Last Call at the Nightingale, page 5
“I have a name I use everywhere. What about you?”
“Leo.” He slowed them into a languorous break as he said it, pausing with the music so that for a moment they were frozen, bodies pressed together.
Vivian drew in a shivery breath in time with the break, and together they slid back into the movement. “Nicely done, Leo.”
“You too.”
He didn’t pause at the end or draw it out into a question, and that undemanding politeness made her relent. “Vivian,” she said.
“Vivian,” he repeated.
“You like dancing just for the sake of dancing, don’t you?” she asked, feeling a little breathless. Warmth fizzed up her spine from the place where his hand rested, and he hadn’t taken his eyes away from hers yet.
“You do, too.”
“Yes.”
For the next minute they danced without speaking, until he noticed her exchanging smiles with a few of the other dancers. “You’re a regular here?” he asked.
“When I can be,” she admitted. “If I could be here every night I would. But I don’t think I could afford all the shoes I’d go through,” she added, flattered when he laughed at the joke.
“Well, you’re clearly here enough if you’re on chatting terms with the bartender,” he said, his voice teasing. “You probably know everyone in the joint.”
“A few of them. But I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“That’s because I haven’t been in New York for a few years,” he admitted. “Just came back to the city a few weeks ago.”
“Where were you before that?”
“Chicago.”
Vivian stiffened. The way he said it, so deliberately casual, as if Chicago were just a small town that no one could ever find on a map, gave her an instant idea about what he’d been doing there. Prohibition had made Chicago even more dangerous than New York, if the newspapers were to be believed. And from what Danny had let fall about the business of running liquor, the Chicago boys in that line of work weren’t the sort you wanted to get to know too well. Florence’s sharp words about bootleggers flashed through Vivian’s mind before she could stop them.
Leo seemed to feel her hesitation, and the smoothness of their movement faltered. Rather than dragging her back into the dance, he lowered his arms, easing them both toward the edge of the floor. “Are you done dancing with me?” he asked quietly.
The genuine regret in his voice made her pause. “Should I be?” she asked, sounding more vulnerable than she liked.
He started to reply, but before he could say anything, something over her shoulder caught his eye. “Oh hell,” he whispered.
Vivian glanced where he was looking. Whatever she had expected to see—a jealous wife? One of the Nightingale’s bruisers?—it was not what met her eye.
She was looking at an unremarkable man in a suit, sitting quietly at a table by himself, a glass of something amber-colored a few inches from his fingertips as he checked his watch. Vivian frowned, about to turn back to Leo and ask what was wrong, when she realized that the glass next to the man hadn’t been touched. Her eyes widened in alarm as she saw his lips moving. He was counting down.
She spun back to Leo. “Is he—”
“Go, quick—” he said at the same moment.
But neither of them had a chance to move before the sound of whistles filled the air. The dancers froze in confusion that quickly turned to panic as men in uniforms streamed through the front door and people rushed for the exits.
The Nightingale was being raided.
EIGHT
The air crackled with the sound of shattering glass as people dropped their drinks and bolted. Everyone was trying to get out, yelling and swearing and shouting. Officers swarmed the dance floor, their whistles slicing through the confusion. The press of bodies carried Vivian along until someone knocked her off balance, and she stumbled to the floor, catching herself with her hands. Pain shot through her left palm. She gasped in shock, then, as the pain hit more fully, whimpered, cradling one hand against her chest as she curled into a ball to avoid the rushing crowd.
As suddenly as it had begun, the panic was over. The people who had gotten out were long gone. The rest were settling down as they discovered officers at every door, calmly herding them back into the main room. There was a disorienting mix of reactions: some people looked genuinely scared at the prospect of being rounded up, others seemed amused or annoyed.
Danny and Bea were nowhere to be seen, and as Vivian looked around, she saw only white faces remaining. Someone had hustled the other patrons and employees out, and Vivian wondered if Honor Huxley had a plan in place for exactly that. The club owner herself wasn’t around, but Vivian watched in disbelief as Mags, looking collected and cheerful as ever, asked a blushing young policeman if he had an extra cigarette for her.
“Miss, can you stand?”
Vivian realized with a start that she was still on the ground, her hand clutched in a tight, pained ball. A middle-aged policeman was reaching down to grab her elbow, and she stumbled a little as he hauled her to her feet. “Let me see it,” he ordered briskly, uncurling her hand to examine the cut.
“There was glass on the floor,” she replied, feeling like her mind wasn’t working at its normal speed. The slice across her palm wasn’t deep, but it looked nasty. “Someone knocked me down.”
“Well, that’s a risk you take when you hang out in a place like this,” he said. There was nothing about his voice that was kind or sympathetic, but he pulled out his own handkerchief and wrapped it around her hand to serve as a bandage. “They’ll fix that up better for you at the station. No one wants a girl bleeding all over the place.”
“The station?” Vivian repeated, feeling a cold lump settle in her stomach.
The policeman raised his eyebrows. “You’re under arrest for imbibing. Just like everyone here.”
“I don’t think you can prove that you saw me drink anything,” she said, wondering if it was the pain in her hand that made her so reckless and hoping she wasn’t going to get slapped around because of it.
