voice of reason told her to slow down and keep quiet. That what she was about to do was probably a bad idea. But since when had she ever listened to reason? Reason was for suckers and Presbyterians. Evie downed the rest of her martini and slithered closer to the smart set singing along with the ukulele.
“You’ll never guess what I can do,” Evie said brightly as they finished a round of “If You Knew Susie.” “I’ll give you a hint: It’s like a magic trick, only better.” Ronnie paused his fingers on the strings of the ukulele. She had their attention now, and she liked it. “I can read secrets from just any old thing. Boop-boop-a-ding-dong… ding-dong.”
Theta swiped Evie’s glass and sniffed it.
“Really, I can! Here.” She reached over and grabbed a girl’s earring, ignoring her protests. For dramatic effect, Evie pressed the earring against her forehead. For a moment she hesitated—what if she heard that horrible whistling, like she had with Ruta Badowski? But the second she thought that, the more determined she was to take that image from under the bridge right out of her mind, and soon the earring gave up its confessions. “Your real name is Bertha. You changed it to Billie before you moved here from… Delaware?”
The girl’s mouth opened. She clapped in glee. “Well, isn’t that just the berries! Oh, do something of Ronnie’s!”
Evie went from person to person, grabbing up little tidbits, getting better as she went. “Your birthday is June first and your best girl’s name is Mae.” “For dinner, you went to Sardi’s and had the corned beef.” “You have a parakeet named Gladys.”
“Say, that’s swell—you oughta have an act, kid!” Ronnie the ukulele player said.
