Such a Dance (26 page)

“Rhapsody in Blue”

 

T
here was no small amount of joy in watching Eddie dance. Lane sat at a little table off to the side of the dance floor, alternately crunching numbers and watching Eddie rehearse with Paul. Paul was a brilliant choreographer in his own right, and the two of them kept shouting at each other to try different moves. Paul was burlier than Eddie and nearly six inches taller, thus not quite as light on his feet, but there was strength and grace in his dancing that Lane admired. The two of them looked spectacular together, which Lane had no problem admitting because Eddie still came home to him every night.

Actually, Lane knew he should start calling Eddie “Elijah,” since he’d dropped the stage name. Lane had never quite acclimated to the name change and still called the man he loved “Eddie,” and pretty much everyone else did, too.

They were in the basement of the Odd Duck, the speakeasy Lane had opened six months before on 136th Street, deep into Harlem. It occupied the basement of the row house Lane and Eddie had bought together the previous fall with earnings from a year of working quietly in the Harlem nightlife scene. Eddie had been choreographing dance routines for small clubs all over the city and Lane had been lending his considerable expertise to a club on 127th Street, which was how he’d met Paul.

Paul was a dark-skinned, self-taught dancer originally from Alabama who fled to New York when it became clear to him that his family didn’t understand his more artistic nature. When the club on 127th had found out Paul was cohabiting with a white male poet in a more-than-roommates arrangement, they’d promptly let him go, despite his obvious talent. When Lane opened the Odd Duck, Paul was one of the first people he had contacted.

In the six months the Odd Duck had been open, it had become a club for misfits. White patrons mingled with black ones, men with women, and nearly all of the clientele was queer. It was off the beaten path enough—and had tight enough security—that it had so far escaped the notice of local law enforcement. Well, aside from the cop Lane saw sneak in about once a week to dance with his male sweetheart; Lane had seen him on patrol often enough during the day that he knew without a doubt that this man was a police officer.

Not that everything was swell all the time. Customers sometimes got drunk and surly. Just the previous week, Lane had had to break up a fist fight. More to the point, getting liquor into the club without attracting attention was a constant challenge, particularly since the Mob controlled most of the bootlegging business in the city. As long as he didn’t announce his presence in Harlem and was careful about who he let in the club, the Mob left him alone. There was a rumor, even, that he had died in 1928, and Lane was content to let his “family” believe that.

Still, the Odd Duck was a modest success, and Lane couldn’t have asked for more.

Lane put his pencil down and openly watched the dancing continue. In the time since Eddie had started choreographing his own dance routines, he’d changed his style somewhat. The bowler hat he’d worn to hide his identity when they’d first moved to Harlem had become an integral part of every routine. Eddie would doff the hat, let it slide down his arm, catch it, toss it in the air. It was a prop the way his silver cane had been when he danced in the Doozies. He had lately been playing around with slower movements, too, with rolling his shoulders and adding a fluid quality to the movement of his arms. It was fascinating to watch the way Eddie’s mind worked, the way he honed a particular style of dancing that perfectly complemented the shape of his body. He’d been teaching that style to Paul, who had picked it up easily, and sometimes the two of them could move together in near perfect synchronization.

Eddie and Paul finished their rehearsal with a handshake and a promise to make that night’s performance a spectacular one. Lane stood and moved toward Eddie to catch him before he went upstairs to eat dinner and change for the night.

Eddie grinned when his gaze met Lane’s. They walked toward each other and kissed briefly. It was nice to work in a business where there was no pretending, no subterfuge, no secrets. Everyone who worked for Lane knew he and Eddie were together, that they lived like husbands in the residence upstairs. Anyone who had a problem with that was promptly shown the door.

“Good rehearsal,” Lane said, reaching over to rub Eddie’s arms.

“Yes, I think tonight’s show will be one of our best. Assuming Paul remembers to do the kick turn instead of that silly do-si-do thing he keeps doing.”

Lane smiled. “He will.”

Eddie reached over and ran his fingers over Lane’s tie. “Can you take time away from your empire to have dinner with me?”

“I think so. Let me just grab my ledgers.”

A few minutes later, as Lane unlocked the door and led them into the residence, Eddie said, “Did I tell you I got a letter from Marian?”

“No. When?”

“Earlier today. She finished filming that movie.”

“Oh, good.”

“And . . .” Eddie stopped at the foot of the steps that led up to the kitchen. “She eloped with Bert.”

