* * *
The dressing room had incredibly high ceilings with crisscrossed wood beams and a skylight and marble tile, polished wood furniture, and painted glass panels. It looked like a parlor in the king of England’s castle.
“My goodness. It’s grand!” Honoree exclaimed, gaping at the finery from the entrance.
“Resembles the dressing room at Lincoln Gardens, if you ask me,” Hazel announced, walking by her.
“I’ve never been inside Lincoln Gardens.” Honoree walked to the center of the room. “Look at all the makeup.”
A long vanity counter lined both sides of the room. There were oval mirrors and high-backed chairs with cushioned seats, and trays of cosmetics, cleansing creams, combs, and brushes, even pressing irons. The wall hooks had costumes and undergarments—lace-up bodices, tiny skirts, and brassieres, and flatteners made of silk, satin, and cotton. All were bright and colorful in swell shades of red, orange, peach, and polka dots. Baskets of rhinestones and pearls were as plentiful as in the aisles at Marshall Field’s.
Honoree fingered the loose beads and tassels strewn on the countertop. “This is gorgeous.” She slipped a small ruby bead into her coat pocket.
Hazel smacked her lips disapprovingly. “What are you doing?”
“No one would miss a couple of beads,” she insisted as she put the bangle back in its basket.
“Give it a week. It’ll look like any other dressing room.” Colethea pulled a chair into the middle of the room and kicked off her shoes. “Take a load off and stop gushing about everything. It’s just a dressing room.”
Hazel sat in a high-backed chair and lifted her black-stockinged ankles onto the makeup table. “You wanna sip?” She removed a flask from her bag and unscrewed the cap.
Colethea nodded enthusiastically. “I would.”
Hazel passed the flask to Colethea, who gave the flask to Honoree. “I understand how you’re feeling,” said Colethea to Honoree. “When I got hired at Lincoln Gardens, I was over the moon. But I’ve been in the business for a minute or two since.”
“I’d say more than a minute or two,” Hazel snorted.
“Buzz off.” Colethea turned to Honoree. “Don’t think this is the be-all and end-all. You’re young. Give this a year, two years tops, and wiggle on to Broadway. Harlem. New York City.”
“She doesn’t have to leave Chicago to be a star,” Hazel said, rubbing her ankles. “Look at Lil Hardin.”
“You mean Mrs. Louis Armstrong,” Colethea said.
“She was Lil Hardin, Queen of the Stroll, before she married him,” Honoree said. “That’s why I think she’s in charge of that parade.”
Colethea unwrapped her headband and scratched her head. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” Honoree replied.
“Same age as Josephine Baker.”
“I know.” Honoree blew a smoke ring. “But she started in showbiz a lot—” The dressing room door creaked open and stopped Honoree short. “Who’s there?”
The old waiter with the black-shoe-polished hair shuffled into the room, grinning and holding a large silver tray. “Good evening, ladies.” He looked from girl to girl, brazenly eyeballing their gams and bubs.
“What do you want, old man?” Hazel asked.
“Leave him be. He’s a nice man,” Honoree said, tugging her shift over her knees. “What have you got there?”
“A bottle of good gin and some cheese, sliced steak, buttered rolls—a little cold, though—and apple pie.”
Colethea reached for the gin. “This is mighty nice.”
“It’s the best hooch in Chicago.” Still getting an eyeful, he placed the tray on a side table. “Stole it from Mr. Buttons’s office just for y’all ladies.”
“Sure, you did.” Hazel grabbed a roll. “Like you’d go through that trouble for three girls you don’t know.”
He grinned, still ogling Hazel’s gams.
