Such a Dance (6 page)

“Fine. Deal,” said Mook. They shook on it.

Lane moved toward one of the cases. He used the crowbar to pry the top off. There were a dozen bottles in the case, lined up and cushioned with shredded newspaper. He pulled one of the unlabeled bottles out and held it up to the light. It was clear, so that was something. He motioned to one of the men and a highball glass was placed on the counter. Lane poured a finger into the glass.

“If I die, you ain’t getting paid,” Lane said.

“It’s good, Mr. Carillo,” said Mook, all seriousness now, which didn’t make Lane any more confident that he wasn’t about to poison himself. It wouldn’t have been the first time someone died from drinking formaldehyde or some other chemical in bad hooch.

Lane placed the bottle on the counter and picked up the glass, saluting Mook. “Bottoms up.”

He took a sip. Much to his surprise, it was gin, real gin, not the hooey some of Mook’s cronies were making in basement distilleries, if you could call a couple of barrels and a big tub a distillery. Lane drank the rest of the gin in the glass. “Fine,” he said. “We have a deal.”

Mook laughed. “I love doing business with you, Carillo.”

Lane paid him in cash and ushered him out the back door. When he came back into the kitchen, he spent a couple of minutes trying to figure out where he’d hide twelve cases of alcohol. As he was mentally calculating where he had space, Callahan came in through the back.

“Hello,” said Callahan, his eyes wide as he took in what he saw.

“Hi, Nick.” Lane handed the crowbar to one of the associates and said, “All right, men, I need you to find places to stash all this. Start with the oven over there. It ain’t like we ever use it.”

That was enough to get everyone in the room moving. Callahan watched for a moment, and then walked over and shook Lane’s hand. “How’s business?” he asked.

“Not bad,” said Lane with a grin.

Etta, whose real name was John O’Leary, hurried into the kitchen then, wearing his street clothes. “So sorry I’m late, Lane,” he said. Then he glanced at Callahan. A smile spread across his face. “Hello, handsome.”

Which made sense; Lane had always thought Callahan to be a fine-looking fellow, with longish blond hair and a broad body. Callahan definitely liked women, though. “Barking up the wrong tree there, Etta,” said Lane.

Etta crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s all this?” he asked, looking around the kitchen.

“What do you think it is?”

Etta laughed. “Well. I hope you sell a lot of this horse liniment.”

“I hope so, too,” Lane said. “And it’s your job to help me sell it. We open in an hour.”

“Yes, yes. I’ll go powder my nose, dear. See you later. Save a dance for me, blondie.” Etta blew Callahan a kiss and flounced off.

Callahan shook his head. “I don’t know how you put up with fellas like that.”

Lane shrugged. “I don’t mind them. Etta adds color to this place. The customers like her.”

“What was Epstein thinking, opening up a joint like this? Ain’t no way it’ll stay open. Cops’ll be crawling all over this place once they catch wind of where Mook’s latest imports landed, and they
will
find out.”

“So we pay them to look the other way. I’ve got Hardy set up—”

“Not just Hardy, Lane. I mean, yes, you fix Hardy, that’s half the battle, but he’s one man. The precinct catches on you’ve got a club open for . . . for fairies, well, that ain’t gonna end well.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve slept in a jail cell for a few nights,” Lane said.

Callahan laughed. “I think sometimes that you’ve got a death wish.”

Lane sighed and started unpacking one of the crates. “Look. I thought this was a crazy idea at first, too, when Epstein first brought it up. But you know as well as I do that I couldn’t turn him down. I figure I’ll make the most of it. Now that I’m here, I think he was right. Business has been good. There’s a certain class of men in this city that go for this kind of . . . entertainment.”

“Fellas like Etta,” Callahan said, gesturing toward the door through which Etta had left. “Customers pay him for sex?”

“None of my business if they do.”

Callahan raised an eyebrow. “Do you pay for sex?”

Lane smiled, but he didn’t find the question that humorous. “Do I look like a man who needs to pay for sex?”

Callahan shrugged. “What you do in the privacy of your own bedroom ain’t none of my business. Sorry for asking. Guess I was curious. Epstein told me he put you in charge because he knows you got some queer ways of thinking about sex.”

“Don’t we all? You like sex, Nick?”

“Sure I do.”

“So do I. I just prefer to have it with men. If that’s queer, so be it.”

