Dollface: A Novel of the Roaring Twenties (21 page)

Shep ran his hand back through his hair, smoothing over his widow’s peak. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we’re in the middle of a gang war now.”

BOOK TWO

1926–1927

THE WAR HITS HOME

T
he front door slammed and woke me with a jolt. It was almost two in the morning and the other side of the bed was empty, the sheets smooth and cool against my open palm. I heard Shep and Hymie going at it, even from upstairs, even while I was still half asleep.

It had been a little over a year since Dion’s murder and everything had shifted. Hymie, Drucci, Bugs, Shep and the rest of the North Siders were like those shooting galleries at the penny arcade: One got gunned down and the others all moved up a notch.

Now it was Hymie in charge and he had one goal, one obsession, and that was to kill Al Capone. I knew Hymie had already made several attempts but Capone had always gotten away. Rumor had it that every morning for the past year, Hymie had been going to Holy Name, getting down on his knees, and praying for a clean shot at Capone.

I used to question why a Jew would go to Holy Name Cathedral. Then Shep explained that Hymie wasn’t Jewish. Turned out Hymie Weiss came into this world as Earl Wojciechowski and was as Catholic as could be, though he did the most unholiest of things. I wondered why he paraded around as a Jew. Why not say he was Irish or Italian? We Jews had enough problems without being adopted by the likes of him. But for whatever reason, Earl wanted to be called Hymie Weiss.

I rolled onto my stomach and tried to go back to sleep. I was exhausted. Hannah had just turned one year old the month before, but she still wasn’t sleeping through the night. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten more than a few hours’ sleep at a stretch. I wasn’t yet able to wean her off nursing, and there were feedings and crying spells and times when I woke with a start and raced into her nursery, only to find her sound asleep. Plus, I’d been running around the day before, getting ready for the Jewish Women’s Council meeting that I was hosting the following day.

I’d never entertained before. Ever. Here it was, more than a year and half since we’d been married, and I finally had an occasion to use our wedding china. I wanted everything to be perfect. While the housekeeper polished the silver and the samovar and ironed the tablecloth and napkins, I set out my china and serving platters on the table and sideboard for the buffet. In addition to purchasing
Mrs. Wilson’s Cook Book
, I had enrolled in a correspondence cooking course out of Scranton, Pennsylvania. I had five books of instruction, complete with examinations at the end of each chapter. I was only a quarter of the way through book one, which focused on kitchen utensils, cooking terminology and kitchen safety.

For my first stab at home entertaining, I turned to a recipe for upside-down pineapple cake in
Mrs. Wilson’s Cook Book
. I’d made a practice cake the day before that had fallen as soon as I’d removed it from the oven, so I’d started over, measuring the flour and baking soda from my newly purchased canisters. I prepared the shortening and with my new hand beater blended the ingredients into a fluffy, frothy batter. After it came out of the oven, I was so stinking proud of myself. The cake on my counter looked not too different from Mrs. Wilson’s photographs. I set it in the center of my buffet, carefully covering the top with a glass cake dome.

I had almost fallen back asleep when the baby started crying. Such a tiny thing, but Hannah tested me in ways I never expected. She also opened my heart further and faster than I thought possible. The instant the nurse placed her in my arms I burst into tears, because she was perfect and beautiful. And mine.

Hannah wailed again and I threw off the covers, grabbed my robe, and padded down the hall to the nursery. I turned on the night-light, and as soon as she saw me she stopped crying. Her need for me went straight to my heart. How could I forgive myself for thinking I hadn’t wanted her?
My God, I made her
. This beautiful, perfect little being came from me. Part of me—part of my heart—was in my arms and there was nothing that could separate the two of us. I loved to kiss every finger, every toe, to lean over and play the trumpet on her belly. I couldn’t imagine my mother ever feeling that way about me. But I was sure she’d had all the answers when I was born. She and every other mother in the world knew what they were supposed to do. I was scared to death. Did I change her diaper in time? Did I feed her too soon, too late? Why was she crying? Why
wasn’t
she crying? There wasn’t a single thing I didn’t question. I wanted to be a good mother. I wanted her to love me. I never wanted anyone’s love before like I wanted the love of my baby.

