Ten Cents a Dance (22 page)

"Ruby?"

I glanced up. Alice, the girl who wore her hair in ringlets like Shirley Temple, who spent half of every night dozing in the meatpen, stood at the end of the row of lockers.

"The band's starting, Alice," I said.

"I know, Ruby, it's just . . . it's just that . . . " Her hands were clasped in front of her; she nudged them in the air at me. Why was she blushing? What on earth was wrong with her?

Whatever it was, I didn't have time for it. "Del's going to be pounding that door down any second," I said, "and I don't plan on being here when he does." I grabbed the clean dress—the one Paulie had given me, the smoky blue silk—and stepped into it.

"But Ruby . . ."

"For God's sake, Alice, leave me
alonel"

I half expected she would cry. She did, sometimes, when Yvonne teased her. I felt bad, but some people just didn't have the sense God gave a rat, and how was that my fault? But Alice only said, "Suit yourself, then." Which was an un-Alice-like thing to say. No time to ponder. I zipped up my dress and still made it out of the Ladies' before she did.

The band was in full swing. Del wasn't anywhere in sight, thank goodness. I straightened my shoulders and lifted my head and sashayed down the dance floor. A fellow bobbed over to me with a ticket. I took it from him and slipped it under the top of my stocking. The little colored lights floated across the floor, the walls, the faces. My partner was a good dancer, for once, and better yet, not a talker. Three couples to my left, Yvonne single-footed with a dark, Italian-looking soldier. She glanced my way and smiled, and at that moment, the lights came up.

Not the swirling colored dots, but the big overhead lights. The ones that signaled the show was over. Time to go home. Everyone looked up, looked around. My partner blinked, frowning. Even the band stopped playing.

Behind me, a girl shrieked with laughter. I turned to look. Off to my right, someone else—I couldn't see who—called, "Hey, Ruby! Over here!"

"What is it? Where?" I pivoted and craned my neck to see. More shouts of laughter, still behind me. Scattered guffaws from the men, while the girls' laughter rose into whoops. My partner backed away, a look on his face like I'd suddenly sprouted whiskers. "What's wrong?" I asked him, but he glanced left and right and shrank backward into the crowd. That was when I realized that the crowd was outside me. Fingers pointing. Girls nudging each other. I saw the direction of their stares, and my hand flew around to my rear. I'd changed dresses so fast . . . was my skirt hem caught in my girdle, was my underwear showing? But all I felt was the smooth fall of silk. And something sticky.

I looked at my fingertip. Bright orange red, heavy. I'd seen the color somewhere before. I touched it to my thumb, smeared it.

Lipstick.

Over the laughter, I heard Del roaring, "What the hell! What the hell!" And then I saw Yvonne.

She was hanging on to the arm of her soldier. Both of them laughing fit to die. Yvonne lifted her nose. Sniffed. "What is that stench? My God, it smells like . . . like a
slaughterhouse
in here." Screams of laughter from Gabby, from Valerie, from Stella. From everyone.

Red bloomed like roses at the edges of my sight. I didn't know I was moving forward until something jerked me back almost off my feet, Peggy's voice in my ear: "Don't, Ruby! Del's coming—if he catches you fighting, he'll fire you!"

"I don't care. Let me go!" I wrenched hard, left and right, put my head down to charge, but they hauled me off the floor, Peggy on one arm, Nora on the other, someone else's hands on my shoulders. They banged my head against the doorjamb, shoving me into the Ladies'. Once inside, they let go. I staggered, the heel of my hand pressed to my eye where I'd hit it.

"Hold still," Peggy said. I felt her unzip my gown, a loosening. I shoved it off, stumbling forward, one foot and then the other until the silk fell in a heap on the linoleum.

A fist hammered on the door. "Everybody out of there!" Del shouted. "Back to work!"

"Ruby's sick!" Peggy hollered back.

"So what! For that you gotta turn on all the lights? Half of you gotta be in there with her? Get your asses out here right this goddamned second, or all of you— canned!"

They left, all except Peggy. She bent toward the dress, but I bent quicker and scooped it up. Still she hesitated.

"You sure you're all right?"

"Don't worry. I don't have a knife, I won't stab her."

