Dollface: A Novel of the Roaring Twenties (23 page)

I stared down into my bourbon. There he was, right in the center of my thoughts. Tony Liolli.

•   •   •

A
fter an hour and a half of talking Basha out of poisoning Mrs. Squeak, I arrived fifteen minutes late for that Wednesday’s meeting of the Jewish Women’s Council.

With a girlfriend plotting murder and a gangster for a husband, my weekly meeting was the only thing that made me feel normal. Whether we were discussing making challah for the temple bake sale or donating books to the Yeshiva library, attending those meetings was my anchor, helping me keep one foot planted in reality.

The topic that day was helping Jewish war widows.

“I’ve given this matter a great deal of thought,” began Adele Markey, “and I suggest that we give the Jewish widows yellow carnations to commemorate the anniversary of the Great War.” Adele pressed on, “Wouldn’t that be a lovely gesture for those lonely widows whose brave husbands perished?”

When she’d finished, I surprised myself by speaking up. “A carnation? That’s it?”

Everyone turned and looked at me, shocked that I would question the great Adele Markey.

“What would you prefer?” Adele challenged me, narrowing her eyes, pursing her lips.

“I can only speak as a daughter who grew up without a father,” I said. “He may not have died in the war, but I know what a struggle it was for my mother without him. And having a child to provide for made it especially difficult. We can’t forget that these women have children. It takes money for their shoes, clothing, doctor visits—housekeepers to look after them while their mothers go to work. With all due respect, Adele, we can do better than giving them a carnation. Why can’t we hold a fund-raiser in their honor? These widows don’t need flowers—they need money.” I paused, noticing that all the women had scooted forward in their chairs, their bodies turned toward me. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to ramble on like that.”

“No, no,” said Harriet, “please go on.”

I shifted in my chair and smoothed the front of my dress, feeling all eyes upon me. “It’s just that there’s a hole in the heart of these families. Their lives have been shattered and these widows are left to pick up the pieces.” The women were nodding, encouraging me. “I know that money is never going to take the place of the love and security that only a husband and father can give, but money—even a small amount—could make their lives a little easier. . . .”

The whole time I was talking, I found myself missing my father, though I hadn’t really known him. I told myself that if Abe Abramowitz had lived, he would have gotten out of the meatpacking business and taken an office job. If he had lived, my mother wouldn’t have had to work. We wouldn’t have lived beneath the Black Hand’s shadow, haunted by the unspoken trepidation that had settled over our house.

By the end of my sermon, all the women—even Adele Markey—agreed that it was a splendid idea and that I should chair the event. At first I resisted. It was too much work. The thought of it overwhelmed me. But then I realized this was a chance for me to redeem myself with the Jewish Women’s Council after the disastrous meeting I’d hosted. It was also a chance for self-redemption. I wouldn’t be just a gangster’s wife anymore. This had nothing to do with who I’d married. It wasn’t about Shep’s money, his influence, or his connections. This was about me and what I could do to make a legitimate place for myself and my daughter in this community.

I left that day with half a dozen invitations to dinner parties and luncheons and I’d never felt better.

•   •   •

A
s soon as I got home, I telephoned my mother. I wanted to make her proud, to show her that she had raised a strong, independent-minded daughter after all. “...I was telling them all about you,” I told her.

“My goodness, what on earth did you tell them?”

“Nothing bad, don’t worry. I just told them how hard it was for you, raising a daughter on your own.”

“Oh, that.” She sighed. “
Nisht geferlech
, it wasn’t such a big deal. I did what I had to do. That was that.” I could picture her dusting her hands, one off the other, as she said that.

“Yes, it was a big deal.” It was so hard to give her a compliment. I told her about the fund-raiser. “And guess what? They want me to chair the whole event.” I held my breath, waiting for her response. I felt like a little girl again, showing her my marks from school.

“And why shouldn’t they pick you? You’re certainly capable.” She sounded as if she believed this, as if she believed in me. But all I could think was, Where was this mother when I did show her my marks from school?

There was a long silence and I heard the ruckus going on behind her, the banging of typewriter keys, the squeaking of filing cabinets being opened and shut.

