Dollface: A Novel of the Roaring Twenties (6 page)

As he said that a dull, empty ache settled in my stomach. I realized I didn’t even know where my father’s grave was. I was young when he died and hadn’t really known him, but still, he was my father, and I felt robbed that he’d been taken from me. Just thinking about it made me sad, even a little angry.

My mood dipped but then brightened again as we lingered at our table, nursing brandies and exchanging stories long after our plates had been cleared.

When I asked about his father, Shep gave his brandy a swirl. “He worked for the railroads. Put in sixteen hours a day and still couldn’t make ends meet.” He shook his head. “My older brother and I sold newspapers and shined shoes to help out. The two of us shared a bed. Well, I guess you could say it was a bed. We slept on a mattress on the kitchen floor.”

“You didn’t have a bedroom?”

“That
was
our bedroom.” He smiled.

“Was this here in Chicago?”

He nodded, set his glass down. “Lovely part of town called Little Hell.”

“Oh, dear!” I cupped a hand over my mouth. I’d heard horror stories about that part of town.

“Yep, we lived in a deluxe four-room shanty.”

“Was it as rough a neighborhood back then as it is now?”

He looked somewhere over my shoulder. “Let’s just say I saw a lot of holdups and murders.”

“Murders!”

He looked back at me and nodded. “I saw people get stabbed and beaten to death.” He opened his cigarette case and offered me one. “So, what about you? Where’d you grow up?”

“Brighton Park.” I leaned in while he lit my cigarette. As I exhaled, watching the smoke drift away, I thought about the old neighborhood. Ours was the shabbiest house on the street because my mother was too busy working to notice the broken shutters or care for our lawn. I was ashamed of how our house looked, knowing the neighborhood children ran by on their way to the park at the end of our street. While other families sat down to formal dinner tables, my mother and I stood over the kitchen stove eating straight from the pot of stew or the pan of flanken the housekeeper had prepared while my mother was at work.

“Hey.” Shep leaned forward. “Where’d you just go? What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, sorry.” I flicked my cigarette and smiled. “It’s just that Brighton Park is worlds away from Little Hell.” I looked at him and flicked my cigarette ash again.

Shep told me a few more stories and it wasn’t until he said his father had died when he was young that I realized we had
anything
in common.

“My father died, too,” I said. “I was four years old. How old were you?” Shep didn’t answer. He just reached over and, without asking permission, held my hand. His skin was soft and warm, and there was something in his touch that made me say the rest. “It was the Black Hand,” I volunteered, surprised to hear those words leave my lips. “They murdered him.”

Shep squeezed my fingers tighter. Part of me wanted to talk about the very thing that I could never get my mother to talk about. It was also the perfect time to ask Shep about the North Side Gang. But I hesitated, stuck between wanting to ask, but not wanting to know. Before I said anther word, he steered the conversation in a different direction. Soon we were talking about moving pictures and amusement parks.

When he drove me home, he stopped outside the rooming house and put the car in park, letting the motor softly putter away. “You know I’m crazy about you, Vera. You know that, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, rolling my eyes, “you’re crazy, all right.”

“I’m serious. I don’t meet a lot of girls like you.”

“Like me?”

“I meet a lot of floozies, showgirls. But you—you’re a nice girl. You’re spunky, a real pip, but you’re nice.”

“Nice? That’s a terrible thing to say. Nice is dull. I’m not nice.”

“If you say so. But I’ll tell you something: You’re the kind of girl I could get serious with.”

And then he kissed me.

•   •   •

T
wo days later, I called in sick at both my jobs. I wasn’t in any position to sacrifice a day’s pay, but I couldn’t resist the chance to see Shep again. When I was in his company, he made me feel special, like I was somebody and without a care in the world. He took me ice-skating on the Midway in Washington Park that day. He fastened my skates and held on to me the entire time as I wobbled from side to side.

I sat out at one point, shivering on a wooden bench, clapping as Shep sped around the rink, weaving in and out of other skaters, natural as could be. I watched him with a glowing sense of pride. He looked good on the ice, dressed in just a heavy wool sweater and gloves, his dark hair held in place with brilliantine while his scarf flapped behind him in the wind. Shaved ice sprayed off his skates each time he made a sharp turn or came to a sudden stop. I wondered if he’d brought me here to impress me, to show off a bit? If so, it was working. I eased back on the bench and waved as he whipped past me again and again.