"She deserves to get stabbed. I bet Nora's white gown will fit you. I'll ask her, if you want."

The notion of going back out there made my stomach shrivel. Tomorrow. I could do it tomorrow. Not tonight. I shook my head. I thought Peggy would argue, but she only said, "I'll tell Del you got sick to your stomach."

When the door shut behind her, I carried a chair over and wedged it under the knob so no one could come in. Then I held the gown at arm's length.

Written across the rump, in Gabby's brilliant orange red lipstick: STOCKYARD COW.

We didn't say a thing,
Yvonne had told me.

But Stan must have said plenty to her. About the packinghouse. About the Back of the Yards. I could see her, resting her chin in one hand, smiling her lazy wolfish smile, asking Stan question after question. All that snickering she and Gabby had done, after.

Stockyard cow.

I plucked the tickets out of the top of my stocking and tucked them into my garter purse along with my tips. I stripped off my stockings—careful not to snag them with my nails—then the girdle. The ruined gown, the gown Paulie had given me, I stuffed into the trash. It didn't matter if cleaners could get the lipstick out. I'd never wear it again.

Yvonne had slung her fox coat back across her chair. The burn hole in the collar looked like a crater in grass, like a den a tiny monster had dug. In my bra and panties, barefoot and barelegged, I carried it to the sink and held the left sleeve under the tap. When it was soaked through, I washed the sticky sheen of cola from my breasts and belly. I used the right sleeve to dry off with. The fur pushed the water around, it didn't absorb a lick, but I didn't care. The soft coolness felt good. It was the only thing that felt good. I left the coat in the sink, went back to my locker, and put on the red suit.

Del's fist hammered again on the door. "You, Ruby! Get out here!"

I cracked the door open, just enough to see his angry face. "I'm sick," I said.

"I don't care if you got the Spanish flu. Get your Polish fanny in a gown and get out onto that floor."

"I'm sick," I repeated. "I'm going home." "Then you better clean out your locker right now, because you ain't coming back."

I opened the door wider. "I'm going home now," I said, "and I'll be back tomorrow night. You know why? Because I'm your best earner."

It was a shot in the dark. I figured he was going to can me. I figured he'd say,
You, the best? You're nothing, compared to Yvonne. Don't let the door hit you in the ass.

"What do I care about that?" he yelled. Stabbing a finger at me. "This time tomorrow, I could have a dozen girls lined up to take your place,"

"And none of them as good as me." A little spark of victory catching inside, burning.
Queen Bee.
"Eight months, Del. I haven't missed a night. You can give me three hours." I coughed. Rubbed my throat and winced.
Give him what he wants to believe.

Del looked like he'd stepped in manure. I supposed in a way, he had. "Something went on tonight. I don't know what. But if it happens again . . ." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "You savvy me?"

I nodded.

"You're one minute late tomorrow, I'll can your ass. See if I don't."

I ducked back into the Ladies' to get my pocketbook. On the way out, I stuffed the fox jacket into one of the toilets and pressed the lever.

The lights were down on the dance floor, the colored spots swirling. The band playing "If I Didn't Care." Everything back to normal. Nothing the same. Even walking felt strange, without a girdle. As though my body might spill in any direction. Bigger, but lighter somehow. Girls turned their heads away, pretended not to see me. I didn't look for Yvonne, but I knew she was watching.

Good doggie.
Her eyes dark and brittle in the mirror. The beginnings of wrinkles at their corners.

I passed fifty men on the way out. None of them recognized me; none of them spared me more than a glance. They never noticed our faces much. A green gown instead of blue, pin my hair up, and I'd bet tomorrow ninety-nine out of a hundred couldn't pick me out of a lineup.

Let Yvonne think she'd won. Let her think she'd run me out for good. She was old; her time was over. Tomorrow I'd take her best fish away from her, that plug-ugly man with the big ears, and by the end of the week, I'd be wearing a new gown he'd bought me, and come the end of summer, I'd have my own fur coat, and I'd dangle it in front of her and watch her choke. Starting tomorrow I'd have my own place, and every night I didn't see Paulie, I'd go out on the town and have myself a ball.

I was the Queen Bee now.

