The Paragon Hotel

by Lyndsay Faye

  Dario, Doctor Vinnie, and Cleto the Crow beat my dearest friend like a carpet. They kicked him with heavy boots when he fell. Doctor Vinnie kneed him in the groin. Cleto held his face in the dirt. Dario giggled throughout. They blacked Nicolo’s eyes, knocked his proud nose off-kilter.

  Nicolo yelled for me to run. Refusing, but too weak to fight any longer, I screamed my lungs out, threw rocks.

  It didn’t matter.

  When they were finished, they went through his pockets and extracted the ten cents they wanted. Dario, his gorilla’s face flushed with sweat and triumph, took his pecker out and giddily pissed in Nicolo’s face.

  Slapping each other’s shoulders over a job well executed, the trio walked away.

  Losing a safe space—and the vale of the cat armies was one of ours—carves a canyon through a person. It had been the site of so much innocent ridiculousness. There was love there, and there was peace, lying on our backs as the blue skies above us ignited into scalding pink, then orange, then an ash-flecked black. When you lose a place that once was safe, the hole remains, and you can never get that piece of yourself back again.

  Not for all the rum in Canada.

  Crawling, I reached Nicolo. His young body shook like a cowering field mouse’s. He didn’t want me to see that, but the shock had shorted a circuit. Helpless and sick, I balled my fists in my already torn sleeves and wiped at his face, his hair, tried to erase the mingled blood and piss. Tried to remake Nicolo as he’d been before. I was only ten, mind—I still thought you could remake people.

  “I’m all right,” he gasped when he saw I was crying. He caught my hands. “Alicia. It’s all right, topolina. They’re gone, the pricks. It was only ten cents. Shh. Only a dime, don’t cry.”

  “I couldn’t stop them.”

  “I know. It was too goddamn hot this afternoon, that’s all, an angry day.”

  “An unlucky one,” I agreed raggedly.

  “Exactly. The sun will go down, and it was only a dime. It’ll be over soon.”

  Nicolo was wrong. We had just entered malavita.

  The bad life.

  A world in which the monsters were the monarchs.

  After we’d limped back to our neighborhood, we parted ways—my friend to tend to his nose and me to pour my heart out to my mum. My sweat had turned sour with dread, and the tears despite Nicolo’s repeated pleas hadn’t stopped. When I reached home, desperate for kisses, my chin dropped.

  All the windows of the Step Right Inn were broken. Glass everywhere, a sadly glittering ocean. Mr. Mangiapane clutched a broom to his chest, his fat hands shaking. He spoke with the customer whose cutlet I’d switched out for a dishrag, ducking his head like a penitent. Bobbing his jowls against the folds of his neck. The john looked stern but attentive. Sort of paternal, as if aware mortals made lug-brained errors. As the acid in my stomach turned to lead, I realized precisely what counterfeit currency signaled, and felt a hot rush of shame over my own thoughtlessness.

  The Corleonesi dealt in fake currency—in fake currency, and in dread. The concept of “protection” wasn’t unique to youthful bullying. Dario and his ilk learned from their fathers. Their uncles. Their elder brothers. So it didn’t matter that there weren’t yet Five Families.

  There was one Family. And one was enough for Alice to begin to disappear.

  ◆ Four ◆

  NOW

  The government is spending millions to enforce the Eighteenth Amendment. Isn’t it right to spend a few millions to enforce the Fourteenth? One says a man shall not drink and the other says he shall vote. I would rather spend a million to enforce the Fourteenth Amendment than 14 to enforce the Eighteenth!

  —CONGRESSMAN OSCAR DE PRIEST, The Advocate, Portland, Oregon, September 28, 1929

  I tumble from dream to dream as if I’m the Alice who encountered a rabbit with a timekeeping fetish. I’m standing before a mirror in a gilt scalloped frame, pinning a netted cap of copper sequins over my hair, deciding which Nobody is called for. Trying on souls for Mr. Salvatici and tossing them aside like scarves. I’m at the edge of the Hudson in denim trousers and a man’s cap pulled low, the moon a wicked smirk, clenching and unclenching my hands in my pockets. I’m at the Tobacco Club, heart going like a hi-hat, and—

  Whimpering as I snap awake, I discover I’m still not alone.