Callahan, who knew all this about Lane already but stubbornly refused to believe it, just stood there shaking his head. “Well, anyway. I just came by because I got a couple of tickets to see a show tonight, but my sister’s flig of a husband is causing trouble again and I gotta go take care of it. I thought you might be interested in the tickets. That is if you ain’t too busy here.”

“I can put Raul in charge, maybe. What’s the show?”

“The Doozies. I ain’t been yet this season, but that Marian France sure is a choice bit of calico.”

Which, of course, made Lane think of Eddie Cotton. It wasn’t worth mentioning to Callahan that he’d spent the night in Eddie’s bed not a week before. “Sure, I’ll take the tickets.”

Callahan reached into his pocket and produced them. “No charge, Lane, if you hook me up with a bottle of that hooch you just got in.”

It seemed the least he could do for the chance to see Eddie again, even if it would only be from a distance. He recognized that as being a little bit insane as he handed the bottle over to Callahan. And, really, what was all that about? He hadn’t been this hung up on a man since . . . well, since Scott.

Callahan tucked the bottle into his coat and exited through the back door. Lane turned back to the task at hand. Theater tickets or not, he had a club to run.

“Ain’t Misbehavin’”

L
ane put Raul, his most trusted assistant, in charge of the Marigold for the night. Epstein’s
modus operandi
had always been to open a club and then abandon it, holding court at Lenny’s or one of the other Times Square restaurants while his underlings made the operation work. Lane preferred a more hands-on approach, so he spent most nights at the Marigold, but tonight, the theater called.

He called his friend Clarence, another refugee from the Midwest whom he had befriended shortly after landing in New York, and they met in front of the James Theater. Clarence, who was a bit of an Anglophile, was wearing an English driving cap with what looked like the Union Jack knit onto the top. He brandished the cap when he saw Lane. When they shook hands, Clarence leaned over and kissed Lane’s cheek. “Hello, dearest. I was so happy you called me.”

“Did you have an overwhelming desire to see the Doozies?”

Clarence laughed. “No, doll, I missed you. I’ve hardly seen you at all since Mr. Epstein put you in charge of that club.” He pulled his hat off as they went into the theater. “We are going to drop by the club later, right? I very much would like to see it.”

And, because it was the sort of place right up Clarence’s alley, Lane said, “Yes. If you like, we can go after the show.”

Their seats were surprisingly good, about eight rows back in the orchestra, although off to the side. Still, close enough to see the faces of the performers.

Lane had already seen the Doozies that year, but Clarence hadn’t been to a Broadway show in a very long time. “Tell me about
Le Tumulte
,” he said, settling into his seat. He over-pronounced the French words, which made the title of the show sound that much more ridiculous.

“Well, it’s not as good as the
Follies
,” Lane said. “If you want a spectacle, that’s what you should go to see. The performers are better, the costumes are better, and there’s a lot of sparkle and razzle-dazzle. But this show has some things to recommend it, too. Personally, I think the comedians are better.”

“Yes. When you called me, I asked George what he thought, and he told me to watch out for Cotton and France.”

Lane nodded but thought maybe it was smarter not to react to that.

The show got underway, opening with a lively dance routine, and as the revue progressed, Lane kept thinking what he suspected everyone in the audience was thinking:
That’s good, but it’s not as good as the
Follies
.

And then Cotton and France took the stage.

For a few minutes, all Lane could see was Eddie. He wore a finely cut black tuxedo with tails, and he looked so incredibly handsome. He danced onto the stage, his feet moving quickly and his whole body looking lighter than air. But it was Marian France who caught the rest of the audience’s attention. She twirled and leaped and the light caught the beads on her costume so that every part of her seemed to sparkle.

They danced together, their bodies flying, their feet moving, and everything looked like the epitome of beauty and grace. Lane knew that Marian was a gifted dancer and could appreciate the way her body moved, the way her costume moved, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Eddie.

The dance finished and the curtain rose up behind the stars to reveal a set painted to look like a fancy restaurant. And then Eddie started to sing.

He had a nice tenor voice, soft and quiet at first but gaining strength as the song progressed. It was a love song, Lane realized, except it was sort of a bawdy one, because, though it started off sweet, the first verse ended with a line about taking the lady home. Marian, for her part, made a good show of being offended, and then belted out a verse about how she knew she was lovely, and didn’t they make a handsome pair, but she sounded like a bleating goat. The audience roared with laughter. They finished the song, and immediately launched into a joke routine. All the words were exaggerated and overemphasized in order to be heard throughout the theater. It was strange to hear Eddie’s voice that way when he’d heard it in more intimate settings, when he’d had whole conversations, when he’d heard Eddie moaning in bed as he . . .

