Such a Dance (17 page)

“How Come You Do Me Like You Do?”

E
ddie glanced out the window and saw it was a sunny day, ideal for taking a walk around the neighborhood as he continued to mentally prepare for his Ziegfeld audition. He turned back toward Lane, wanting to ask if Lane was interested in accompanying him on the walk, but feeling awkward about it.

As he tied his shoe, Lane said, “Did I tell you? Raul and Etta got into it the other night.”

“Really? What happened?”

Lane shrugged and stood up. “Raul said something offhand about the necklace Etta was wearing, and I guess she took offense.” Lane chuckled. “Anyway, so Etta said—”

Lane was cut off by a knock at the door.

Eddie and Lane looked at each other. The knock made Eddie’s heart race. He hadn’t been expecting company—the only person he would have gladly opened that door to see was standing right here with him—and the knock seemed like a bad sign. He went to the door and looked through the peephole.

Then he pulled open the door. “Marian! What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” she said, shooting a long look at his chest. “I wanted to see how you were doing. I thought I’d stop by. I’ve missed you, Eddie.”

Eddie looked down and realized his shirt was still mostly unbuttoned. He and Lane had been having a fairly lazy morning, late to get up and get on with the day. He hastily buttoned up his shirt and fumbled with an apology.

Lane cleared his throat. Eddie looked at him and Marian followed his gaze. No hasty dressing was in evidence there; Lane looked impeccable as always, dressed expensively in an aubergine shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pair of gray wide-leg trousers.

“Marian, this is Lane Carillo,” Eddie said. He didn’t explain their relationship, but he didn’t think he had to. Marian was smart enough to figure out what was going on here.

She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you,” she said.

Lane took her hand and brought it to his lips. “It’s a pleasure, Miss France.”

Marian blushed. “Well, I just wanted to say hello,” she said.

“Come in, Marian,” Eddie said, moving out of the way of the door. He gestured her inside and closed the door behind her. “How are things going at the Doozies?”

Marian smiled. “Great. The show is going really well. The new act was reviewed in the
Post
. Did you see it?”

“No, I haven’t really been looking at the paper much lately.” The truth was that Eddie had been avoiding looking at papers for this very reason; he couldn’t bring himself to read about the triumph of the Doozies without him.

“Oh.” Marian frowned, looking disappointed. “Well, I got some nice reviews.”

” I’ve heard good things,” Lane said.

Marian turned and stared at him. “And what do you do, Mr. Carillo?”

“I run a nightclub,” he said.

“Oh.”

He walked up next to Eddie and slung an arm around his shoulders. “What would you think if this fella took his act to a club instead of the stage?”

“Lane . . .” Eddie said.

“As long as he was dancing somewhere.” Marian let out a breath and turned to Eddie. “I feel just terrible about what happened. It shouldn’t have played out the way it did. I think Jimmy was crazy to fire you, and I want you to know that I fought for you.”

Eddie smiled. He appreciated that she cared enough to apologize. He chucked her lightly under her chin with his fist. “I know you did.”

“Jimmy just gets these ideas in his head, and he made this partnership with Walter Rhodes . . . I guess he thinks that Rhodes will be to him what Irving Berlin is to Ziegfeld. He wants to use a bunch of his songs in the production next year, and he’s already auditioning new chorus girls and everything. I think it’s presumptive of him. The Shuberts may not even invite him back next year.”

Eddie nodded. They both knew there was no guarantee that Jimmy would even be able to put on the Doozies the next year if the Shubert Organization, which owned the theater, decided they wanted something else featured at the James.

She walked over to a chair and sat down. “You should know, though . . .”

“What?”

Marian clasped her hands together. “Look, Jimmy said something. He, ah, he knows. About you.” She glanced at Lane. “I swear I didn’t say anything. But he said that he’d heard you’d been spotted at that new club for . . . you know. The Marigold?”

Eddie looked at Lane and their gazes met. “I know,” said Eddie.