Afterward, we sipped hot chocolates before an open fireplace at the adjacent lodge. As we listened to the logs crackling, we made plans for the upcoming weekend.

That Saturday night, he took me to a Chinese restaurant, where I tasted my first egg rolls, wonton soup, chicken subgum and fried rice. I’d never eaten with chopsticks before, and like most of the other patrons, noodles, clumps of rice and whole vegetables slipped from my grip.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Shep laughed. “What are you doing over there, huh?”

“I have no idea.” I made a face. “Help!”

He laughed some more. “Try holding them like this.” He reached over and placed one stick in my hand. “That’s it. Hold it just like a pencil.”

While he arranged my fingers, I couldn’t help gazing into his dark eyes and then looking at his mouth. Something came alive inside me at that moment. It hit me and hit me hard: I was falling for Shep Green. He was everything I’d been looking for. He was charming, successful, exciting and charismatic. But more than that, he made me feel good about myself. No one else had ever treated me as if I mattered, as if I deserved to be pampered and looked after. As I watched his lips turn downward in concentration, my excitement clashed with a rush of anxiety. Was he as taken with me as I was with him? God, I hoped so.

“Now pay attention,” he said, placing the second stick against my ring finger and the crook of my thumb. “Are you watching what I’m doing here?”

“Yes, sir!” I glanced down at my hands.

“Okay, now, Dollface, you’re on your own.”

I grabbed a piece of chicken and got it halfway to my mouth before it slipped from my chopsticks, making us both burst out laughing.

“Okay,” he said, trying to compose himself, “there’s only one way to handle this.” Shep picked up his chopsticks, grabbed a piece of chicken subgum and fed it to me.

As we were leaving the restaurant he said he had a surprise for me. We went back to the Meridian and there he introduced me to a woman wearing a red fox stole wrapped about her shoulders, its beady eyes staring at me, its paws resting on her chest and its bushy tail draped down the side of her arm.

“Vera,” he said, “I’d like you to meet America’s sweetheart.”

“Oh my goodness.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say as my cheeks burned red. Others had gathered around, trying for a closer look at Mary Pickford.

Shep gave her a kiss on the cheek, said it was good to see her
again
, said to give his best to Douglas. It was like they were old chums. I stared at Miss Pickford’s glorious blond curls, wanting to tell her that I’d seen all her pictures, that I’d sometimes sat through the same one twice in a single afternoon, and that she was even more beautiful in person, that her husband, Douglas Fairbanks, was the handsomest actor in the world. . . . But I was too starstruck to say anything. I looked into her blue eyes and I so wanted to rise up, to be Mary Pickford’s equal, but there were no words that could bridge the distance between us. So instead I stood and stared.

After she had moved on, Shep and I met up with Izzy and Evelyn. It must have been two, three in the morning, and the four of us were upstairs in Shep’s office. I couldn’t get over the fact that I’d just met Mary Pickford. The party downstairs was still going strong and we heard the faint sounds of music and laughter rising up from the dance floor beneath us. An empty bourbon bottle sat on the table next to a candle dripping wax. The air was thick with cigarette and cigar smoke, while Satchmo played on the Victrola in the corner, carrying us along. Izzy had his arm draped over Evelyn’s shoulder, his fingertips dangling just inches away from her strapped-down breast. I was on Shep’s lap, my arm thrown easy-like over his shoulder.

At that hour, after drinking so much, everything was funny to us. Shep was in the middle of a story that he’d been telling forever. Couldn’t get through more than a line or two before we’d all bust out laughing.

“...so this guy comes up to me, and he’s a big guy—”

“Oh, wait till you hear this!” Izzy laughed, rocking back and forth, pulling Evelyn with him. Izzy must have heard this story a zillion times before.

“...and so,” Shep pressed on, “the big lug starts crying! Just bawling.”

Izzy cracked up. “Tell ’em what you said. Go on, tell ’em!”

Shep could barely get the words out. “So I tell the poor sap to quit pishing from his eyes!”

“‘Pishing from his eyes!’” Izzy went wild, holding his gut like it was going to burst. He must have repeated that eye-pishing line another two or three times.