Lane laughed. That seemed like good news. Just before she had absconded from New York in favor of Los Angeles to make moving pictures, Marian had reconnected with Bert, once a stagehand at the James Theater, and the two of them had quickly become inseparable. Eddie had said at the time that he liked Bert, that the man was sweet and seemed to genuinely care for Marian. When she left for California, Bert had tagged along.

“I’m happy for them,” Lane said.

“Me too.”

They climbed the stairs together. Eddie walked toward their new electric refrigerator, a strange luxury for two men who had for a year lived in the only rental they could find after moving out of Lane’s place downtown. That place had been on the third floor of a crumbling house in the shadow of the Third Avenue El, which rumbled past their windows so often Lane sometimes worried they’d both go deaf from the sound. Still, it had been cheap, and it had given them time and opportunity to save enough money to buy the house they now shared.

They ate turkey sandwiches and chatted about music and dancing and what sort of entertainment was scheduled for that evening. Halfway through his sandwich, Eddie paused and said, “It’s quiet.”

“For a change,” Lane said, rolling his eyes.

“No, I mean, where’s Frank?”

“Back at Julian’s, I imagine. This morning, he insisted it was real this time and packed all of his things into a box. I told him I’d keep clean sheets on the guest bed. Just in case.”

Julian was still Lane’s right-hand man, serving drinks at the Odd Duck and coming up with clever door passwords, which changed weekly. He’d found an apartment in a building three blocks south of Eddie and Lane’s place, which seemed to suit him. Frank bounced back and forth between Julian’s bed and Eddie and Lane’s guest room, depending on the week and whether he and Julian were speaking to each other. Theirs was the sort of passionate affair in which they fought as often as they made love, and though Lane found them entertaining to watch, he was glad his relationship with Eddie was much calmer.

After dinner, they changed and went back down to the club. Julian was laying out clean tablecloths on the tables. Lane approached him cautiously, wondering if Julian would be angry or pleased that Frank had moved back in with him.

The ear-to-ear grin seemed to indicate pleased.

“That trumpet player is a dishy number, isn’t he?” Julian said to Lane.

Lane glanced back toward where the band was setting up. Eddie was already deep in conversation with the bandleader, probably trying to work out a tempo for the number he planned to dance with Paul. And, yes, the trumpet player was quite handsome, if you liked them with slicked-back hair and thin mustaches. Not quite Lane’s cup of tea. “He’s ducky, sure. But last time I checked, a certain boarder of mine became your problem again.”

Julian shrugged. “I’m just looking, darling. No harm in that, is there?”

When Lane was satisfied that the club would open on time, he retreated to his office. He picked up the newspaper he’d left there earlier. The front page article declared that the stock market had hit another all-time high, but just below it was an article about how farmers in Iowa were struggling to make ends meet. It was a troublesome juxtaposition, one that made Lane think the recent growth in the stock market was temporary rather than the signal of a new era of prosperity as some seemed to think. Lane knew better than to think the good times could last—his experience at the Marigold had taught him that, if nothing else—but he did intend to enjoy what he had as long as he had it. And, he figured, if he lost all of this tomorrow, he’d still have Eddie.

He walked back out to the main part of the club a short time later, as the band was just starting to roar and the opening act—a group of black chorus girls in sparkly costumes working their way through a kicky routine Paul and Eddie had created for them—earned delighted applause from the assembled crowd. It wasn’t quite packed, but there were enough people seated around the dance floor that Lane knew he’d turn a profit that night. He smiled to himself and walked over to where Eddie stood at the edge of the dance floor.

“Julian said to tell you we’re getting low on gin,” Eddie said.

“We always are. We’ll make do.”

Lane slipped his hands around Eddie’s waist and rested his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie sighed, let out an appreciative murmur.

“You ready to debut the new routine?” Lane asked.

“As we’ll ever be. Paul is still trying to make changes.”

“I’m sure it will be wonderful.”

The chorus girls all cried out “Woo!” and spun around, which distracted Lane for a moment. Eddie extracted himself from Lane’s arms. “That’s my cue.”

“Break a leg,” said Lane. “I love you.”

Eddie smiled. “Love you, too.” He gave Lane a quick kiss on the cheek and then snuck behind the bandstand.

He emerged with Paul a moment later, and the two of them immediately launched into a left, left, right, right, kick routine, with the steps gradually becoming more elaborate. The mixed crowd hooted and clapped enthusiastically. Lane sighed happily. It was a strange space, this club, but it was Lane’s and it was perfect.

Keep reading for a special sneak peek of Kate McMurray’s next
historical romance,
Ten Days in August
, coming in March 2016 . . .