“Jimmy told me basically that he probably would have let you go anyway because he wanted me to headline the Doozies, but the fact that you are . . . well, you know.” She gestured between Lane and Eddie. Lane made a face Eddie couldn’t read that looked like confusion, with his eyebrows knit together. “I mean, you two are . . . together. Right?”

No sense in denying it. Eddie nodded.

Marian went on. “He said that you being a . . .” She dropped her voice and whispered. “A fairy. That didn’t help matters. I don’t know what the truth is, if he fired you for being what you are or because of me or because of Rhodes or just because he woke up one morning and felt like it, but he did it. I want you to know that I don’t bear you any ill will, and I want to be your friend still, and I miss you.” She’d sounded increasingly distraught as she spoke.

Eddie walked over and pulled Marian into his arms. “Thank you.”

She hugged him back for a moment before she eased away. “I hate to be the one to tell you all this.”

“I realize that.” Eddie smiled. “That is, Blanchard said as much to me when he let me go, so it’s not really news. But I do appreciate your honesty.”

“It’s not the same without you, you know. The act, I mean. The whole show.”

Eddie sighed. “Do you want to go have lunch or something? Lane and I were going to go to the restaurant down the block. They make a decent turkey sandwich.”

“Sure,” Marian said, smiling.

 

After lunch, Eddie bid Marian a good afternoon and walked slowly back to the Knickerbocker with Lane. It had been really nice to see her, to remember what had made them friends to begin with. They had always got along well, and nothing had changed there beyond that they no longer saw each other daily.

But even thinking fondly of Marian made him think about what she had said, what Blanchard had said, and he wondered how far word had spread. If Blanchard had talked to Marian, who else had he casually mentioned Eddie’s sexual proclivities to? What other rumors might Blanchard have started? Could any of it affect his upcoming audition for Ziegfeld?

“You’re thinking too much,” said Lane. “I can see the little man running behind your forehead.”

“What if everyone in the theater community knows?”

Lane reached over and ran a hand down Eddie’s arm before retracting it again. “Half the theater community
is
queer. I’ve met a lot of actors in the time I’ve been in New York, and very few of them are the sort that fraternize with women during off-hours.”

Eddie knew that was true, but he suspected that if Jimmy Blanchard could judge him and fire him for what he was, then it wasn’t unreasonable that a man like Ziegfeld—a man who had made a career out of looking at beautiful women and putting them on display—would also not feel so kindly toward a queer man. “What about Ziegfeld?” Eddie said.

Lane, of course, understood, because they’d had this conversation a lot recently. He nodded. “I know you’re worried, but look at it this way. If Ziegfeld already knows, there’s nothing you can do except go in there and give him the best audition you’ve ever done. And I know you can do it, Eddie. You’re a fantastic performer.”

Eddie nodded. “I suppose.”

“You are. You can do this. I have faith in you.”

It was a comfort, coming from Lane. Eddie stopped walking and looked at him. Something passed through his chest, a warm feeling, somewhat fleeting, but then the words formed in his mind:
I love this man
.

Which was a terrifying thought. Eddie had never really been in love and didn’t know what to do with these feelings. It didn’t seem like it would be possible to just be in love with Lane, not considering all the mess around them.

Eddie started to panic. He turned back toward the Knickerbocker and picked up his pace. Lane had to jog to catch up. “Hey, wait. Slow down. Are you all right?” Lane said.

“Yes. I just need to get home.”

“All right.”

“Don’t you have to go to the club tonight?”

“I don’t have to be there right now.” Lane frowned. “Eddie, what is it? Are you panicking about your audition?”

That was easier to explain. “Some,” he said. “I just . . . I need to go over the steps.”

Lane nodded, but let him go. “Sure. Go practice. Come by the club later, if you’re interested. We’ve got Jerome Mulligan and His Orchestra playing tonight. It’s going to be great.”

“I’ll think about it.”

They parted ways. Eddie stood on the sidewalk and watched Lane go. Part of him was glad Lane was going so that Eddie could go back to his room and resume his panic, but part of him was sad to see him go, and there was even a part of him that wished they could say good-bye to each other properly out here on the street, but of course, that was impossible. Eddie wondered if a quick kiss or a hug would do much to soothe his nerves, or if it would just make everything worse.