After she fell back asleep, I stood over her crib, studying her face, scrutinizing her dark curls, hoping that was a sign that she belonged to Shep.

Meanwhile, Hymie and Shep were still arguing, their voices growing louder. I worried that they would wake Hannah and headed downstairs to tell them to knock it off.

“I’m running the show,” I overheard Hymie saying. “I’m the one calling the shots and I’m telling you, I want Capone backed into a corner. I wanna make him pay for what he did to Deanie. I want that cocksucker’s blood splattered all over this town.”

“I’ve been greasing every palm I can. We’ll get him. I promise you. I’ve got people on the lookout for Capone from Cicero all the way up to Rogers Park. I know when that son of a bitch goes to the barbershop. I know every restaurant he’s been to in the past twelve months. I know when he takes a crap—”

“Then just fuckin’ do it already!”

“Jesus Christ, Hymie—get a grip.”

“You need to get the fuckin’ job done.
Now!
”

“Oh, that’s just great. Sure, pull out your gun. Shoot me, Hymie. That’ll help matters.”

Hymie let out a low growl.

A second later I heard a scuffle and something crashed to the ground. Sounded like the samovar and half my wedding china. The two of them were calling each other names and in the midst of all the chaos, I heard a gun go off.

I screamed as I tore into the living room and found Hymie and Shep looking up at the hole in the ceiling, plaster showering down onto the dining room table. While I stood there trying to put my heart back inside my chest, what were they doing?
Laughing!
I could have killed them both, especially when Hannah started crying.

“Great! You scared the baby! And me, too. Thanks.” Half the coffee cups and saucers were shattered on the ground. I looked at what was left of my upside-down cake, now broken in two, the pineapple slices strewn across the rug with flecks of plaster stuck to them. Kicking a piece of china out of the way, I stormed upstairs to the nursery.

Hard as I tried, I couldn’t find the balance between being a gangster’s wife and a mother. How was I supposed to raise a child in the middle of all this? It was times like this that the truth about our life poked through the illusion of normality I tried to create. I knew what it was to be fearful as a child and I didn’t want that for my daughter. I wanted her to know she was safe, no matter what. But how was that possible when a gun had just gone off inside her home? And as she grew older, what would I tell her? Would I lie to her about her father, the way I’d lied to myself?

After I’d gotten Hannah quieted down and Hymie had left, Shep came upstairs.

“What was that all about?” I glared at him.

“Hymie just got a little hot under the collar. That’s all. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it? Hymie just fired a gun in my house! It scared your daughter half to death! My dining room is in shambles thanks to the two of you.” I slapped my hands against my thighs. “I’m having a meeting here tomorrow afternoon. How am I supposed to explain a bullet hole in my ceiling! I’ve had it. You tell Hymie he’s not welcome here anymore.”

“I can’t do that. You know I can’t.” He stepped out of his trousers, lining up the creases and folding them neatly in half before tucking them under the mattress. “Hymie’s going through a rough time. It won’t happen again.”

I went to my dressing table. Made a big show of brushing my hair too hard, opening a drawer and then slamming it shut.

He came over and met my eyes in the mirror. “You have to understand, I’m under a lot of pressure right now. I’m trying to keep Hymie in line, trying to keep everything glued together.”

I turned around on my vanity stool. “We have a baby now. I’m trying to make a real home for us. You’re supposed to protect us, Shep, and instead you’re putting us in danger.”

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you and Hannah.”

“How can you be so sure? I can’t have guns going off inside my house. Jesus, I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t call the police.”

“I get it.” He leaned in closer to me. “I’ll talk to Hymie. It won’t happen again. Okay?”

We looked at each other, but his eyes were empty. He was someplace else and I felt a chill in his fingertips as he traced them across my shoulders.

•   •   •

T
he next morning, even before the baby awoke and the housekeeper had arrived, I was up, cleaning. I swept up the broken china pieces and the plaster dust, trying to salvage my buffet setup. Since half a dozen cups and saucers had been casualties of the previous night’s ruckus, I had to fill in with my everyday dishes. My cake was ruined and I didn’t have the ingredients to make a new one. All I had to serve my guests was coffee in mismatched cups.

