Last Night at the Telegraph Club(67)

“No,” Lily said quickly. Of course she didn’t want anyone in her regular life to know. The very thought of it was horrifying. No, it was better to do this in secret.

At the club, there was a short line waiting outside. Mickey was working again, but she didn’t recognize Lily at first, so she had to unwind her scarf and say, “I’ve been here before.”

Behind her a woman said, “Is that you, Lily?”

She turned around in surprise, and a petite woman in a belted raincoat came forward and said, “It’s me, Claire. Remember me?”

Lily shook Claire’s hand, and then Claire shook Kath’s hand too. Claire was with Paula again—Lily remembered her—and the four of them went into the club together, finding a table on the left side of the stage room near the back.

This time, a waitress in a black cocktail dress with a little white apron tied around her waist moved between the tables, taking orders and delivering trays of drinks. “Hello, girls, we have champagne on special tonight,” she said when she arrived at their table.

“Let’s have a round for all of us,” Paula said. “It’s on me.”

It took several minutes for the waitress to return, and while they waited, they talked about the upcoming show: whether Tommy would do any new numbers, and whether she should retire any of her standards.

“She’s been here for a while—at the Telegraph Club, I mean,” Claire said. “Several months at least.”

“I’m surprised Joyce has kept her on for so long,” Paula said.

“She must be bringing in the business,” Claire said. “How many times have we been here? Half a dozen at least?”

“Who’s Joyce?” Kath asked.

“Joyce Morgan. The owner,” Paula said. “She’s usually behind the bar.”

“Where was Tommy before?” Kath asked.

“The Paper Doll, maybe?” Claire said. “I never saw her there.”

“She used to park cars for a living,” Paula said. “Over at that parking lot by Columbus.”

“Can you imagine?” Claire said, laughing. “Having your car parked by the likes of Tommy Andrews.”

“I don’t think she was going by Tommy Andrews back then,” Paula said.

The waitress returned, carrying four coupes of champagne on a small round tray.

“Happy early New Year,” Paula said, and they all raised their glasses and carefully clinked them together to avoid spilling the liquid.

Lily took a tentative sip. It was sour and a little flat.

Paula grimaced. “I don’t think this is French, but it’ll get the job done.”

Claire said, “Oh, Paula!”

The pianist came out then, and the spotlight snapped on, and they all fell silent as they waited for the show to begin. Lily drank her cheap champagne too quickly, and by the time Tommy Andrews stepped onstage, she was light-headed and a little too warm, as if summer had bloomed inside the club and wrapped her in its lazy heat. She didn’t mind at all.



* * *



—

At the break, Claire and Paula went up to the bathroom, and when they returned, they had Lana Jackson in tow. Lana had been drinking a martini, and when the waitress returned to take new orders, Lana greeted her by name—“How’s your night going, Betty?”—and asked for another. Paula and Claire ordered martinis too, and Lana suggested that Betty simply bring a pitcher for the table.

Kath said, “I’ll just have a beer, thanks.”

“What about you, miss?” Betty asked Lily.

“Just a beer, thanks.”

“You don’t look like a beer drinker,” Lana said, lighting a cigarette. “You sure you don’t want a martini?”

“I’ve never had one.”

Lana’s darkly penciled eyebrows lifted, and she smiled at Lily before she looked at Betty. “The China doll will have a martini too.”

Lily wasn’t sure if she should feel flattered or insulted.

Lana offered her silver cigarette case around the table, and Claire said, “I’ll take one. Did you hear about Ruth Schmidt?”

“Ruthie from San Mateo?” Lana said.

“Yes. Have you heard?”

“No, what happened?”

Claire leaned into the lighter that Paula held out for her, inhaling quickly. “She told me some G-men asked her to be an informant.”

Lily—and everyone else—stared at Claire in surprise.

“An informant!” Lana exclaimed. “I thought she was working over at the shipyard.”

“Yes, as a typist. But apparently the feds think her new boyfriend is a pinko.”

Lana’s eyebrows rose again. “Really? You mean little Marty Coleman? The car salesman?”

Claire laughed. “The shoe salesman. Yes. The feds think he’s involved in a Communist organization, and they want her to spy on him for them. I told her she should throw him over for a real woman.”

The word Communist was jarring to Lily, as if someone had thrown a rock through a glass window, but the women at the table continued talking and smoking as if nothing had happened.

“I thought they were done with that kind of snooping now that McCarthy’s out,” Paula said.