  There’s a child in my sickroom. Blinking against wit-dulling pain, I examine the creature.

  “Who are you?” he asks in a piping voice.

  “The Queen of France,” I manage.

  “Oh. You must have been in the War, then. ’Cause you sure look terrible,” he notes.

  Well, this is fixing to cheer me up any old amount.

  “We all look this way in France. We’re ever so strong for invalids—romantic, don’t you know. See here, good sir, just who am I addressing?”

  “Davy Lee. I’m six.”

  “Ah.”

  “I just finished class at Mrs. Evelina’s Weekly Betterments downstairs. She lets me draw knights and dragons.”

  “She sounds a peach.”

  “She is. Do you live here now?”

  “That’s a topic for further study.”

  “I live here, just down the hall. In a fortress.”

  “No kidding.”

  Davy sits in the chair Blossom vacated, swinging energetic legs as if remaining still is an affront to personal freedoms. He’s a hazelnut shade with eyes painted in woodland colors, catlike, and he’ll be handsome as anything once the baby chub dissolves. Delicate bee-stung lips, lashes unnaturally long. Any self-respecting flapper would cast about for the shears and swipe them straight off his peepers.

  “I get to meet you now, because Mavereen is checking the dining room before supper and Blossom is out singing.” He studies me hungrily. “If you start to look too sick, I can run for Dr. Pendleton and rescue you, the way the Yanks saved the world from the Hun. Boy, do you look sick. Are you fixing to die?”

  “I’m none too keen, no.”

  “I’ve never seen a person die before. It’d be awful interesting. If you nearly die, I can save you, though. Wouldn’t that be even better?”

  “Short man, you are impertinent.”

  “Sorry. Have you ever seen a dead body?”

  “Oh, acres of them. Simply dozens,” I confess.

  “Gosh.”

  “Yes, quelque luck.”

  “You don’t seem much like a queen. Who are you, really?”

  “Nobody.” I sigh. “Davy, could you be a dear and fetch water from that pitcher? I’m expiring.”

  He complies with the strangely rolling motion some children possess. As if they were spinning hoops or tumbleweeds. Croquet balls. He pours the water, splish-splosh, and returns radiating civic pride.

  Sitting up, I grind my teeth against the firebrand on my side. By the time my whistle has been wetted, I’m ill with the effort. A clatter sounds when I return the glass to the nightstand.

  Ain’t we got fun.

  “Maybe even if you do start to die, I won’t need Dr. Pendleton. Maybe I can save you myself. Then I’d deserve medals, I figure. At least two.” Davy gives me a grin, rubbing at unruly curls.

  “Two medals is the going rate?”

  “Yeah. But I’d settle for cookies if there aren’t any medals downstairs. There are cookies downstairs for sure.”

  “Really? That’s some strategic intelligence you’ve spied out.”

  “Miss Christina makes the best cookies. But she never eats any herself. It’s awful peculiar.”

  “Miss Christina sounds a few whiskers shy of a rabbit, in that case.”

  “You’re the wrong color to be here.”

  Biting my lip, I consider the word segregation and all the dreadfully droll rules of conduct it entails. The bizarre lad has identified a problem, all right. But I’m exhau
sted, and strung together with fishing line for all I know, and attempting to ignore a shattered heart.

  God help me. Supposing God is inclined to help liquor peddlers and gun molls.

  “It’s mighty funny, you being here. I’m not allowed to play with white kids anymore.” A distressed line beetles Davy’s brows. “Not even the ones a few blocks away, who have the best kites. Ever since they whupped me something awful.”

  I frown. “Somebody gave you a licking?”

  He nods, touchingly sobered. “I thought they were my friends, but they changed their minds. Six months ago. They called me all sorts of names. And I needed stitches. Right here, on my eyebrow.”

  “That alone merits a medal,” I say with deeply personal sympathy.

