Out of the Easy(8)

I finished my curls and decided to read a bit until the merriment died down outside. Besides humming, reading was the only thing that blocked out Mother, the Quarter, and allowed me to experience life outside New Orleans. I leapt eagerly into books. The characters’ lives were so much more interesting than the lonely heartbeat of my own.

My book was downstairs in the shop. I unlocked my door and stole down the tiny staircase in my nightgown and bare feet, staying within the dark shadows between the stacks so as not to be visible through the front window. I was on the other side of the store when I heard a noise. My shoulders jumped. There was a push at the door. Suddenly, it clicked and the bell jingled. Someone was in the shop.

I looked across the room to the staircase, debating whether I should make a run for my room and my gun. I moved to the side and stopped. Footsteps. They got closer. I ducked behind the stack and heard the deep chuckle of a man’s voice. I searched for something to defend myself with. I slid a large book off the shelf in front of me.

“We seeeeee you,” taunted the deep voice.

My heart lurched. We? Cincinnati had brought someone with him. A shadowy figure emerged in front of me. I hurled the book at his face with all my might and made a run for the stairs.

“Ow! Josie, what the hell?”

It was Patrick’s voice. “Patrick?” I stopped and peeked around the bookshelf.

“Who else would be in the store?” said Patrick as he rubbed the side of his face. “Sheesh, you really got me.” A second figure stepped out beside him.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, moving forward. I smelled stale bourbon.

“We came to get a book,” said Patrick.

“Jean Cocteau,” said the man with the deep voice, laughing and holding up a book. “Le Livre—”

“Shhh,” Patrick told him. His friend answered with what sounded like a giggle.

“Who are you?” I asked the man.

“Josie, this is James. He works at Doubleday.”

“Doubleday Bookshop? Don’t you have enough books of your own over there?” I asked.

“Not this one.” He looked me over. “Nice nightgown.”

“It’s late, and I have to work early in the morning,” I said, gesturing them toward the door.

“You’re working on New Year’s Day? Everything’s closed. What do you do?” asked James.

“Family business,” said Patrick. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Make sure you lock the door,” I called after him.

Patrick turned and walked back to me. “You think I’d leave my dad’s shop unlocked? Jo, what’s wrong with you?” he whispered.

“Nothing. You surprised me, that’s all. Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year,” said Patrick, reaching across to punch me on the arm. He tilted his head and looked at me, then nudged me into the pool of light that spilled in from the front window.

“What are you doing?” I asked him, clutching my book to the front of my nightgown.

“Jo, you really ought to part your hair on the side, instead of down the middle.”

“What?” I asked.

His friend laughed.

“Nothing,” said Patrick.





SIX


As expected, the house was a mess. I tightened my apron and pulled on the thick rubber gloves Willie insisted I wear. Ashtrays overflowed with cigar butts in the parlor, and empty liquor bottles crowded the tabletops. I spied a silver high-heeled shoe dangling from a planter as I stepped over a rhinestone earring in a sticky puddle of champagne. Something smelled like sour apples. The floors would have to be scrubbed and the rugs beaten. I cringed, imagining the condition of the bathrooms. Happy New Year. I opened the windows and set to work.

I started up in Sweety’s room. She lived with her grandmother and rarely spent the night. Sweety was a beautiful quadroon girl, a quarter negro like Cokie. She had a long, thin neck, jet-black hair, and eyes like a fawn. The men loved Sweety. She was a big earner and worked loyal to Willie. But she kept to herself and didn’t socialize with the other women outside the house. I always wondered what she did with her money. Sweety was the only one who left me tips. Sometimes she took her sheets home at night and washed them herself.

Dora was a buxom redhead with wide hips who wore nothing but green. She had every shade imaginable—jade, mint, forest, apple, but absolutely everything was green. Dora was rough-and-tumble. I’d often find her snoring in a collapsed bed with a melted ice pack between her legs. She loved to sleep and could slumber through anything. Dr. Sully came every Wednesday morning to examine the girls, and sometimes Dora slept right through it, naked, with nothing but a green feather boa around her neck.

Evangeline stood only four foot eight and looked like a schoolgirl. She played up the part but was mean as a snake. Evangeline was a reformed kleptomaniac. She didn’t trust anyone and slept with her purse over her shoulder—even wore her shoes to bed. But she didn’t steal from the dates. Willie had rules. No stealing, no drugs, no freebies, and no kissing up in the rooms. If a man came downstairs with traces of lipstick on his mouth, Willie would throw the girl out. “You think you’re sitting under the apple tree? I’m selling sex here!” she’d yell. Evangeline’s room was always filthy. Today there were dirty tissues stuck all over the hardwood floor. I had to peel them up one by one.