But he just laughed at her. “And you’re free to go in front of a judge and say exactly that. If you’re anything like the rest of your friends here, though, I’m guessing you’ll pay your bail and disappear again.”
“How much is bail?”
“For folks in the drunk tank?” He shrugged. “Twenty-five dollars a head. You’ll have a chance to call home and ask them to come pay your fine.”
The cold lump grew heavier. Even if Florence, by some miracle, had twenty-five dollars tucked away in the cash box, there was no way to reach her. No one in their building, or anyone she knew in the neighborhood, had a telephone. “What if I don’t have anyone to call?” she asked. The question came out as a whisper.
This time, there was an edge of sympathy in the look he gave her. “I guess you better make a friend real quick, then.” He gave her a push toward the side of the room where the women had been rounded up. “You behave and don’t make any trouble when we take you in, and they won’t set it no higher.”
Vivian nodded, trying to swallow down fear as she clutched her hand against her chest and did as she was told.
* * *
The men and women were herded into two lines when they arrived at the nearest police station. The officers there were less grim than the ones who had conducted the raid, and some of the panic must have worn off because people in line were chatting almost as casually as they would in line at a shop counter. Only a few, like Vivian, stayed quiet; one of them she recognized as the girl Honor Huxley had ordered Danny to watch the night before. Vivian wondered if the girl was also trying to figure out how to come up with twenty-five dollars, but she was too far away in line to ask.
“I believe there’s been a mistake.”
The confident voice carried across the station lobby, leaving a hush in its wake. Vivian spotted Mr. Lawrence, her sometime dancing partner, at the front of the men’s line. “I suggest you summon your captain.”
The sergeant looked like he was going to argue, then changed his mind and shrugged instead. “Your funeral, mister.”
The rest of the station watched with a mix of curiosity and trepidation as Mr. Lawrence was escorted back to the captain’s office. And there was a collective murmur of shock as he emerged less than five minutes later, with the captain in the middle of a profuse apology.
“Sly old bastard,” Mags muttered. When the women around her turned in surprise, she shrugged. “His brother’s an alderman.”
“How do you know that?” someone demanded.
Mags shrugged again. “Dad’s had them to dinner before.”
“I’m sure you understand that my friends and I were just having a little get-together,” Mr. Lawrence was saying, clapping the captain on the back. “So of course there’s no need to take anyone—”
But the captain shook his head. “No, sir. I have orders about that place,” he said firmly. “But I believe you were out with a … friend? Perhaps a brother? Or a niece?”
Mr. Lawrence shrugged. “Well, if it’s the best you can do. My niece Margaret,” he agreed, raising his voice slightly and glancing over at the line of women.
Mags straightened when she heard her name and stepped out of line to take Mr. Lawrence’s arm, smiling. “Dad would be furious if I needed bail money again. You’re a peach, Laurie.”
Vivian watched, too numb to be angry, as they were escorted out of the station. The woman ahead of her in line was called; Vivian heard her refuse to give her name, though she didn’t hesitate to provide a phone number for the sergeant to call. And then it was Vivian’s turn, and a burly officer was nudging her out of line and nodding toward the sergeant’s desk.
“Your name, miss?” he asked with the disinterested efficiency of someone going through a script that he had already recited a dozen times.
Vivian swallowed. There was no way she was giving her real name. “Jane?”
The man behind the desk snorted. “Any chance that would be Jane Doe?”
She let out a shaky breath. “That sounds right,” she agreed.
“You’re our tenth Jane Doe of the night,” the officer sighed, making a note in his log book. “One call. You tell me the number, I dial it.”
Vivian shivered. She felt cold and exposed in her spangled, sleeveless dancing dress, though the precinct was a sweltering mass of sweaty bodies crowded together. “I don’t have anyone to call.”
He shrugged, clearly unsurprised. “Hope you made some friends in this lot, then. We’ll come back to you in a few hours and see if you’ve changed your mind. What happened to your hand, Jane Doe?”
“Got cut during the raid.”
“You gonna faint or anything?”
“No, but it hurts something awful.”
He shrugged again. “If you’re still here in the morning, someone will probably take a look. Keep the bandage on, we don’t need you bleeding all over the cell.” The sergeant jerked his chin toward a seat in the corner where two other women waited. “Women’s matron will be along in a moment. Don’t make any trouble.”
Vivian started to say that of course she wouldn’t, but the officer was already turning to the next person in line, clearly finished with her. So she just nodded and went to sit down.
One of the women waiting was complaining that she had lost her headband in the raid—“And it was the first time I wore it, too! That’s the last time I go to such a seedy little place. I think I’ll stick with the Swan from now on”—and the other one nodded along, looking bored and occasionally wondering aloud when her gentleman friend would arrive with her bail money.
Listening to them, Vivian realized that most of the people in the precinct, including the officers running the drunk tank, were treating the whole thing as more of an inconvenience than anything else. And why wouldn’t they, she wondered, feeling dazed. New York had barely made a pretense at Prohibition before the booze started flowing once more. For the police, arrests for imbibing were a nightly occurrence. Most of the people they had picked up at the Nightingale seemed confident that, sooner or later, someone would be along to pay their fine and pick them up. They would never set foot in front of a judge or have a record attached to their name.
