Dollface: A Novel of the Roaring Twenties (18 page)

•   •   •

I
t was a beautiful summer evening so after dinner the four of us went for a walk along the lakeshore. The waves were lapping onto the sand, and a bonfire was going, with a group of teenagers huddled around it.
Teenagers
, ha—they were probably my age, but they seemed like kids in comparison now that I was married, getting ready to have a baby and about to move into a big house on State Parkway.

“What do you say we grab a nightcap?” suggested Monty. “There’s a jazz club not too far from here.”

By the time Shep and I finally arrived home that night it was after midnight and we heard the telephone ringing as we stepped off the elevator. Just as we walked into the apartment, the caller hung up, but not a minute later, as I set down my pocketbook, the telephone rang again.

As soon as Shep answered, I knew there was trouble. I could hear it in his voice. Could see the color draining from his cheeks.

“Aw, shit!” Shep moved away from the window and drew the drapes shut. “Where was he? When did this happen?”

My stomach tensed up as I inched closer, reaching for his arm, trying to figure out what was going on.

He looked at me and shook his head. “Anyone else hurt?” Pinching the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes. “Okay—I’m on my way.”

Shep set the telephone down and ran a hand over his face and along the back of his neck.

“What is it? What happened?” I was holding my stomach along with my breath.

“It’s Izzy. I have to go.” He reached for his hat. “He’s been shot.”

•   •   •

S
hep took off to meet Dion and Hymie and the others. Meanwhile, I flagged down a taxicab outside our apartment building and headed for Cook County Hospital. When the driver wasn’t looking, I uncapped my flask and took a pull of bourbon. Until that night, I’d thought our men were invincible. If someone got shot, I thought it was our boys pulling the trigger. I didn’t realize that the danger was a two-way street. If something like this happened to Izzy, it could happen to Shep, too. None of it had seemed real to me, like a grown-up game of cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians. I’d been kidding myself, thinking there was an invisible shield protecting our men and, therefore, us. Now it was clear: We were all on the line, exposed and left wide open. Irwin Ragguffy’s wife flashed through my mind—killed by bullets meant for her husband. Then I thought about my father. My God, what kind of broken world were we living in? An ache settled into my gut. What if something happened to Shep? To Evelyn? To me? To my baby? I hadn’t been this shook up since the day Hymie shot that man outside of Schofield’s Flower Shop. I took the last sip of bourbon and stuffed the empty flask back inside my pocketbook.

When I arrived at the hospital, Evelyn was in the waiting room, her eyes swollen from crying, her face pale and drawn. An antiseptic scent hung in the air, and the harsh overhead lights glared off the white tiled walls. One of the seat cushions had ink scribbled across it, perhaps the work of an impatient child.

As soon as Evelyn saw me she began to cry again. After a history of playing with paper dolls and having sleepovers, I never imagined that Evelyn Schulman and I would find ourselves in a hospital emergency room because one of our mobsters had been shot.

“What if he dies, Vera?”

I squeezed her hand and looked at the empty nurses’ station. God knows there was no love lost between Izzy and me, but I didn’t want him to die. “Want me to get you some coffee? How about some water?”

She shook her head as fresh tears rolled down her face.

I felt helpless. I didn’t even have a handkerchief for her. But before long, Dora and Basha rushed into the waiting room and took charge. I was relieved.

Dora threw her pocketbook on the spare chair, drew Evelyn into her arms and hugged her, saying, “It’s okay. We’re here. It’s okay.”

“How’s he doing?” Basha asked, stepping in, grabbing hold of Evelyn by her shoulders.

Evelyn shrugged. “I don’t know. They haven’t told me anything.”

“Okay,” Dora said. “Basha, see if you can track down Squeak and the boys. See what you can find out. I’m gonna go talk to the doctors. You”—she looked at me—“stay here with her.” Dora stormed past the nurses’ station and down the corridor while Basha darted into the telephone booth.

We could hear Basha on the telephone as she sat in the booth, swaying back and forth on the swivel stool, firing up a cigarette as she talked nonstop, going, “Uh-huh? Yeah. Okay, uh-huh . . .” She took a deep puff, clouding up the booth with her smoke. Basha finished her call, stepped out of the telephone booth, and came over to us.