TWENTY

Just as well. I wasn't in any hurry to go back to Chester's house. I'd walk up Madison Avenue, take in a late show at the movie theater. I could think better in the air-conditioning. Maybe I could figure out how to tell Ma I was leaving.

In winter, people walked fast, their heads down. A hot night like this, they ambled. No hurry. Nobody wanted to be cooped up inside their houses. I kept near the curb, where there was a little more room. I was almost to the theater when an enormous, gleaming black coupe slowed up next to me, honking. The driver leaned across the seat. Even before the passenger door popped open, I started running toward it.

"What on earth are you doing here?" I said as I got in. Instead of answering, Paulie slung his arm behind my neck and hauled me close for a kiss, deep and wet and steamy. Someone on the sidewalk whistled. When he let go, I was breathless. He grinned his messy, crumpled grin.

"You up for a celebration?" he asked. He didn't wait for an answer. He shifted gears, and the coupe leaped away from the curb. I ran my hands over the smooth burgundy leather of the seat, feeling like I'd wandered into a dream, a dream where Yvonne was nothing more than a pesky fly, and Ma . . . Ma I would worry about when I woke up. If ever I woke up. For the second time in a day, Paulie had swooped down, snatched me out of my blues, swept me away. It's fate, I thought. We're meant to be together.

"Where'd this car come from?" I asked. Chrome glimmered on the dash; not a stain or a crack in sight. If the convertible had smelled like a shoe, this smelled like money.

"It's mine," Paulie said. "Nineteen forty-one Lincoln Zephyr Club Coupe. You like it?"

"Yours! Since when?"

"Since an hour ago. I swung by the Starlight to pick you up, but Del said you'd gone home sick. Glad I found you." He kissed the top of my head. "Wouldn't be a celebration without my girl."

I'd never seen Paulie in this good a mood. "What are we celebrating?" I asked. But he wouldn't tell me. Not until we got to the restaurant, an all-night diner off the Loop.

"Sinkers and suds," he told the waitress. "Blond and sweet, no cow."

"You got it," she said. And still he wouldn't tell me. Just sat there with the same stuffed-to-the-gills look Yvonne had after she'd found out I'd bottled hog's feet for the packinghouse. I pushed the thought of her out of my head. Yvonne would get what was coming to her later. Tonight, all that mattered was Paulie.

When the doughnuts and coffee arrived—cream and sugar for me, black for him—he leaned close across the table.

"I shouldn't even tell you this, but . . . " He took my hand. "I can trust you, can't I? You can zip it?"

"Zipped," I breathed, and drew my finger and thumb across my lips. His fingers tightened on mine, warm and strong. Then he let go. He picked a doughnut off the plate, broke it in half.

"You remember a couple months ago, you told me about that jumped-up colored in the pinstripe suit? The policy king?"

"Sure I do."

"That got me thinking. So I did a little sniffing around. In New York and Detroit, the mob's got policy all buttoned up. But here, the mob ain't got a hand in. The colored run it themselves." He dunked the doughnut half, shoved it in his mouth, chewed. "Millions of dollars, built on nickels. That's what you said, and I never forgot it. Millions, in the hands of some dumb shines. Seemed to me like a couple smart white boys ought to be able to figure something out."

A bad feeling began to stir in my chest. Like coffee in a percolator, when the heat's on, bubbling. "Paulie, what did you do?"

"Me and my buddy Steve, we took our time. Studied the operation. The guys who take the bets, the runners, they're small fry. Maybe they got fifty bucks on 'em at a time. The runners drop the dough at a policy station, but that ain't no good, either. Stations are crowded. Folks going in and out all hours placing bets. On top of that, they got maybe ten, twenty coloreds working the joint and the cash squirreled away like Fort Knox. Safes and everything. But the money can't stay there, can it?"

He didn't wait for an answer. "See, they got to move it. Pay off the winners. Pay off the cops. Kick the rest upstairs. These fellows who run the policy games, you know why they call 'em kings? Because they live in
palaces,
Ruby. Right over there in Bronzeville. They got Rolls-Royces and chauffeurs to drive 'em, and they don't so much as lift their little fingers for it. While I have to borrow a lousy dinged-up Chevy to take my girl out."

The bad feeling boiled right up into my throat. "Paulie,
what did you do?"