The audience laughed, so Lane refocused his attention on the stage.

“My brother killed over a hundred men in the war!” Eddie said.

“Oh?” said Marian. “Was he a gunner?”

“No, he was a cook!”

Rimshot.

It was an old joke, and plenty of people in the audience groaned, but it was hard not to laugh at Eddie’s enthusiasm.

They finished the act with Eddie offering his hand to Marian. “Marian, my dear, may I have this dance?”

It occurred to Lane that their talents might have been wasted on a comedy act, that they both could probably act better than they did, that Marian could probably sing without sounding like a dying animal, but then they were twirling around the stage and Lane again couldn’t look away.

When they danced off the stage, Clarence whistled through his teeth. “That was great!” he whisper-shouted. “And, golly, Eddie Cotton is amazing. So handsome.”

To put it mildly
, Lane thought.

He sat back in his chair and contemplated the stage that Eddie Cotton had just vacated. There was no denying it, he really wanted to be with Eddie again. He wanted to watch Eddie’s body move, he wanted to be held in those arms, he wanted to dance with him. Not that Lane could even really do more than shuffle his feet around the dance floor, but something about that man, from the moment he’d first walked into the Marigold, had snared Lane’s attention.

“Lane?” Clarence whispered.

The next act, a line of chorines in sparkly costumes, came out and started some kind of kicky dance routine. They existed more to tempt the men—well,
most
of the men—in the audience. These were the girls who got bouquets of roses sent to their dressing rooms, lines of admirers after the show, chocolates and jewelry. Lane wondered if Eddie ever garnered that kind of attention. If he wanted to.

“Lane, are you all right?”

Lane turned and looked at Clarence. “Yes, I’m swell. Why?”

“You sort of disappeared there.”

“Sorry.” He glanced at Clarence and then at the stage. He suspected his poker face had deserted him.

Clarence laughed under his breath. “That Mr. Cotton sure did a number on you. Can’t say I don’t understand. He is pretty easy on the eyes. Of course, I have George at home, and I would never want to be one of those fligs waiting around near the dressing rooms of the performers.”

Lane crossed his arms over his chest.

“Unless . . .” Then Clarence, who knew his old friend well, gasped. He coughed to cover it, and there was some grumbling from the audience members around them. Clarence leaned close to Lane and hissed in his ear, “You know something about our Mr. Cotton that I don’t! Isn’t that true? Has he been to your club?”

Lane shrugged him off. He didn’t want to admit as much. “I’ve seen him around. And that’s all I will say.”

Clarence nodded. “Sure, doll.”

They watched the rest of the show, which included some kind of minstrel act with a couple of white actors in blackface that Lane thought was completely devoid of humor; a ventriloquist act that was mildly entertaining; several singers who belted out songs or soft-shoed across the stage.

Finally, the house lights came back on. Lane stood up with a sigh, glancing at Clarence. “Did you like the show?”

“Yes, I found it highly entertaining. Thank you for bringing me.”

“I’m glad.”

Lane realized then that one of his reasons for bringing Clarence along was so that Lane wouldn’t do what he was very tempted to do, which was go to the stage door to try to see Eddie. He was sure he could fake his reasons for being there, could say he wanted to meet Marian France. He couldn’t really pull that off with someone like Clarence in tow, however, and besides, he was pretty sure Clarence would ask at any minute if they could go to the Marigold.

Indeed, Clarence hung on Lane’s arm a little as they maneuvered through the crowd in the lobby. When they arrived outside, Clarence said, “Take me to your little bar.”

The Marigold was a seven-block walk up Broadway from the James Theater. Clarence beat his gums the whole way, chatting about nothing in particular. When they got to the Marigold, Etta greeted them enthusiastically at the door. Then they were inside the club and it was all to Lane’s specifications, everything dark and hot, mysterious unless you knew what you were looking at.

Clarence squealed with delight when he saw the place. “Lane, this is wonderful! Oh, please say you will dance with me.”

Lane laughed. “Okay, sure.”

