Bessie grabbed her arm. “Who’s she?”
“Miss Dolly. The blues singer in charge of the chorus girls.”
“Lord almighty,” Bessie muttered. “She looks something fierce.”
A gloriously healthy woman, Miss Dolly was impressive if for no other reason than the breadth of her backside and the size of her bubs—which drew as much attention as her rugged alto.
“I asked a question.” She thundered down the steps, dragging her beaver coat behind her and waving her prize possession, a silver flask, like a pointer. “Is anyone gonna answer me?”
Honoree signaled Bessie with a nod. “Go on over there.”
Bessie moved from Honoree’s side and turned toward Miss Dolly. “Evening, ma’am.”
“Who the hell is she?” Miss Dolly asked Honoree. Bessie eased into a corner.
“Speak up,” Miss Dolly ordered. “What’s your name?”
“Bessie Louise Palmer.”
“Bessie, you say?” Miss Dolly flung her fur coat over her chair, the only chair in the room, and sat in front of her piece of mirror. “The two of you need to get dressed,” she said, pulling a Victorian hatpin from her cloche. “Where are those other witches?” She lit a cigarette. “I’m still waiting to learn what you two were gossiping about.”
A busybody, Miss Dolly always wanted to be in-the-know, but before Honoree could speak, Bessie had stepped up to the plate. “We were only wondering what would happen if we got discovered at Miss Hattie’s by—by Eubie Blake.”
Honoree hid a smile. She liked a girl who could weave a quick lie.
“Nobody’s coming to Miss Hattie’s to take neither one of you to Broadway.” Miss Dolly aimed her flask at Bessie. “You: too dark-skinned. And you”—she aimed at Honoree—“you might pass a brown-bag test, being high yellow with good hair and all, but you’re always daydreaming.”
“I don’t daydream. I make plans,” Honoree said, her voice firm. The blues singer had talent but no ambition other than to work at Miss Hattie’s and drain a flask of hooch every hour and wait for Archie Graves to love her back.
The Archie business made Honoree feel almost sorry for Miss Dolly. Honoree had fallen for his charms briefly, too. Oddly, he was capable of showing kindness, and even some wit now and then. Drunk on his behind, he could give you plenty of reasons for the man he had become. Almost lynched at twelve and orphaned a year later, after burying his parents, he found his way to Chicago and raised his younger brother, Dewey, best he could. By then, life had ruined him, left him angry, greedy, and willing to do anything to survive.
“Ain’t nothing wrong with daydreaming,” Bessie was saying. “I ain’t that black, neither. If I were, Mr. Graves wouldn’t have hired me.”
“I got no idea why Archie hired you.” Miss Dolly popped a cigarette between her teeth. “Must’ve owed somebody something.”
“I’m an excellent dancer.” Bessie had gone from cowering in a corner to looking Miss Dolly dead in the eye. “Florence Mills or Josephine Baker might come in here one day—see us perform and—”
Honoree snapped her fingers. “Just like that, we’d be on our way to Broadway or Paris, France.”
Miss Dolly unscrewed the lid on her flask. “And I’ll be singing at the Palmer House while y’all be dancing right here until the day you die.” She laughed. “Unless Archie doesn’t like what he sees tonight and fires you on the spot. By the way, he’ll be watching all night long.”
Honoree’s leg twitched hard, kicking over her shopping bag beneath the table. “All night long? Archie ain’t playing poker tonight?” With Trudy filling her spot, slipping away would be twice as hard with Archie roaming about. “He never cancels his poker game. What happened?”
“I ain’t no postman.” Miss Dolly held the flask to her lips. “You want to know why he ain’t playing poker tonight—ask him yerself, if you dare.” She took a swig. “Anyways, you should be smarter than to nose around in his affairs.”
Virginia and Edna Mae, two of the other chorus girls, entered the dressing room laughing and cursing, and chatting like children in a playpen until they set eyes on Miss Dolly and clammed right up.
“Where’s Trudy?” Miss Dolly asked.
Edna Mae shrugged. Having worked at Miss Hattie’s since before Prohibition, the tough-talking blues singer didn’t ruffle her. “I ain’t got no idea.”
Pressing rouge into her cheek, Honoree could only guess at Trudy’s whereabouts; the bleach-blond chorus girl could be anywhere. Gary, Indiana. Detroit. A North Side juice joint—anywhere partying with anyone, including Hymie Weiss and his North Side gang.
She was the only chorus girl who could dance Honoree’s solos without Archie having a conniption.
“Trudy’ll be here soon enough,” said Edna Mae, the cafe’s burlesque dancer. Naked from head to toe, she lifted and tugged at her bare breasts, comparing one to the other—her usual routine. Once she finished playing with her bubs, she strolled toward Honoree’s crate, smacking Wrigley’s Spearmint gum.
“She’ll come falling through the door at the last minute, raring to go.” Edna Mae stopped next to Honoree. “Don’t worry. She’ll be here.”