"A few fellows take the moolah out of the stations. Same fellows, every day. They got routes. Same routes, every day." He chuckled. "Nice cars they use on those routes."

I leaned forward, whispered, "You
robbed
—"

"Shh!" He glanced around. Then back at me. "We were just going to case one of 'em tonight, we weren't planning to do it. But everything came together and we made our move. Easy as kicking a kitten. Shine never knew what hit him."

The gun, lying like a rock in the convertible's glove compartment. "Paulie, you didn't—did you shoot him?"

"What do you care? We got the loot, that's what matters." He swept up my hand and kissed it. "A cool thousand and a sweet car, and all thanks to you."

"Me!"

"It was you told me about it, wasn't it?"

My coffee cup slipped from my fingers. I grabbed for it, but not before coffee splashed across my peplum jacket. I snatched up my napkin and blotted the stains.

Paulie shot someone for money.

All those grilled cheese sandwiches I ate with him in diners just like this. Snickers and Old Nicks in Peoples Theater. Listening to him talk about the big score, while movies flickered light and shadow across his cool gray eyes. Me soaking up every word, thinking,
He'll be big as Capone someday.
Feeling that old, cold-shivery thrill.

How'd you think Capone got big, Ruby? By stealing dresses off delivery trucks? What'd you think he might do?

Not shoot someone. I never thought that. And the policy kings . . . mansions, Rolls-Royces . . . millions of dollars, built on nickels.

"They'll get you," I said suddenly. "Paulie, they'll come after you!"

He laughed. "That's the beauty of it, Ruby. They can't. They'd have to go through Canaryville to get to the Yards, and no colored in his right mind is gonna step foot in either one. If the Irish don't beat the tar out of 'em, the Poles will. As far as the law, fat chance. Policy's illegal. The coloreds pay off the cops so they don't get raided. It ain't protection money." He swallowed the last of his second doughnut, started on a third. "Best of all, Frank Nitti and all the big boys in the mob, they won't care. Whatever happens to policy ain't no skin off their nose." The doughnut piece fell into his coffee; he fished it out with his fingers. "See? Home free."

He made it sound easy. Maybe it was. But then, how come nobody thought of it before?

Either Paulie was the first one ever to hit the policy kings. Or . . . or somebody
had done
it before, and everybody knew better than to try again.

Paulie shot someone for money.

No. He couldn't have. He couldn't have done that, then sit across the table from me, eating a doughnut. He wouldn't be the same Paulie, with his hair gold on top from sun, his ears that stuck out just a little too much, his rain-cloud eyes.

"You know," he said, "a friend of mine is moving out of some sweet digs over on Van Buren."

Paulie shot someone for money. I shivered. Goose walked over your grave, Ma would say. I took a swallow of coffee. Not hot enough to chase away the sudden chill. I signaled to the waitress.

"I've seen it. Upstairs of a swell two-flat. Soon as I heard, I thought, that's the place for Ruby."

It took me a second to realize what he'd said. "But I can't afford a flat. I was going to see about the hotel where my friend Peggy lives. Like we talked about before. It's nice enough and I don't need much room."

"You can do better than a fleabag hotel. As far as the rent"—Paulie pushed the crumbs on his plate into a little pile—"I could take care of that for you."

I frowned. Take care of the rent? Like Yvonne and her fish? "No. I couldn't do that," I said.

"What's the matter, you think God's gonna send a lightning bolt?" He grinned up at me. "Seems to me he'd have done it already, if he was going to. Look, I'd pay the rent if we were married, wouldn't I?"

"But we're not." I flushed, remembering our fight in the car earlier.

"So?" The waitress came over, topped up our cups. Paulie waited until she was gone. Then he slipped his fingers under mine, stroking my knuckles with his thumb. "We do other things married people do, don't we?"

A shiver zigged down my back. I nodded.

"This'll make us more like being married. Isn't that what you want?"

"Sure it is, but . . ."

"But what?"

Maybe it wasn't the same as Yvonne at all. She did it for money. When you loved the man, though, like I loved Paulie . . . and we were going to be married soon, anyway . . .

"So that's settled." Paulie leaned forward and took my other hand, folding them together in both of his. "You know, Ruby, I been thinking. Taxi-dance halls—that's old stuff. In your racket, where's the real dough? Hooking the fish, right? But you gotta dance your feet off all night first. The smart dames, they don't wait for fish to come to them."