Clarence beamed and led Lane right to the dance floor. It was awkward at first; Lane rarely danced and in this situation, he wasn’t sure if he should lead or follow. Clarence did a few improvised steps that were a variation on the Charleston, flying around the floor. Then he put his hands on Lane’s shoulders. There wasn’t anything particularly intimate about it—Lane wasn’t interested in Clarence as a sexual partner, and besides, Clarence had his George at home—but there was something triumphant about it, about two men dancing together as if no one was watching, in plain sight of a club full of people.

So Lane abandoned his inhibitions and threw his elbows in the air and threw out his feet. He clutched Clarence’s shoulders, his hips, and once got a feel of his ass, which made Clarence squeal with delight again.

They danced until they were sweaty, until they were tired, until they were free. The bandleader changed the song to something a little softer, so Lane led Clarence over to his private table in the corner. Lane thought it interesting that most of the people in the club had figured out which was the boss’s table and so left it alone, which meant that maybe they had enough regulars now that word got around even when Lane wasn’t there.

Raul appeared with Lane’s highball and asked Clarence politely if he wanted something to drink. Clarence nodded, so Raul was off again. Lane considered the shipment they got in earlier that day and started working through numbers in his head: how much business they could expect to get, how long this shipment of hooch would last. If word got out that the Marigold had good hooch, they might attract a bigger crowd . . .

Clarence beamed as he looked around the space. “This is amazing, Lane, I’ve never seen anything like it. How did you pull this off?”

“It was my boss’s idea.”

Clarence laughed. “Epstein, that old dog. He’s got a man on the side, eh?”

“No, actually. Quite the contrary. This is purely a business venture, intended to fill a niche market. A smart move, as it turns out. Business has been good.”

“That’s wonderful.”

Raul appeared with Clarence’s drink then. Clarence took a sip and smiled. “Ah, the real stuff, too. I went to this speakeasy last week with George that I think was serving us bleach. It was horrific.”

“I’m sure.”

“But this place. I can’t wait to bring George! Is it always like this?”

Lane took a moment to survey his kingdom. He’d pulled off a good thing, he tried to tell himself, a club where men of his inclinations could come and meet and find each other and dance and just be who they were without all the nonsense and subterfuge of everyday life. Lane was tired of pretending to be something he wasn’t in public sometimes.

Which made him think of Eddie and his husband-and-wife act with Marian France. Lane wondered how many people knew about the true nature of their relationship, if Marian even knew that Eddie wasn’t interested in women, if Eddie was stringing her along.

“I’m considering doing some kind of show,” Lane said. “Maybe on Thursdays. Etta, that’s the female impersonator at the door, she has some friends who want to do some kind of act, I think with singing and dancing. And I met this trumpet player a few days ago. He’s a Negro, but, good God, he can wail on that trumpet. It’s really something to hear. I want him here.”

“Where does he play now?”

“Harlem, mostly. Late nights, though. He’s young, not established enough to get regular gigs. But he’s a prodigy.”

Clarence nodded. “George and I went up to Harlem last week. We saw the show at the Cotton Club, and then we wound up at this other place. George knows the owner. Doll, you ain’t seen nothing like it. A club like this, with dancing and men, and the music was wild. You can’t even imagine.”

“You’ll have to take me sometime.”

Clarence fingered the fabric of the dark tablecloth draped over the table. “Sure, I’ll talk to George. He knows some fellas up in Harlem who know which clubs will take customers like us. George also knows some writers. There are a whole lot of them up there. Really interesting, creative people. There’s a whole world up there nobody really knows about, except now that the white people are starting to go to the clubs to hear the music. And the music . . . Lane, the music! It’s like nothing you’ve ever heard! Much better than this band. Loud and fast and bright. It’s amazing.”

“I want to see it sometime.”

“Or get your trumpet player here. Bring a little bit of Harlem to Times Square. Use it as a selling point. I think you’ve got a good thing going here.”

Lane agreed, but, ever pragmatic, he said, “Until we get raided.”

Clarence shrugged. “Sure, until you get raided. Or you pay off your raiding party, right?”

Lane sighed. “My luck, I get the one enforcement officer who definitely doesn’t like queers.”

Clarence waved his hand. “You pay him enough and it won’t matter. Besides, half the force is queer.”

“That’s not true.”

“Maybe not half. There are a lot of queer cops, though.”

“Well, I’ve decided to enjoy all this while it lasts.” Lane took a sip of his drink. He let the burn of the liquor pass through his system, felt the alcohol warm his blood. He sighed. “I’m pretty sure this is going to end in disaster.”