“Thank you,” I reply as I walk by, briefly noticing that he didn’t charge me the thirty-cent admission fee. Tony must’ve left word—that’s a good sign.
As I stroll past the lounges and tables, I take everything in, committing it all to memory. This might be my last visit to the Savoy.
A row of young, doe-eyed cuties sits at the hostess station in one of the lounges, ripe for the picking. They are various shades of beautiful, all flashing come-and-get-me smiles. Silk-covered legs crossed at the ankles and skirts hiked up to mid-calf reveal just enough leg to tease but not enough to signalfor a copper. I was one of them before I met Perry, searching for a dance partner and whatever else I could get from a man. I flash a broad smile at the girls as I walk by.
I arrive at his box and am surprised to find it empty. Not that I expected Tony to be waiting for me, but I thought some of his pals would be around. I stroll casually to the front and wrap my fingers around the railing. The music is loud and the band is swinging hard and fast. The dance floor is hoppin’. My hips sway, my fingers snap, and my head moves from side to side. The band’s rhythm is so hot that the whole building feels like it’s bouncing on springs. The music takes hold of me, and I forget the troubles this day has brought me until the crowd parts before me like the Red Sea. In the center of the swirl are Tony Schaefer and his goons coming toward me.
For a white man, he certainly is quite a nice slice of beef. Some men can change the quality of a room with a handshake or a tip of the hat, while others fade away like wilting flowers, their backbones melting like ice on a hot day. But Tony shouts his power. Everyone knows he is one of them—a mobster, a hooligan, a tall drink of trouble.
“Hey there, doll.” Tony leans over the railing and kisses me while his bodyguards form a protective circle around him.
“Hey there yourself,” I reply, fluttering my eyelashes. “It’s been too long.”
He flashes a charming, toothy grin. “Likewise, sugar. Likewise.”
Decked out in a double-breasted beige suit and Oxford shoes, his hair slicked back with pomade, he is aces no matter what he wears. “You look delicious.”
I shimmy around the gate to join him outside the box. “I need to be close so you can hear me over the music.”
“That’s right, baby girl. I want to hear every word you have to say,” he says, his gaze fixed on my cleavage. “You look like a ripe, juicy tomato.”
“Oh, I don’t know how to react when you say things like that.”
“Try to think of something.”
I laugh. “Thank you for the compliment, and for really seeing me. I don’t want to take up too much of your time, so I’ll get right to it, if that’s okay?”
“Sure, sugar. Just tell me what you need.”
“I’d like to borrow some cash, a loan against Perry and my next payday.”
He frowns. “I’m surprised. I pay y’all enough. From what I hear, you two are quite the team and make a decent haul with your cons. So why you asking me for more money?”
“Perry left town two days ago and cleared out our stash. I kinda get why, though. He was mighty worried about his mama. She’s sickly, and he took off to Joliet lickety-split when he got the call. That’s where his family lives—in Joliet.” I talk a mile a minute. A lie sounds better when it spills out of your mouth.
Tony’s right eye squints. He doesn’t believe my story, but I keep at it.
“I called Perry yesterday and asked him to wire me some cash. I don’t think anyone got my message. With so much happening—his mother so sick, maybe dying in the hospital—nobody’s paying attention.”
Tony pulls me closer, not too gently. “You’ve always struck me as a judicious girl,” he says, minus the flirty tone he had just a moment ago.
“What doesjudiciousmean?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says dismissively, his attention shifting elsewhere.
The music has changed. It’s no longer jazz or swing but a number called, “The Peanut Vendor.” My mother used to do a dance she called the rhumba.
“They’re playing my song,” Tony says. “Let’s dance.”
“I can’t rhumba,” I lie, not wanting my last dance at the Savoy to be in Tony Schaefer’s arms.
He senses my hesitation—and I don’t think he likes it. “Goddamn it, Othella. Do you think I don’t know you’re telling a bald-faced lie?” He grips me tightly, his hand around the back of my neck. “I said we’re gonna rhumba.”
He spins me onto the dance floor, and I stumble into his arms. He says it’s the same, but it isn’t the same dance my mother did in our kitchenette. Still, I follow his lead and hate every second.
“Could you please loosen your grip on me? You’re hurting me.”
He chuckles. “I don’t care.”