 

Lane got to the club that night after a quick stop at home. He wondered the entire time he was traveling what had made Eddie’s mood turn so suddenly. It was funny; Lane thought they’d gotten to know each other pretty well, but Eddie still surprised him. An unexpected mood swing like that called into question what Lane thought he knew, because he couldn’t figure out what had caused the change.

Lane walked into the Marigold and was greeted amiably by his staff. He tried to push Eddie out of his mind, but found that as impossible as all things Eddie seemed lately. Eddie was so great in so many ways, but he had such a wide streak of doubt in him that Lane was worried he might sabotage his own audition with Ziegfeld. He had so much potential, but his concern that he might be blacklisted if it became public knowledge that he was queer was starting to take over. Lane wondered how much of a role he played in that mess, too, if he’d persuaded Eddie to put his own career in jeopardy just by dropping by the club. He wondered if his continued relationship with Eddie could further impact Eddie’s career.

There wasn’t much he could do about it when Eddie wasn’t around. And maybe he was worrying over nothing. But that look in Eddie’s eyes had been significant. Lane just couldn’t figure out what it meant.

Julian took his jacket and walked with him to his office. “Jerome Mulligan and the band are here. They’re warming up. How did you get these guys? They’re spectacular.”

Lane couldn’t help but smile at the genuine enthusiasm Julian displayed. Lane liked Julian a little better when he dropped the act, when he stopped trying to be the flouncy, flamboyant man he thought would get him work. Lane said, “Jerome is one of us.”

“He is not.”

“He is. I met him . . .” Lane paused, not wanting to admit that he’d met Jerome the year before at a bathhouse and that they’d had sex once. There was very little romantic potential between them, and Lane had always held out for the real thing, but they’d kept in touch. When Lane offered Jerome the opportunity to play in the club, Jerome had agreed happily. This was quite a coup, since Jerome played plenty of more respectable clubs. “I met him about a year ago. We became friendly.”

That answer satisfied Julian, who chuckled. “Well, either way, darling, it’s wonderful to have a good band here. I like to see the boys dance.”

“Oh, I do, too.” Lane laughed. “How are things here?”

“Fine,” Julian said. “Though Mook dropped by earlier. He wanted to see you. I told him to come back later tonight, assuming you’d come in.”

“Thank you.” Lane wondered how Julian had supplanted Raul as his right-hand man, or when exactly that had happened, but he liked Julian well enough and when Raul had asked for a few days off to deal with some issue with his family, Julian had slid easily right into the role. He dismissed Julian, who strutted away to get ready to open the club.

Lane spent about an hour looking over the books and trying to work out how he could pay off Hardy and still turn a profit that week. The math was becoming increasingly difficult as Hardy kept demanding more and more money.

On the other hand, Hardy’s reaction to their proximity that afternoon he’d paid a visit made Lane wonder if there wasn’t a way to exploit the situation. Would exposing his suspicions about Hardy get Hardy to back off or would it get the Marigold shut down faster?

He ruled that this was not something he wanted to poke at just yet, though he put the thought aside to revisit later. When Lane was satisfied he could keep the Marigold open another two weeks, he walked into the kitchen and found that everyone was running around, getting ready to start service when the club opened. Everything seemed to be going as well as usual, and Lane decided to go take up his seat at his table on the floor. That was, of course, when Mook showed up again.

Mook looked awful, like he’d been in a fight: his hair was disheveled, there was a small tear in the sleeve of his jacket, and there was a bruise on his chin.

“Oh, thank God you’re here!” Mook said when he saw Lane.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Hardy. I was bringing you that new shipment today. Good lightning this time, not the same source as before. I was driving over here, and I saw him standing near the loading area. I wound up parking a block away, and then I walked over here to investigate. Hardy was standing there, and he made it clear he wouldn’t let me deliver my shipment unless I paid him. But I couldn’t pay him until after I delivered the liquor.”