by Lyndsay Faye
“Quelque fun. By whom?”
“Wednesday Joe, our young elevator operator. Lord above, but he’s a treat. Mavereen has been trying to knock Christianity into him for simply ages. Dr. Pendleton has been making equal efforts in the direction of sound science, but nature is working against both.”
“Why so?”
“Because he’s Jenny Kiona’s little brother, and every scrap of good sense was squandered on the elder sibling.”
When the grate opens, I meet the eyes of Wednesday Joe Kiona. Like his sister, his dark skin owns a mahogany hue. This, then, is Davy Lee’s comrade, and I place his age at thirteen or thereabouts. He wears a smart navy uniform, and where Jenny is all plush curves, he is clearly sprouting as doth the summer weed, because his wrists are visible and I can divine the color of his socks.
“The Queen of France!” he exclaims, bowing. “Your Majesty, I’m mighty pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“I suppose Davy told you that,” I surmise.
“What sort of day can we expect, young soothsayer?” Blossom questions. “Spare us nothing, I beg, we are better off duly forewarned.”
Soberly, the lad locks the grate. “It’s pretty tough to say, Miss Fontaine. Seeing as it’s Thursday and there’s always luck leftover from Wednesday, of course.”
“Wednesday is the most fortuitous day of the week.” A laugh lurks at the edges of Blossom’s stark cheekbones. “On account of its balance, its equidistance from both Saturday and Sunday, it is the pinnacle of happy circumstance.”
“But earlier a fella didn’t close his umbrella when he came into the lobby, so we might be in for it.”
“Shocking barbarism,” I aver. “What steps did you take?”
“Stopped off at the restaurant to throw salt over my shoulder. You’d best do the same, Miss James.”
“Oh, trust in it, my good man.”
My notebook emerges from my pocket when we arrive downstairs. Blossom, expansive as a peacock with tail feathers sky-high, sweeps forward and I follow. A paler version of her shadow, silent as a secret heartache. The lobby of the Paragon is a bustling hive, blacks from warm beige to pitch blue arriving and departing and complaining about the weather as they shake droplets from elaborately coiffed hair. From the double glass doors I surmise lead to Miss Christina’s dining room wafts a friendly perfume of celery soup and baked clams.
Blossom laughs explosively when I sneak a dash of salt from a passing busboy’s tray and actually do toss it to the carpet, and then for nearly an hour, I drift through the Paragon’s ground floor behind her. When I’m occasionally noted by a towel-laden chambermaid, she nods and promptly disappears. Blossom is a born entertainer, wry and immensely proud regarding her home. The swirls of lollies at A. G. Green’s Ice Cream Parlor are “Only the best sweets outside of Paris, and you know you can trust a woman of my figure—I’m cruelly particular.” The haircuts to be had at Waldo Bogle’s Physiognomical Hairdressers, Facial Operators, and Cranium Manipulators are “Perfectly serviceable, but add the absolute cream of gossip to the mix and you could be freshly shorn and elected mayor all in one stop.” George Moore’s Athletic Club and Turkish Bathhouse is too risky for longer than “Just a peep, honey, I don’t care how enthusiastic you are about marble and steam and scantily dressed men.”
We’re sipping coffees in a discreet alcove, Blossom in sprawling glory and myself practically inside a fern, when the trouble starts. Dr. Pendleton comes charging down the corridor. His freckles are a swarm of fire ants, the portholes he uses as glasses fogged.
“You!” He lurches to a stop.
My first thought is that he means me. He doesn’t, of course. He doesn’t even see me.
“Dr. Pendleton.” Blossom’s tone is as measured as a ruler. “What are you getting up to in this fine establishment of yours, other than the usual light refreshment?”
“Certainly not practicing my profession, since you’ve forgotten our appointment, Miss Fontaine!”
Blossom, to my bewilderment, seems entirely taken aback.
“I’m so terribly sorry, doctor.” She adjusts a delicate gold bracelet. “I—that’s inexcusable.”
“Just because I don’t give a damn about your health doesn’t absolve me of responsibility for it,” he snarls.
I study the thinness of my companion’s wrists and feel a shockingly strong pang.