“It was Capone and his goddamn greaseballs. They’re the ones who did this. Shep, Hymie and Drucci are out looking for them now.”

Evelyn covered her face with her hands and cried some more. Everything went numb inside me. Shep was out looking for the men who tried to kill Izzy? I would have expected that from Hymie and Drucci, but not Shep. The knot tightened in the pit of my stomach. How long could I go on trying to convince myself that he wasn’t like the rest of them.

“C’mon, now, Ev!” Basha pulled her flask from her pocketbook and nudged her with it. “Go on now,” she said, instructing her to take a good long sip. “That’s it, honey. Take another. It’ll calm you down.”

I could have used a drink myself but Evelyn needed it more. Besides, I’d drained my flask earlier on the cab ride over.

Dora’s heels clicked and clacked, marching down the hallway. “Okay,” she said, “they’re telling me it’s not life-threatening. Looks like he’s gonna be okay.”

Evelyn’s knees buckled with relief as she collapsed into Basha’s arms.

“He’s in surgery now,” Dora said.

“He’s gonna be fine.” Basha nodded and held on to Evelyn.

“Please don’t leave me here,” said Evelyn. “I’m so scared.”

“It’s okay.” Dora rubbed Evelyn’s back, guiding her over to the couch. “We’re here with you, honey. Don’t you worry. We’ll be right here with you for as long as you need us.”

“We gals stick together,” said Basha, squeezing Evelyn’s hand. “We’re like glue. We’ll stay here all night if that’s what you want. We’re not going anywhere.”

I couldn’t think of a better place for Evelyn to be at that moment than sitting in between Dora and Basha. They had her surrounded, taking turns stroking her hands, her hair, wrapping their arms around her. They handed her their handkerchiefs and passed their flasks back and forth.

Standing to the side watching the three of them, I felt a pang of jealousy. And yet I knew if it had been Shep—God forbid a million times—Basha and Dora would have rallied around me, too. They would have dried my tears and held me and rocked me in their arms, assuring me that everything was going to be okay.

And that’s when I got it. It was there in that waiting room that I realized that what Evelyn and I shared with these girls went beyond friendship. Evelyn already had sisters, so it may not have meant as much to her, but for me, these were the sisters I’d always wanted. I knew that no matter what, I’d have these women by my side. For the first time in my life I understood what it meant to be part of a family, even if it was a crime family. I finally belonged somewhere, and what the outside world didn’t understand about gangsters was that it wasn’t all about violence and muscling your way through life. We operated according to our code of ethics, based on camaraderie and loyalty. I looked at Evelyn, sitting with Basha and Dora, and the whole thing choked me up.

“What the hell’s wrong with you now?” Basha said, handing me a handkerchief.

“Nothing. Nothing. I’m fine.” I dabbed my eyes.

A BREED APART

T
he Jewish Women’s Council met every Wednesday afternoon from one o’clock until three. I’d wanted Evelyn to come with me but she was still working at her typewriter job, and besides, these women were all married and she said she’d feel out of place.

The women took turns hosting the meetings, and by September of that year, I’d been to four homes that, like the family dog and their masters, resembled their matriarchs to a T. Adele Markey, the council president, had a house with a dark, masculine interior and heavy mahogany furniture that fit her short, stout stature and serious disposition. Harriet Wagner, on the other hand, had decorated her home in floral prints, from the sofa cushions to the draperies, right down to her china pattern. She even had floral artwork that seemed every bit as peppy and bright as Harriet herself. Esther Bloomberg’s home was a confused ensemble of art deco touches mixed in with nicked-up end tables and faded lampshades that had probably once been in her mother’s home. She served lukewarm coffee in mismatched cups and saucers. No wonder poor Esther couldn’t make a decision about anything, whether to serve coffee cake or
schnecken
, or whether to vote for or against whatever issue was on the table.

“Welcome, everyone! Please, please come make yourselves at home,” said Janice Kaufman, our hostess that afternoon. Like Janice, with her formal ballet training, her home was designed for perfect posture, with uncomfortable high-backed chairs and a hard, straight-edged sofa. The twenty or so of us sat in a perfectly choreographed semicircle, with cups and saucers balanced on our laps.

“Does anyone have any new business to discuss?” asked Adele Markey, looking at me.

