The Lonely Hearts Hotel(51)
She was loud as a child, and she liked to be loud as an adult. She liked to say things that made other people burst out laughing and shouting. Not only did she like to be loud, but she liked everybody else to be loud too. She liked to be in places where the music was turned up, because it gave her an excuse to shout.
She liked to get up close to people when she was talking to them. Her breasts were often pressed up against the other person. She always acted as if they were squashed in a little elevator together. But after a night at the Roxy, Rose would always feel more and more alone.
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ROSE PASSED A TREE in the park that was growing to the side so much that it was almost parallel to the ground. It was like a consumptive young lady reclining on a chair. The leaves were like poems that had fallen to the ground.
Since there was always an audience in Montreal, the venues could bring in any sort of act and it would sell out. The better cabarets had all the singers from the United States and Europe. The marquees were always bragging about what out-of-town vedette was going to be in their club. Rose went to see a touring American jazz band in a club downtown. A slender black woman in a white dress, wearing burgundy lipstick, and with wild curls piled up on her head, came out to center stage and stood behind the microphone. She opened her mouth and wailed a joyful, sorrowful tune. She sang louder and deeper with each refrain. And when she went low, she went so low. It was like she had eaten three men for breakfast to get her voice to sound that masculine. Her voice seemed too big for her body. It seemed too big for anyone’s body. What she did with her voice seemed dangerous. Like when a surge of electricity passes through faulty wiring and burns the whole building to the ground. She wasn’t afraid to see all the things that singing could do. What guts! Rose thought. She was proof that a woman could take as much from life as a man.
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ROSE WAS IMPRESSED by the way McMahon did business. He got to be engaged in intellectual endeavors all the time. He and Desmond would sit and pore over all his books together. His desk was cluttered with plans. It seemed magical to her. You were able to make these plans at your desk, and the plans came to pass in the world. Just as with God at the very beginning, when the universe was nothing but a great desk and a blotter.
Everybody who gathered around McMahon’s desk was always serious. They were always worried. What they did mattered. Without them, crime would become chaotic. They had the difficult, important task of overseeing drugs, gambling and sex. Those were what made a city a city. They made it human. Rose was very much attracted to the power and importance of the underworld.
When McMahon and Rose were at the hotel, she asked about the Roxy’s books, about the gambling halls, about the liquor licenses; she asked about booking acts; she wanted to know about the dancers’ true stories. She wanted to know about rents. She got to know the politicians and the police chiefs. And what made McMahon ever more frustrated: they seemed to be taking her seriously. They were forgetting that she was a girl!
He brought her along to a meeting with his business associates. They had brought their wives too. Whenever she asked a question, it was always to the men at the table, and it was always business related. She was curious about who did what.
“Do you move the gambling hall every time it’s raided, or do you pay the fine and set up shop again?”
“How much is the lease for a theater? How much did you pay for the circus troupe you had from Moscow?”
He hated that she was asking questions like that. She was interested in their clubs. Everything was a little crooked, so these questions weren’t supposed to be asked in the open. But it was more than that. She shouldn’t be involving herself in his affairs. There was no possible reason for her to know these types of things.
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“YOU MAKE THE MEN UNCOMFORTABLE when you talk about business shit.”
“I’ve always been able to make people laugh. I want to be an organizer. Can I book some of the shows that come in? I mean, not right away, but I would like to work my way up if that is at all possible. I think the most amazing thing would be to travel. You know, I could travel through Italy, going to all the different circuses there and finding the really interesting performers. Like a strongman in Romania.”
“Where do you even get these ideas?”
“I’ve read about them in books, of course.”
“Of course you have. You shouldn’t read so many ridiculous books. It isn’t healthy.”
“You were a poor kid and you went and built a fortune. You spent your whole life figuring out how to become something you were not.”
McMahon squinted his eyes at her for a moment, then shrugged her off. It was beneath him to compare their life stories.
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THE DEPRESSION WAS AFFECTING EVERYONE. Rose went to speak to Antoine, the booking agent of the club, one afternoon. He often went down to New York City to find the best acts. He was known for it. He was a middle-aged man with a jet-black toupee and enormous teeth that were always forcing him to grin, and he was known for having an agreeable disposition. Rose met him in the dining hall of the Crescent Dance Hall. It was empty because it was the middle of the day. All the golden chairs were upside down on the tables. He took two chairs off a small table in the center of the room and sat down with Rose. “What can I do for you, darling?”
Rose thought they should try to save money by booking local, undiscovered acts. “I can help you find some. It would be my pleasure.”