“Well . . . what a curious and yet appropriate way of encouraging me to be mindful.”
“Don’t mix it up with any notions of tender feelings.”
“I’d say ‘may death come first,’ but I do actually hope to avoid that final curtain call.” A growl like the trilling of a jungle cat enters her tone.
“Especially when you’re apparently traipsing all over my hotel with that white woman you’re so inexplicably fond of! I had it out of Wednesday Joe.”
“If you’re going to call Miss James ‘that white woman,’ you might choose to do it internally since she’s two feet away, you ridiculous man,” Blossom drawls.
Teetering like a top, Dr. Pendleton glares. It’s not surprising he failed to notice me. I’m very good at this, and he’s been imbibing with red paintbrush firmly in hand.
“It’s good to see you, Dr. Pendleton,” I state.
A finger approaches Blossom’s nose. “You! Less of the catting around and more paying attention to your calendar. And you! Make better haste out of my hotel!”
“My goodness, what have we here?” comes a new male voice.
The ice pick of alarm spears my heart. Two fresh arrivals stand before us, arrivals who cause Dr. Pendleton to mop his mottled brow and Blossom to offer her hand as if suavely leaning to grasp the stand of a microphone. It’s a performance suddenly, and it doesn’t take any professional thinker of thoughts to parse why.
“Officer Overton, well if it isn’t our champion of justice,” Blossom breathes. “And Officer Taffy at his side. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Officers Taffy and Overton are verily apples and iguanas. Taffy is the apple—significant beer paunch, Irish complexion, the vaguest border between chin and neck. The happy, daft expression he wears reminds me of nothing so much as Mr. Salvatici’s pigeons.
Officer Overton wears the shoe on altogether the opposite foot. He’s shorter and much thinner, with razor cording in his throat and sun-stained farmer’s skin. Dark hair, dark eyes. Dark thoughts behind the polite smile. I’ve met people who want power and importance—people like my former associates. And I’ve also met people who like to breathe fear in like a draft of Eau Impériale. If you’ve been hurt by enough humans, you learn which ones admire to rattle the bars of the cages and watch the animals cower.
Welcome to the monkey house.
Both wear long blue woolen sack coats, brass buttoned, with matching trousers and five-pointed silver star badges. Overton has his rounded helmet neatly tucked under one arm. Taffy wears his still, and Portland’s atmospheric peculiarity drips onto his slumped shoulders.
Blossom flourishes at me as if I’m a prize greyhound. “May I present the simply divine Miss Alice James, my friends? Miss James is a reformer, here working on an article about the Paragon. She’s vowed to do us full justice in print, which I need hardly tell you would be a nifty bit of fanfare.”
I shake hands with both as I realize that Dr. Pendleton just vanished into thinnest air.
Officer Overton bows, giving the helmet in the crook of his elbow a military air. “Miss James, how do you do? I hope you’re enjoying your visit from . . . ?”
“Connecticut,” I supply, aloof and prickly.
“A reformer, you say? We have plenty of those in Portland. You’ll be right at home! Why, this state was built on utopian ideals.”
“Is that the case?”
“Oh, it is,” Blossom gushes. “The families who settled here wanted absolutely everything just so.
”
“Quite right, quite right! America first, that’s the motto hereabouts. A more God-fearing society than you’ll find in this land . . . I just can’t imagine it.” He peers at my pin. “Votes for women, eh, Miss James? A radical, then. You’ll have been celebrating liberally over your victory last year, no doubt?”
“Certainly not. I believe that female votes must be accompanied by feminine sobriety.” I fiddle with my glasses.
“That’s good to hear. Always nice to meet a reasonable suffragette. But how about marriage? Children? Pardon me for saying so, but there’s those who take female independence pretty far, pretty far indeed,” he counters.
“Not every fond hope can come true at once, Officer Overton.”
“Of course, of course. So you round out your days over shedding light on the Negro problem. Very admirable. Miss Fontaine here is quite the character in these parts. I can’t imagine anyone could give you a more thorough tour—she’s shown you everything, I trust?”