  He brightens, then the cloud returns. “I’m not even allowed to leave the Paragon anymore without somebody grown. It’s awful dull not to go outside to play. We could be cowboys and Indians much better down at the park. Me and Wednesday Joe, I mean. Here we have to use the hallways. And we aren’t allowed to do that on account of guests, so we have to sneak.”

  Muzzy headed, I recollect reports of felines dying untimely. And I am concerned.

  The door clicks open and Mavereen’s face pokes in. I’m even more impressed by her now I’m not dying quite so quickly. The empress appears thoughtful. Ruthlessly pressed square-necked dress, swirling cone of coffee-and-soot braids artfully arranged. Midnight skin of the silent type refusing to give up whether she’s forty or sixty. She’d make an equally fine church board directress or cathouse madam, and her dark eyes are molten.

  “Davy Lee, did I or did I not tell you that Miss James was sure enough off-limits? What on earth you think you’re doing disobeying me?”

  Davy’s excusing himself before Mavereen even finishes. “But, see, no, what happened was—”

  The door swings wide as Mavereen’s finger rises to point down the hallway. It’s an inexorable gesture. A sunrise. There is no arguing with it.

  “I ain’t having none of your lip tonight, Davy Lee. If you don’t march on out of here and get to polishing the candlesticks for Miss Christina and finish afore dinner service, I’m putting one of her spoons to good use, and you’d better not think I mean making cookies.”

  Davy makes such speed as if he had never been present. I deem this wisdom. Mavereen steps into the room.

  “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t much of a gabfest—he brought me water, and I was grateful, Miss . . . ?” I attempt a weak smear of a smile.

  “Mrs. Mavereen Meader.” Her tone is full of cordial but tightly bottled. “Mr. Richard Meader long ago passed into Christ’s fold. I’m the head housekeeper here, which is as much as to say as I run the Paragon. Maids, cooks, laundry, porters, elevators, top to toe and then some extra in the middle—even surgery now, seems like! Dr. Pendleton, who done stitched you up proper, he owns the deed to this place. Made some sharp investments years back. But I operate it. Saints alive, you must be feeling all but turned inside out, Miss James. Think you could see your way to managing some soup?”

  My stomach roars a basso profundo agreement.

  “I could try. I’d be ever so grateful. And don’t think I’m ignorant of the risk you’re taking—I’ve been far too much trouble already.”

  “Well, there’s some powerful truth there, Miss James, but if I don’t keep you fed, that there’s on my conscience.” She nods. “Soup it is, then. You hankering for anything else, particular like?”

  About a dozen glasses of gin, with yellow ribbon lemon curls, lined up before me like penitents awaiting forgiveness or slaughter.

  “Maybe some tea, if it’s not putting you out too much?”

  “Tea isn’t any botheration at all, sugar. Now, you? You might be a botheration. But tea’s as easy as standing in the rain. I’m after a token in return, though.”

  “Name it, do.”

  “Keep yourself to this floor? It’d rest my mind considerable over what folks might say.”

  “Of course.” My palm covers my heart. “Anything I can do. And more to come.”

  “Well, never you mind offering favors on credit, now.” Despite the rebuke, she sounds relieved. “Your tray shouldn’t be more than a quarter hour.”

  She shuts the door behind her. Meditating on the furry corpse laid at their doorstep, I try to recall the look Mavereen Meader exchanged with Dr. Pendleton the day before. That silent debate hadn’t been over segregation alone—I’ve seen entire populations ruthlessly shoved under thumbs before. Something awfully queer is going on.

  You might be out of the frying pan, Nobody, but this bears a remarkable resemblance to a fire.

  I doze until a gentle knock at the door sounds.

  Rat-a-tat-tat.

  A smile from out of nowhere tugs at my lips when I recognize the familiar rhythm.

  “Come in.”

  And there’s Max. Nobody the sweet flapper makes sure to look startled. Fuss with the bedclothes, smooth her hair back. No matter what healed battle scars Blossom and Mavereen lamped on my person, they may well have kept mum about them—women often do, we’re ever so skilled at secrets—and appearances must be maintained.

  Anyway, I’m only half kidding. The laddie makes my heart do pony tricks.