Looking around the room, she saw the man she had been dancing with, Leo, had just reached the head of the men’s line. He had been watching her, she realized, and when he caught her eye at last, he gave her a wide smile and mouthed, You okay? Vivian nodded, momentarily lulled into a false sense of calm. If no one else seemed to think it was anything more than a bother, why was she so worried?
That feeling lasted until Leo stepped up to speak to the officer at the desk and a moment later was handed a telephone receiver. Vivian felt sick all over again. Being arrested was nothing more than a bother if you had someone to call, and if that someone on the other end of the phone had money. But when poor girls with no family were caught dancing and drinking, they ended up in workhouses and reformatories.
Especially if someone wanted to make an example. I have orders about that place, the captain had said to Mr. Lawrence. Most raids were just to make arrests, an example that would end up in the papers and show some politician cracking down on immorality. But—Vivian shivered—were his orders this time about the Nightingale itself?
“Jane Doe?”
The brisk voice made her jump, and Vivian looked up to find a tall woman standing in front of her, still wrapped in her overcoat, with dark hair pinned severely back under a plain hat of gray felt. Though she wasn’t in any kind of uniform, she looked exactly like the sort of person who would be a women’s matron for the police.
“Jane Doe?” the matron repeated, impatient. “Number ten, I believe?”
Vivian realized she had been staring and nodded quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Up you get. Either of you stuck here tonight?” the matron demanded, turning on the other two women sitting there as Vivian stood up.
Her stern tone made them both sit up straighter. “No, matron,” they said, nearly in unison, and Vivian felt as though she were in the orphan home being called up in front of the nuns once more.
“Well, come along then,” the matron said, ignoring the other two women as she gestured to Vivian. “Back to women’s holding. You’d think they’d have a matron on duty when they know there will be raids. Pack of idiots. Do they think only men go out drinking in this city?”
She didn’t seem to expect an answer, so Vivian didn’t give one, just silently followed her out of the front room of the precinct and back into the holding cell known as the drunk tank. Once there, they stopped, and the matron gestured for her to raise her arms. Confused, Vivian complied, and found herself on the receiving end of a brisk, impersonal pat-down.
“Have to check for weapons or contraband,” the matron explained, stepping back. “You’d be surprised what a girl can stash in a garter.” Vivian thought that she wouldn’t be surprised at all but decided against saying anything. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
The policewoman laughed sharply as she unlocked the holding cell. “You’re probably lying, but keep telling them that, unless you want them to take you up as a wayward minor. What happened to your hand?”
Involuntarily, Vivian moved to clutch it behind her back. “It’s nothing, ma’am.”
“I asked you what happened to it.” The matron’s voice was firm, reminding Vivian once more of the nuns, but her hands were careful as she stripped the makeshift bandage away when Vivian held it out. “That doesn’t look like nothing.”
“Someone knocked me down during the raid,” Vivian explained, uncomfortably aware of the other women in the holding cell watching them. “I landed on a glass that broke.”
“And I don’t suppose any of the men out there suggested doing anything about it?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Of course not. Because you getting ill under our watch and having to be transferred to a hospital is exactly the paperwork they want to deal with after a night of raids.” The matron rolled her eyes. “All right, get in there. I’ll be back once I’ve handled the other girls.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Vivian stepped into the cell, trying to ignore the sound of it clanging shut and locking behind her. Once there was no way for her to leave, the cell felt a hundred times smaller than it had looked from the outside.
“Don’t thank me. If I had my way, you’d end up in a reformatory tomorrow, no matter how old you are, and hope they beat some sense in you.”
With that uncomforting remark, the matron left, shoes clicking on the polished floor in a way that reminded Vivian of her sister. The thought made her flinch—would Florence come looking for her when she didn’t come home? And would that be better or worse than the situation she was currently in?
Vivian found a corner seat where she could press her back against the wall, hoping she didn’t look as scared as she felt. The matron came back three other times with women who had no one to pay their bail yet, then returned with a fresh bandage. Gesturing impatiently for Vivian to stick her hand through the bars, she removed the blood-stiffened handkerchief and rewrapped it with clean linen. Vivian thanked her again because good manners seemed like a smart idea when she was stuck in jail.
As she pulled her hand back into the cell, Vivian was struck with a sudden thought. “Matron…” She regretted it as soon as she opened her mouth, but the policewoman had already turned back impatiently, so she barreled on. “Why was the club raided tonight?”
The matron’s eyebrows climbed toward her severe hairline. “Are you somehow unaware that drinking alcohol is illegal in this country?”
“No. I mean, yes, ma’am, of course I know. I meant, why was that particular club raided? I heard the captain saying he had his orders. Is there a reason that they went there tonight?”
The policewoman sighed. “Shocking though it may be, the captain of this precinct receives his orders from the commissioner, not from me. My job is to save young women from the wretched life of vice that you seem desperate to throw yourself into. So I suggest you worry more about how to come up with your bail than what’s going on in the captain’s office.”