“Oh gracious, not yet.” She laughs. “We were just sitting down to a spot of refreshment. But—”
“Well, that’s all to the good.” His smile is a cake with too much icing. It sticks in the throat. “Taffy and I are here for a routine inspection, and she can come along. Surely she’ll want to know about whatever we find. Won’t you, Miss James?”
I brandish the notebook. “Naturally.”
Blossom is already in motion, having eagerly linked arms with Officer Taffy. He regards her with simple joy, eyes as bright and as aware as lamp glow. Officer Overton’s shoulder kisses mine, informing me that he has just taken a pair of hostages as we set off for whatever portion of the Paragon he admires to inspect.
I give myself three guesses as to what sort of business venture that might be. Then I subtract two of them.
“Are you planning to stay with us long, Miss James?” I detest cops like this, the ones with mouths like traps tenderly clicking. Waiting for you to make the smallest mistake, and then snap-crunch. “The Paragon is a ripe subject for newspaper coverage, a very ripe subject, in fact. Are you familiar with the plight of the coloreds hereabouts? And the unique situation of this establishment?”
“What do you mean, precisely?”
He laughs the laugh of a man who expects others to flinch rather than join. “Oregonians are dedicated idealists, Miss James. As I said, utopians. Historically, Negroes are not allowed in this fair state at all. We wanted to avoid the misery, the degradation, that plagued our sister states below the Mason-Dixon.”
“There were never plantations here,” I realize.
“No slavery for the untouched West, oh no!” He’s warming to his subject, eyes trailing down Blossom’s spine. “The Negroes here today came by way of the railroads. It remains illegal for them to reside and work in the state. Oh yes, very illegal indeed! But the necessity of treating all of God’s creatures as they deserve no matter how lowly . . . it ties our hands. There were Portlanders of the previous generation who could claim never to have set eyes on a colored person, let alone disputed with one. Sadly, those days are past, Miss James, but we do what we can.”
I can’t tell whether my nausea is due to the chitchat or my injury. Meanwhile, Blossom, ever since being instructed by Dr. Pendleton to practice better timekeeping, decayed along all her sleek architecture, a rusting iron girder. And if she’s happy to see Officer Overton, I will dine on Raines law cabbage. Taffy she’s treating like a pale puppy, but Overton devours her energy like a gash left to fester.
“Peacekeeping in the Wild West must require considerable fortitude,” I encourage him. “Do tell me more?”
“Oh, no, no, I had best show you. Please do the honors, Miss Fontaine,” Overton calls.
We arrive at a corridor behind the central elevator. Without hesitation, Blossom approaches the only unmarked door in the hallway. Officer Taffy—as if unaware human males were capable of doing otherwise—opens it for her.
“Aren’t you always simply the sweetest?” she coos. “Well, other than your friend Officer Overton here.”
Overton blinks like a priest eyeing a roast.
Blossom descends a sharply inclined staircase lined with orange glass lights. It’s a particular portal in a particular hotel, yes. But it’s also every corridor leading to all the secret lairs in America. This is Omaha, Detroit, Fort Lauderdale. This is the resistance. This part I know how to do. If you’ve heard rumors that being a hoodlum is a dangerous hobby, don’t discount ’em.
But I’m absolute aces at it.
Below, the walls are largely bare. I spy a second door, a countertop where prices for ginger ale and soda are displayed. Max sits at an upright piano dragging out a Creole tune. Mavereen Meader, Dr. Pendleton—who seems more alert and whose hair is noticeably drenched—and Davy Lee conduct a Bible study. Always a quaint touch. The atmosphere pulses, cigar-dank and gritty. I can practically hear the rushed calls of Next time, old sport as the rats scattered. It’s identical to every other gin and faro joint in these United States of Nonsense with a single exception.
This is now my gin joint.
“Well, I never!” I exclaim.
“Miss James, this is the Paragon’s very own event space for every jazz hound and balloon lungs traveling through our beautiful city,” Blossom declares, spinning. “We’ve hosted artists hailing from St. Louis to Cincinnati, and they never fail to throw a concert. It’s just rotten luck that no one’s passing through. Davy, you run along. Upstairs with you now. Miss James’s article about our hotel is coming along swimmingly, Mav, isn’t that fine?”
Mavereen turns a page of the New Testament with a single finger. “Why, just as fine a thing as I ever done heard.”