  “I’ll be damned. She’s a scrapper after all.” A grin creeps onto Max’s affable face.

  “Entirely thanks to you. I’d take the usual line and say you’re a prince, but you seem more of a knight, don’t you? Oh, I simply can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

  He jerks a thumb at a rolling cart in the corridor. “You mind me playing George, Miss James?”

  “My schedule is elastic.” I wave him inside. “But I do mind your playing George.”

  Max whisks the lid off the tray with all the natural showmanship of a midtown Manhattan maître d’. Or a Pullman porter, I suppose. In any case, it’s a dandy maneuver and my chapeau is off to the fellow. He adjusts the angle of a tiny pink moss rose in a bud vase. It’s all so cheering I think I could weep for joy, and then tears actually spring into my eyes and I glance out the window.

  Stop it this instant. Nobody the sniffling milksop is the worst goddamn version of you yet.

  “Why do you mind my playing George?” Max slides a friendly paw behind my back, supporting me with another pillow. After all that time on the train together I don’t mind him touching me, mind even less than if it were Blossom or Mavereen.

  “Oh, how could you ask me that? After rescuing me in such a fashion? Your Pullman porter routine is top of the line, but you’re not really George, you’re Max. What’s the use in playacting?”

  “Dunno, Miss James.” Stretching a crick in his neck, Max pulls a cigarette case from his pocket. “If your name really is Miss James, which I kinda figure it might be, and then again it might not. What’s the use in your playacting?”

  “Why, Max!” I exclaim. “I can’t imagine—whatever do you mean? No, wait, I see. Oh, Max, I’m so dreadfully sorry, really I am. Of course I fibbed about being from Yonkers back on the train, but surely they’ve told you that I had a hole in my belly? The lowlife I was hotfooting it away from made a pincushion of me, and I was awfully frightened.”

  “Not the frightened angle—that part there I believe.” Max takes a shrewd drag. “Somebody or other made a tunnel in you, probably in Harlem, you made tracks, and we made acquaintances, like, at the Chicago station.”

  There is a pause.

  “Nice to meet you?” I whisper.

  “Aw, likewise.” He raises expressive eyebrows as if doffing a cap. “But I ain’t talking about the Yonkers line you put out neither, see, I’m talking about the whole picture. ’Scuse my bluntness, but you want me to believe you’re a dumb kid with bad luck what got smacked around and hit the road when it was once too often. That kinda yarn is easy to spin. But it ain’t never happened to you. You ain’
t a dumb kid.”

  “Why, Max, you wound me. I’m only twenty-five.”

  “That’s as may be. But you’re also something else, I figure.”

  I’m several something elses, but you aren’t meant to find that out.

  The air in my throat solidifies. “What am I, then?”

  Max shrugs. “You’re gonna tell me.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Sure. Right after you eat that there soup. That’s Miss Christina’s specialty. Tea should be steeped too, I’m betting.” Max pulls the infuser out. “Outstanding. Cream? Sugar?”

  “Yes, please,” I answer faintly.

  Max, with dining-car finesse, pours my tea. Then he pours a second cup I hadn’t noticed behind the bud vase. Produces his flask and adds a generous dollop of John Barleycorn to each. He sets his drink on the nightstand, lifting the tray ever so carefully over my outstretched legs. Performance having drawn to a close, he seats himself and takes a civilized sip of spiked tea.

  And the crowd showers roses at his feet.

  When I draw a shuddering breath, Max says cheerily, “If you needs help with the spoon, just holler. But s’posing I’ve only caught you wrong ended, then start with the tea, I figure. That’s just the tonic. And I got all night, Miss James.”

  “What an awfully happy coincidence.”

  “Ain’t it the truth?”

  Carefully, I lift the teacup and inhale. Saliva pools instantly. I sip.

  What kind of monster, what soulless breed of cur, would take alcohol away from everyone and suggest replacing it with milk?

  “Aw, now that’s better, ain’t it?” Max chuckles. I’ve never seen him laugh before, and it’s a spill of light, crowding everything else from his face. “Nothing like the first swallow.”