"Oh, yeah? What do they do, put an advertisement in the paper?"

Paulie didn't smile, but he had the same light in his eyes as when he talked about the big score. His fingers tightened on mine.

"See, this is how it works. I find the fish. You show 'em a good time. I'm telling you, the way this town is booming with GIs, we'll clean up. How does that sound, huh? Dress up in your pretty dresses and go out on the town, and not have to hop around a dance floor for nickels?"

The uneasy feeling stirred again; the coffee felt like acid in my stomach.
Their fish get something for their money,
Peggy had said.
And what they get is plenty more than a foxtrot.

I pulled my hands free of his. "I don't get it. How are we supposed to clean up, just from fellows taking me out to clubs?"

Now it was Paulie's turn to frown. "Well, that's not all they . . . Look, it's not anything more than you're doing already. My way, you'll get to spend more time off your feet than on 'em." He shrugged. Acting casual. But his shoulders had gone tense, and his face. Watching me.

I'm not asking for nothing you haven't already done.
My back shoved up against bricks, Tom's breath in my hair. I looked at Paulie's rain-cloud eyes and I couldn't see past the flecks of color. I couldn't see inside. I wondered if I ever had. Or if that had been an illusion too.

Earlier, when I'd charged Yvonne, I'd been so angry I'd literally seen red. Now my vision was sharp as glass. My hands were in my lap, the tablecloth brushing across their backs. I wadded fabric between my fingers, crumpled it small into my palms. Then I stood up and yanked. The tablecloth upended into Paulie's lap.

I should've ordered the egg plate, with toast on its own dish and orange juice. As it was, there were only the coffee cups and saucers and the doughnut plate and the water glasses and water pitcher and silverware and napkin holder. Although, the water pitcher was full. That was something. I dropped the tablecloth while the pitcher was still tumbling, but from Paulie's yell I was pretty sure it got him.

There's your big score, I thought.

I walked to the door while glass still crashed behind me and knives clattered (maybe it was spoons, I didn't turn around), Paulie hollering, "Goddamn bitch, what the hell's the matter with you!" Then I was outside, heat slapping across my face like wet laundry fresh out of Ma's new washing machine.

I hadn't gone two steps up the sidewalk when a hand grabbed my hair and yanked backward. Pain shot across my scalp and I fell. I screamed and beat at Paulie's arm—it was his arm, of course, the muscles hard edged and taut— but he didn't let go. He yanked again and my leg and hip scraped across the sidewalk. I dug my nails into his wrist, trying to make him let go, trying to pull myself up, to make the agony on my scalp go away. From the corner of my eye I saw his knee draw back. I swung one fist high. Hit something. Couldn't tell what. The next instant, pain exploded down my side.

He let go then. When I could breathe again, I pressed a hand to the back of my head. My scalp tingled and stung. My side felt numb. I knew that would change soon. I heard Paulie panting above me. He'd panted above me in the backseat of the kelly green convertible. I'd thought it meant he loved me.

I heard an anxious voice asking something. "It's all right," Paulie said. "She's my wife." Footsteps walked away. To me, Paulie said, "You bitch, I'll teach you to make a fool out of me. Goddamn whore."

"I'm not a whore." I didn't know if he heard me. I pushed myself up along the wall. My fingertips scrabbled against the brick. My breath came in short gasps, every one like the stab of an ice pick into my right side.

"All those fish you bragged about, what'd they give you all those gifts for, huh?" Paulie said. "To look at that piggy-eyed face of yours? I know your racket, Ruby. You don't get something for nothing."

Illusion. That's what they got. They got to believe a girl thought they were handsome. Funny. Interesting. They'd pay for that. Every time. But that was one of those things you couldn't explain.

Illusion was what I'd paid for, with Paulie. I got to believe he loved me.

Now his face hovered above mine, the corner of his lip raised, a glimpse of white teeth showing. His eyebrows pale smudges in the shadows. Big man. He'd shot someone for money.

"Problem here?" a man's voice said. Paulie spun around. The cop—I could see it was a cop now—peered past him at me. Paulie edged in front of me, blocking my view.