“Congrats from the natives,” Max agrees warmly.
“Officers.” Mavereen’s smile is honey drenched, her eyes beestings. “I been meaning to visit the station house again. Aren’t you that sweet to save an old woman the trip? There’s been another of what y’all are calling incidents.”
“Incidents, you say?” Officer Overton taps his fingernails against his helmet. “Why, they seem like harmless pranks to us professionals. No one here was hurt, were they?”
“No.” Mavereen presses her hands together. Hard. “But we sure enough fret over vandalism. Seeing how many other Negroes been roughed up. Why, ten in East Portland so far, as I recollect. Three more nearabout. One of them hurt bad, real bad. Broken ribs, broken arm, and a busted head, sir.”
“And if anything of that sort actually does happen, you’ll come straight to me, won’t you?”
“Yes, indeed I will.” Mavereen stands regally. “You yearning after any early supper? Compliments of the establishment.”
“Actually, we’re hoping to clear up that regrettable problem we had last time we were here.” Officer Overton’s attention arrows to Max. “Miss James, I’m sorry to report that we’ve had to tell this boy to mend his ways. On multiple occasions.”
“Oh, my word.”
“Deplorable, I agree. But no self-respecting reformer would want to publish an article without knowing the whole truth, would they?” Officer Overton is happy as an ant at a picnic. “Have you mended your ways, Mr. Burton?”
“Sure thing.” Max blinks, guarded and calm. “I mends ’em all the time. Daily. As a hobby, like.”
“Are you mocking me, Mr. Burton?” Officer Overton inquires through his teeth.
Max whistles. “I ain’t in the habit of mocking police.”
“But are you right now?”
“Hell, I s’pose you’d have to tell me.”
There’s blood in the air. Twitching my jaw no at Max, I lift my eyes from the page.
The second lieutenant reaches behind him and tickles the treble clef.
“I’ll ask the same question once more, expecting a civil answer. Have you mended your ways, son?”
“Davy
, run on up to the kitchen,” Blossom snaps. “Whatever are you doing down here? Miss Christina is looking for you.”
Davy, who has shrunk mouse size, stands.
“Answer me,” Officer Overton commands Max with obvious glee. “Give me firm evidence you haven’t got any moonshine in this roach nest or I’ll find it myself.”
“What kinda evidence do you figure proves something isn’t there?” Max questions.
Several predictable but startling things happen.
Dr. Pendleton explodes, “Go to hell, pigs!” as he produces a nearly full liquor bottle. Mavereen lurches to keep him from swinging it, protesting that she thought he’d been at the cooking wine again, that she’d no idea what he was truly up to. Officer Taffy goes to restrain the offender, a frantic Blossom snatches Davy up quick as pick pocketing, Max rises with his open hands in the air, and thunderclap quick there’s a truncheon in Officer Overton’s fist and Max is on the hardwood, blood oozing.
This is my signal to shriek.
“Do you want this cockeyed old coon in the drunk tank again, or do you want to cooperate?” Overton hisses, his hat still wedged against his body as if he’s a five-star general.
Max holds his palms up from the floor. “Yeah, yeah, Jesus, I’ll be your best pal. I knows where he keeps it. You want I should get up?”
“What the fuck do you think?” Overton snarls.
A whimper sounds. Bizarrely, it emerges from Taffy, whose mouth dangles open.
“We don’t have to hurt them again, do we?” His simple face is flushed berry pink. “You said we didn’t have to this time.”
“That was assuming this boy minded his manners, which was foolishness, unadulterated foolishness,” Overton repeats in his singsong fashion.
Max, knowing better than to stanch the bleeding, trudges into the supply room and emerges with an armful of liquor. Not all of it, heavens no. But enough. Some cops—the good sort—just want to sit down and yarn over a free whiskey. Harry Chipchase wanted a steady paycheck, and he deserved it too. Overton wants the whole goddamn parade, and Mavereen is wringing her hands, giving it to him. I’m half swooning in a chair, giving it to him. Dr. Pendleton is restrained by Taffy and no longer nearly as drunk as he’s making out, giving it to him. Max is half-concussed, giving it to him.