After getting the house ready, I went upstairs to freshen up and get dressed. Fifteen minutes before the women started arriving Shep wandered downstairs in just his BVDs, with his bathrobe flapping open, the belt hanging from the loops, dragging behind him.

“Shep!”

“What?”

“My meeting. Remember? They’ll be here any minute.”

He raised his hands in surrender and went back upstairs.

By the time the women arrived, I was thankful that Shep was properly dressed and tucked away inside his study.

It took Adele Markey all of thirty seconds to ask about the ceiling.

“Oh,” I said, trying to lead her away from the scene of the crime, “we just had a little accident, that’s all. It was nothing. . . .”

I must have fielded another dozen similar inquiries by the time everyone arrived. The bullet hole had upstaged everything I was so proud of: my beautiful Jean-Michel Frank carpets, my velveteen rococo settees and the Chippendale chairs. The women paid no attention to my favorite pieces. Instead they helped themselves to coffee while I apologized, explaining that I’d dropped the cake that morning. They didn’t seem to mind half as much as I did.

A good twenty minutes into it, Adele started the meeting. The topic of the day was a book drive for the needy.

“Forgive me for asking,” said Esther, “but can the needy read?”

Adele and Harriet were debating the issue when Hymie Weiss, Bugs Moran and Vincent Drucci, in all their pinstripes and brawn, barged through the front door, letting in a rush of frigid January air along with a trail of snow and slush behind them. It gave the women quite a start and I apologized as the men let themselves into Shep’s study.

“Well”—Adele Markey cleared her throat—“as I was saying, we need to stress that all the books must be in good condition. . . .” Adele continued, gradually raising her voice to compete with the commotion coming from the men down the hall. “Are you getting all this down, madam secretary?”

“Absolutely,” said Harriet, taking copious notes.

Filtering through the walls we heard, “Goddamn motherfuckin’ greaseballs! Those fuckin’ slimeballs!”

I spoke up, trying to deflect their attention. “We’ll need to organize them in some way, either by author or by—”

“Cocksuckers!”

The word hung in the air, reverberating like a bell, ringing out over and over again. I shifted my eyes about the room. The women looked like they’d been assaulted.

“I’m sorry, ladies. Excuse me.” I got up, my cheeks burning red as I rushed down the hall.

“Will you guys knock it off! Jesus! We can hear
everything
you’re saying!”

I had barely made it back into the living room when the telephone rang. Not a minute later Shep’s office door swung open and the men moved into action. They stormed into the living room, oblivious to the twenty women staring with their mouths agape. The men were whooping it up, slapping one another on their backs, squaring their fedoras on their heads as they spit out a few more obscenities and bolted out the door. From the picture window I saw them pile into Shep’s automobile and drive away.

“Shep doesn’t usually work from home,” I said, forcing a laugh. “I hardly even know those other men—thank goodness. They work down at the nightclub,” I said, hoping they looked more like the nightclubbing sort than a group of mobsters.

“Oh . . .”

“I see. . . .”

“Uh-huh . . .”

The women seemed understanding enough, considering that the only disruptions we’d ever had during our meetings were an occasional child waking up from their nap, a rare telephone call, or the time Thelma Glick suffered a migraine and we had her lie down on the sofa with cold compresses applied to her forehead.

•   •   •

T
he next morning it was all over the newspapers.
Deadly Gunfire Opens on Alphonse Capone.
I glanced at the photograph on the front page. It featured the remains of an automobile, polka-dotted with bullet holes from the hood to the trunk. The windshield was shattered like confetti, and a body was slumped over the steering wheel.

I shoved my coffee aside and reached for a cigarette as I sat at the kitchen table reading about the
unidentified assailants
who blasted Capone’s car. Those
unidentified assailants
had congregated in my home just moments before. A witness claimed that a black sedan closed in on Capone’s Packard at State and Fifty-fifth streets. He said he saw the tommy guns sticking out the windows of the car just moments before he heard the first shots. The real news was in the next paragraph: “The driver was killed instantly; however, Mr. Capone himself escaped uninjured. . . .”