Love and Other Consolation Prizes(53)

Ernest shrugged. A part of him knew he shouldn’t ask whether she remembered people from the Tenderloin, but another part was dying to know how many of Gracie’s memories remained. How much could he—should he—hope for? Dr. Luke had stabilized her condition, cured her with antibiotics, a miracle in a bottle. But he said the damage done was irreversible. Gracie wouldn’t go back to the way she used to be, although he also said that her brain might eventually find different ways to remember.

Ernest had often talked with her about their marriage—hoping she would remember him, but he’d never once asked her about her childhood. He figured that, like everything else, those memories were lost forever. But as she smiled he asked, “Do you recall our early days together? The three of us, all those years ago?”

Gracie hesitated, pausing, searching. Then Hanny and Rich walked into the restaurant amid fanfare from the staff—excited compliments about how much Hanny had grown and how beautiful she was. They all wanted to hear about Las Vegas, the celebrities she’d met, run-ins with famous mobsters, and if she really worked topless. They also gushed about how tall and handsome her gentleman friend was. Hanny showed off her engagement ring, and the hostesses squealed.

Ernest watched as Gracie stared at Rich. “That’s Mr. Wonderful,” he said. “He’s not a bad guy once you get to know him, I suppose. Unfortunately, I don’t know him very well.”

Gracie nodded again and patted Ernest’s arm.

After an awkward introduction, Ernest ordered a series of Gracie’s favorite dishes to be shared. The first to arrive was a tureen of steaming melon soup with chicken and water chestnuts. A waiter filled their rice bowls amid the small talk. In the background Ernest heard a jingle on the nearby radio that had been played over and over again to promote the new fair: If you’re going to kiss me…kiss me there.

“Ma.” Hanny spoke as though her mother were hard of hearing. “Rich is my fiancé. We’re getting married. Ma, I’m finally going to tie the knot.”

Gracie looked at both of them, nodding solemnly, blowing on her soup.

Ernest saw the worry in Juju’s eyes as everyone waited for a response.

Gracie smiled and continued eating.

“So, Ernest,” Rich said, to break the awkward silence. “Juju told me that you used to work as a driver for all the famous types who came to Seattle.”

“Oh, my daughter exaggerates a bit. It wasn’t that glamorous, really; they were just nice people who needed a ride,” Ernest demurred. “I was your basic, garden-variety driver most of my life, but I did get special calls once in a blue moon.”

“Dad, don’t be so humble,” Juju said. “Sugar Ray Robinson came to town and got sick. He wouldn’t trust a white doctor, so he found Dr. Luke in Chinatown, of all places. Dr. Luke gave him my dad’s name, and Dad drove the champ all over the place while he was in Seattle. From there, word of mouth did the rest. He ended up driving Floyd Patterson when he was in town, then Louise Beavers, Dinah Washington—the list goes on and on. He’d come home late at night with autographs for us kids, souvenirs. He even drove Billie Holiday.”

“Now you’re just making stuff up,” Ernest said. “That’s how simple stories become tall tales. You might be pushing the limits of your journalistic integrity.”

“That’s incredible. Sounds like you’d love it out in Vegas—you’re used to rubbing elbows with the stars,” Rich said. “Speaking of stars, Juju said that you’re part of a big story for the Century 21 Expo—something about a mysterious boy who was raffled off at an earlier world’s fair. I’d love to look into the legalities of that. And she also told us how you grew up in and around Seattle’s old red-light district…”

Ernest looked at Juju, who shrugged innocently. He glanced at Gracie, who listened intently as she slurped her soup. Meanwhile, Hanny stared back incredulously as if to say, And you thought my career was bad?

Rich kept talking. “I guess before Las Vegas there was always Chinatown. Bootleg booze and gambling going all the way back to Prohibition, speakeasies, all kinds of glamorous nighttime entertainment.”

“It wasn’t Chinatown,” Gracie interrupted, speaking slowly. “It wasn’t Chinatown or even Japantown, it was a parlor joint called…the Tenderloin.” Then she went back to her soup as though she’d said something obvious.

Rich looked at Ernest, who spoke softly, hoping to leave Gracie out of the conversation. “Yes, the Tenderloin was a…club for gentlemen.”

Juju continued, “My father is being coy. The Tenderloin was a famous sporting house run by Dame Florence Nettleton, over by Pioneer Square. No one knows much about her, and any records of her earlier life were probably destroyed in the Great Seattle Fire. Plus, she’s been lost in the shadow of her more famous predecessor, Madam Lou Graham, the Queen of the Lava Beds, who I believe ran the Tenderloin before her. And then later by Naughty Nellie Curtis, who ran a crib joint out of the old LaSalle Hotel overlooking Pike Place Market. There’s another story there I’m sure…”

Ernest sat back, listening, nodding. His daughter had done her research—he was impressed, again.

“So is that where the two of you met?” Rich asked, smiling. “At this Tenderloin place? I mean, forgive me for being a bit forward with my assumptions, but I do work in a colorful town and I’ve seen a salacious thing or two in my time. Hollywood’s finest come to Vegas to get married or divorced, sometimes in the same trip.” He laughed. “I’m immune to scandal.”