We carried on as if this was the funniest thing we’d ever heard. And then the laughter dropped down a notch and then another and another, until the hilarity faded and the room fell silent. We found ourselves in a lull, happy and content. I rested my head on Shep’s shoulder and nuzzled in close to his neck, taking in the soft, spicy scent of his shaving soap. I could have stayed right there forever.

THE BACKFIRE

T
he following Saturday night I worked another girl’s shift on the switchboard. She’d come down with a bug and I’d gotten myself into a financial bind on account of calling in sick the week before, and then splurging on a two-dollar bottle of perfume and a fifty-cent pair of stockings. Besides, Shep had some business to tend to that evening but he had invited me to a Sunday matinee the next day. He said to bring Evelyn along. Izzy was going, too.

It was a tiny theater with stained carpeting. The wallpaper was peeling in the corners. There were only about a hundred seats and we were in the front row. My chair had a bad spring that jabbed me in the bottom every time I sat the wrong way.

Their friend, Vincent Drucci, had a small part—just a handful of lines. They had nicknamed him Schemer, said he was a real prankster. Halfway through the first act he flubbed his line and broke out of character. “Aw, fuck.” He cuffed himself on the forehead. “Fuck, I’m gonna do it again.”

I wasn’t convinced that he could act, but, boy, he was something to look at: tall, with thick dark hair and dark eyes so intense his pupils were as black as his irises.

By the time Drucci took his curtain bow and we left the theater it had started to snow. We strolled two by two down a white-covered sidewalk while motorcars puttered along, rolling through the slush and fresh piles of horse manure. I looped my arm through Shep’s as we walked, letting him steady me each time I felt myself slipping on the ice. It reminded me of how he’d held on to me the day we’d gone skating.

“What do you feel like doing now, fellas?” Evelyn asked, reaching for Izzy’s arm.

Izzy nudged Shep. “I’d say Schemer’s acting days are over.”

Shep laughed. “You try telling him that.”

“Hey”—Evelyn gave Izzy’s arm a tug—“what do you say we go get a drink someplace, huh?”

“I’m not afraid of Drucci. I’ll tell him right to his face. He can’t act for shit.”

“Izz.” Evelyn tugged at his arm again.

“What!” He spun around and glared at her. “Can’t you see I’m talking here!”

Evelyn pulled her hand away and began walking by herself, keeping her head down, snowflakes collecting on top of her hat. I dropped back and walked with her.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” I whispered, trying to comfort her. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”

Eventually Shep came and joined me while Izzy packed snowballs in his bare hands.

As we made our way up State Street, the church bells rang out from Holy Name Cathedral. We passed a newspaper boy on the corner, sitting on a stack of
Chicago Daily Gazettes
.

“Any good news in there today, kid?” Shep flipped the boy a nickel for a two-penny paper. The boy looked at the coin resting in his palm and said, “Hey, mister—wait! What about your paper? Don’tcha want your newspaper, mister?”

“Nah.” Shep gave the kid a wink. “You read it for me, pal.”

“That was nice of you,” I said, looking back at the paperboy still staring at the nickel in his hand.

“Sometimes I can be a nice guy. Oh, wait.” He stopped. “Being nice means you’re dull, right?”

I gave him a playful poke with my elbow.

“Hey, look who’s here.” Izzy pointed to two men leaving Holy Name Cathedral. The one had a big, full face, and though he walked with a limp, he had a bounce to his step. The other was younger, with a smaller build, but he moved like a man twice his size.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Just a couple of buddies. The one guy owns this shop right here.”

“The flower shop?” I looked up at the green-and-white-striped awning with the name
Schofield’s
scripted across the front.

As we stood beneath the snow-topped awning, the introductions were made. The man with the limp was Dion O’Banion, owner of Schofield’s Flower Shop, and his somber-looking friend was Hymie Weiss. I couldn’t understand what a Jew was doing at Holy Name Cathedral, but it didn’t seem like an appropriate opening question, so I let it pass. We were still standing outside the flower shop, talking about the matinee, as the snow tapered off to flurries, letting the sun break through the thinning clouds.

“You should have seen Drucci up there on that stage,” Izzy said, laughing again.