“I’m just glad you’re not associating with that Basha woman or the others anymore.”

I didn’t dare say that I hadn’t forsaken Basha and Dora for the members of the JWC.

“Those other women were trouble, believe me. You’re better off without them. Now if you could just get rid of that gangster husband of yours, you might stand half a chance.”

I gripped the base of the phone and when she started to speak again, I cut her off. “The baby’s crying, Ma,” I lied. “I have to go.” I hung up before she’d even said good-bye.

MADAM CHAIRMAN

W
ith Hannah asleep in my arms, I spent hours on the telephone talking with committee members and discussing possibilities. I kept a booklet at my side, filled with numbers, meeting dates and notes for the Jewish Women’s Council’s event.

We agreed that we would hold a luncheon and charge five dollars a person, half of which would go to our cause. But five dollars a head wasn’t going to amount to much of a fund-raiser, so we schemed and decided to hold an auction with all the proceeds going to the Jewish Women’s Council’s Widows’ Fund.

On the days my housekeeper looked after Hannah, I visited venues where we could hold our luncheon. I must have met with every café and tearoom owner from the Loop up to North Michigan Avenue. I worked on the invitations, the flowers and other decorations.

All was coming together except for the auction. The luncheon was less than six weeks away when Esther telephoned to say they were having trouble getting items donated.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but we’re just not having any luck.”

“You’re telling me we have nothing!” I said. “We’re running out of time and we have nothing to auction?”

“We’re trying, but no one wants to donate merchandise when they can sell it.”

As the chairwoman, the auction was ultimately my responsibility, so I had no choice but to step in. The next day I went out and called upon merchants myself.

I started in the neighborhood and went from store to store in the sweltering August heat. When I asked the owner of the millinery shop around the corner if she’d like to donate a hat to our cause, she politely asked me to leave. The stationers’ shop wasn’t much more receptive, but at least the owner let me get through my spiel before he escorted me to the door.

After a week of similar encounters, out of desperation I turned to Irwin Ragguffy, a widower and Jewish. I knew he’d be more sympathetic to our cause.

“You sure you don’t need anything more?” he asked when I went to see him.

“You’re too generous, Irwin.” My arms were loaded down with brassieres and undergarments. I could just picture those prim and proper women bidding on a pair of lacy silk bloomers.

“I’ll tell you what.” He reached for his fountain pen and jotted down a list of names and addresses. “You go see these people. They’ll donate to your cause. And if they don’t”—he winked as he handed me the paper—“you just let me know.”

•   •   •

B
enny Alberts was my first stop. He was a middle-aged man, bald-headed, with a silver horseshoe hairline and a gold ring the size of a sealing wax stamp. I introduced myself and explained that I was hosting a charity luncheon and in need of merchandise for the auction.

“Let me see what we can do for you,” he said, unlocking one of his glass display cases. “Just tell me what you’d like. I’ve got brooches and bracelets. I’ve got rubies and emeralds. Maybe some sapphires?” He couldn’t have been more helpful. “Now this,” he said, draping a diamond bracelet about my wrist, “is a one-of-a-kind. A real treasure, but it may be a little more than you were looking to spend.”

“Mr. Alberts,” I said with a laugh, “I’m not looking to spend anything. This is for charity. I’m looking for donations for the auction. For our
charity
luncheon.”

“Sweetheart”—he unclasped the bracelet and put it back on its velvet tray—“what do you take me for? I don’t stay in business by giving away my jewelry. Now, if you want to pay, since it’s for charity, I’ll give you a nice deal.”

“Hmmm . . .” I traced my fingers over the brooches he’d laid out on the counter. “That’s really not going to be an option.”

He leaned forward, planting an elbow on his display case. “Then I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. I can’t help you.”

“That’s a shame, because Irwin Ragguffy was
sure
you’d be more than happy to donate an item or two.”

“Irwin?” Benny Alberts dragged a hand over his face and straightened up. “Irwin Ragguffy told you that?”

“Oh, yes.” I batted my lashes and dropped my chin, holding it in place with my fingertip. “He said that if you gave me a hard time, I should just let him know.”