Even after a month of meetings and my five-dollar dues in her coffer, I still felt more like a guest than a member. I don’t think I’d said more than a handful of words at any one meeting. This was my chance to be part of something legitimate, and I wanted to fit in, but I didn’t know how. On the surface we had so much in common. These women were all in their late teens or early twenties and many of them were young mothers or pregnant like me. But that was where the similarities ended. Their husbands were doctors and lawyers, accountants and salesmen. Being married to a nightclub owner was beyond their comprehension, and God forbid if they knew the nightclub owner also happened to be a gangster. How could they ever understand my world? I wrestled with it enough myself. Some days I longed to be like these other women: simple, normal and uncomplicated. Other times, I found their very existences mundane and boring to the point of madness.

“Very well then,” Adele Markey continued. “At our last meeting we were still divided over the central design for the new stained-glass windows for the synagogue. Should it be the Torah or the Star of David . . . ?”

Five minutes later it was clear that the divide hadn’t been resolved. Adele felt that it should be a depiction of the Torah and half of the others agreed, while Harriet, Barbara and the other half preferred the Star of David. Esther Bloomberg, of course, couldn’t decide.

“Ladies, ladies.” Adele Markey raised her voice above the clamoring. “Can I just remind you that we have five windows and there are five books of the Torah.”

“Adele does have a valid point,” said Janice.

Adele nodded and stood up. “Now, I say we end this foolish bickering and put this issue to a vote. All in favor of the Torah raise your hand.”

I didn’t care one way or the other, and after Adele had swayed the group and gotten her Torah design, the meeting was adjourned.

The women stuck around for an hour or so afterward, drinking coffee, noshing on rugelach and pound cake. They gossiped and discussed the upcoming Jewish holidays and shared their recipes for noodle kugel and farfel and their main dishes.

“I’ve found that if you just add some stewed tomatoes to your brisket,” Barbara said, slicing a sliver of pound cake, “it’ll keep the meat extra moist.”

“Does it still need gravy then?” asked Harriet, setting her coffee cup in her saucer and crossing her legs. I noticed she wore thick stockings that had bunched together around her ankles.

“Oh, of course you have to add gravy,” insisted Adele as she scooped a forkful of cake into her mouth, letting a cluster of crumbs fall onto the front of her jacket.

She caught me staring and I turned away and gazed into Janice’s kitchen, mesmerized by her canisters and rolling pins, her egg beaters and other shiny gadgetry that I didn’t own or know how to use. I had a beautiful kitchen in our new home and yet I didn’t cook at all. If we ate in, which was rare, Shep would fry up some hamburger meat or else scramble a few eggs. The first time he did that, he was appalled when I began eating from the pan, standing over the stove like I did in my mother’s home.

“Can we at least sit down and pretend to be a civilized couple?” he said, reaching inside the cupboard and taking down two plates.

It had never occurred to me to set the table or fill the water glasses. Here I was, a married woman, living in a luxurious new house on State Parkway, about to have a child, and I didn’t know the first thing about making a home. I needed to start picking up after myself, making an effort to keep the place clean and presentable. I glanced again at Janice’s kitchen, fascinated by her row of cookbooks and measuring cups that fit one inside the other like Russian dolls.

“And don’t forget,” I heard Esther saying. “Use a good meat bone for your beef broth and you’ll see what a difference it makes.”

I nodded, taking note, trying to picture myself in an apron, standing over my stove, stirring a pot of beef stock.

I supposed the conversation was dull, but compared to what Evelyn had recently gone through with Izzy and his brush with death, it was refreshing to be preoccupied with something as basic as stained-glass windows and holiday recipes. I sat back and sipped my coffee, thinking,
So this is what regular, normal married women do
.

•   •   •

O
ne thing I knew regular normal married women didn’t do was attend parties for gangsters. But that very evening there was a celebration at the Meridian in honor of Dion O’Banion. What they were celebrating, no one said and I didn’t ask.

I was six and half months pregnant and none of my other dresses fit, so I’d bought a special outfit for the occasion, not that there was much to choose from. I had my pick of a drop-waist in brown or beige, with no beading, no fringe, no nothing. Did dressmakers expect us to stay home and hide like our mothers did when they were pregnant? It wasn’t like that anymore, but the thought that a pregnant woman might actually need an evening dress was still outlandish to some. “Help? Please.” I turned my back to Shep so he could button my dress.