“Well, you should have said something sooner.” He cleared his throat. “Irwin’s a very good customer. Why didn’t you tell me Irwin sent you. . . .”

I walked out of Alberts’s jewelry store with a jade hatpin, a necklace, and a ruby brooch.

Thanks to Irwin, within a few days, I had donations of clothing, area rugs and picture frames, a Brownie camera, brass candlesticks and an RCA Victrola.

•   •   •

O
ne week later, I arrived home after a lengthy committee meeting where we’d reviewed all our plans. The housekeeper answered the door before I’d even turned the knob. She had Hannah asleep in her arms and a worried look on her face.

“You have company, Mrs. Green,” she said in a whisper.

I followed her into the living room and there were Evelyn, Dora, and Basha waiting for me. One look at their faces and my knees went weak.

“What’s wrong? What happened to him?” I reached for the back of the chair to steady myself. I felt faint.

“There
was
some trouble today,” said Dora, taking me in her arms. “Some of Capone’s boys opened fire on Vinny, Hymie, and Shep down at the Standard Oil Building.”

“Oh God! Just tell me—was he shot? Is he dead?”

“No. He’s fine. They’re all fine. But the cops picked him up.”

“I need a drink.” The room was spinning.

“Right here.” Basha handed me a glass and I knocked back most of it in one gulp.

“Hymie got away, but the cops caught up with Shep and Vinny.” Dora took hold of my hand and led me over to the settee. “They arrested them.”

“So they’re in jail? Shep’s in jail?” My stomach clenched up. I finished off my drink.

“Hymie’s probably down there now posting their bail.”

“You wait and see, the boys will be home in time for supper,” said Basha.

•   •   •

A
nd they were. It wasn’t even dark out yet and Shep was home, sitting on the edge of the divan, a scotch in one hand, a cigarette in the other. His shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his necktie hanging down loose. I was standing by the window, staring outside, watching the sun slip below the horizon.

“So when the cops caught up with me,” Shep explained, “I was holding a tommy gun in my hand.”

I turned and looked at him. “So that’s why they arrested you?” But what I really wanted to ask was,
Why in the hell were you carrying a Thompson submachine gun?

“No.” He shook his head. “No, a tommy gun’s legal. You could walk down the street with one in broad daylight and the coppers couldn’t touch you.”

“Then why did they—”

“Because they found the Colt.45 in my pocket.”

“What?” A chill came over me. A tommy gun in his hand, another gun in his pocket? He was turning into Dion O’Banion. I went and sat on the ottoman across from him.

“They charged me with carrying a concealed weapon.” Shep ground out his cigarette. “And when they thought that wouldn’t stick, they slapped me with assault, attempt to kill and a slew of other bullshit charges.”

I hugged myself around the middle and rocked back and forth. It was worse than I thought. “What happens now?”

“We’ve got a hearing next week.”

“What about Drucci?” I asked, staring at the rug.

“Nah, they’re not interested in him. He’s off the hook. It’s me they’re after.” Shep didn’t seem fazed by it. If anything, to him it was an annoying inconvenience. “Hey.” He paused until I looked up, tears in my eyes. “It’s gonna be okay.”

I leaned in and kissed him hard on the mouth. “You scared the hell out of me today, you know that?” I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “I don’t know what I would have done if something happened to you.”

“Don’t you worry, Dollface. Nothing’s ever gonna happen to me.”

“But what about the hearing? Couldn’t that—”

“That’s just standard routine. We’ve got the judge in our pocket. Everything’s fine. I promise you.”

TRIALS AND ERRORS

I
t was the day before Shep’s hearing and I was a wreck. But not Shep. He was up early and had already left the house for a meeting down at Schofield’s.

With a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, I sat at the table and stared until nervous energy kicked in and I couldn’t sit still another minute. I got up, did the breakfast dishes, scoured out the sink and polished the silver. I cleaned out the icebox and ironed the bedsheets. After rinsing the dirty diapers in the upstairs toilet, I gave Hannah a bath and clipped her fingernails and toenails, swabbed out her ears. Having no luck in weaning her off her bottle, I even let her have it early, just to have something to do. As I rocked her in my arms, she stared up at me, hardly blinking. It was as if she knew something was wrong.