How he’d love to see that black hair unbound, spilling down her white nakedness. See whether she was as luxuriantly hairy in other …
Ah, why speculate? He took risks, but he didn’t court the impossible.
Still, he had trouble getting her out of his thoughts.
He removed his gloves and warmed his hands at one of the fire barrels. Sweat coated his face. But not because of the flames.
Custom House Place from Harrison to Twelfth Street was the most elegant vice district in Chicago, and one of the most famous in America. It was an area seemingly unaffected by the worsening depression; Elstree made the silent observation as his hansom pulled to the curb in front of the Society Club. For a cold Sunday night, activity on the street was brisk. Other cabs, and plenty of foot traffic.
Most of the establishments on Custom House Place catered to a better class of clientele; there were a few dives, but they were kept under control by the other owners. A gentleman could come here with a relatively high degree of safety. Still, he never took chances. He carried a little plated hideout pistol, always.
The seven-foot doorman of the club, a mahogany-colored man with a long white beard, ran down the broad steps and opened the hansom’s door. “Good evening, sar. Welcome back.”
Elstree jumped out and paid the driver. He had changed to evening clothes. White tie; tall hat; a short cape; gloves. He looked smart.
“Good evening, John.” Everyone called the doorman John the Baptist. The owners of the club said he was a Parsee from Calcutta. He wore a faded livery, something from a theatrical costumer’s, embellished with a blue silk sash which held a sheathed dagger. “Circus night again.”
“Yes, sar, got a crowd already. Going to be a fine show. Almost ready to start. Hurry on in.”
Elstree climbed the steps under the flickering gas lanterns—no electrification here as yet—and knocked at an ornately carved door.
Another man in livery admitted him to a foyer furnished and lit with the restrained taste of a fine home. The only raucous note was sounded by a parrot in a cage hanging in a stand. The parrot whistled, cocked his head and screamed, “Welcome, welcome, welcome, mister.”
“Hello, friend. Right on the dot, aren’t you?” From a parlor to Elstree’s right came a small, delicately built woman. She was at least sixty, handsomely gowned in grandmother gray. She shook his hand. “We’re glad to see you.”
He handed his cape, hat, and gloves to the footman without looking at him. “Thank you, Sue. Are we in the upstairs parlor?” Little Sue, who was white, owned the brothel in partnership with Big Sue, who was black.
“No, the billiard room in back. Had to move the table out. Overflow crowd. I brought in a girl from the Levee for this circus. Down there they call her Beefsteak Bert. She’s a big person. A small one wouldn’t be able to stand the gaff.”
Little Sue winked, the first violation of her grandmotherly persona. Elstree chuckled.
“The usual charge tonight?”
“That’s right, seventy-five. We’ll add it to your tab. Go right on back, they’re still serving champagne.” At the Society Club, that was the only drink regularly offered. Whiskey or beer had to be ordered by the customer ahead of time, at exorbitant prices.
Elstree walked quickly down the dim hall, which was papered in a maroon fabric flocked with a pattern of large lotuslike flowers. In the smoky room at the end of the corridor, gentlemen were sitting and standing with champagne glasses. He heard growling. The crowd shifted and he saw a coarse little man with a stubbly beard hanging onto a rope leash. At the other end of the leash was a huge tawny boxer dog.
Elstree stopped when a door opened in an alcove to his right. A booming voice greeted him. “Look who’s here. Bill! By God, now we got some class.”
“Kindly don’t shout my name, Sue,” Elstree said, although the billiard room was so noisy, it was doubtful that anyone had heard. He stepped into the alcove. Big Sue, a three-hundred-pound woman, wore a black bombazine dress with long sleeves and a high collar concealed by a three-inch choker of diamonds. She gave off sweet waves of perfume.
“How’s your health?” she asked. Big Sue was always cheerful and friendly, and while he didn’t care for niggers of any stripe, he had to admit she was a successful businesswoman.
“It’ll be much better after I spend a few hours here.”
With a twinkle, Sue said, “How’s your wife?”
He seized her chin, pinching and twisting. The pain made her grimace, showing all her even white teeth.
“Don’t get saucy. You know what I do to girls who are saucy with me. There are two standards in this world, Sue. One for wives and one for husbands. Keep it in mind.”
Elstree gave her chin a final pinch, making her gasp softly. He sauntered away to the billiard room.
Heads turned when he walked in. A couple of acquaintances greeted him, but not by name. Nor did he use theirs. He found a chair, took a glass of champagne. A side door opened. Several of the guests exclaimed and clapped.
Out walked Beefsteak Bert, a woman of about thirty with long dirty blond hair and shoulders like a steel-worker’s. Her satin wrapper was decorated with sequined peacocks. She simpered and curtsied to the crowd, then loosed the belt of her robe and let it drop.
More applause. Elstree joined in, a freshly lit Cuban cigar jauntily held in his teeth. Beefsteak Bert put her hands on her knees and, coyly glancing over her shoulder, bent forward and pushed out her enormous white rear. The handler could barely hold onto the dog, whose frantic clawing threatened to rip the carpet.
Through the cigar smoke Elstree had a sudden unexpected vision. Dizzying as strong drink, it banished thoughts of the coming show. The vision was Juliette Vanderhoff—far more desirable than the debased whore, but just as naked.
34
Paul
SHE SWEPT EVERYTHING FROM his mind. His nagging dissatisfaction with Crown’s because he knew the career he wanted, but didn’t know how to take it up or learn it. His worry and guilt over disappointing Uncle Joe a second time when he left the brewery—almost an inevitability now. The simmering antagonism between his uncle and his cousin, both of whom had claims on his heart. And the old question, seldom out of mind: had he really found his home, the place he belonged for the rest of his life? Not so much this particular house on Michigan Avenue, but Chicago; America? None of this seemed to matter now. He was racked by longing and fear of loss, consumed by furious storms of jealousy of those in her circle—parents, friends, anyone—who dared to keep her from him, or intruded on the lovesick thoughts he wished, hoped, prayed she was thinking about him.
The following Sunday it rained. Even so, he traveled all the way up to Lincoln Park. He found the lagoon melting, the pavilions empty. For nearly an hour he skulked up and down the street near the mansion at Fifteenth and Prairie. But he saw no sign of Julie.
When he got back to the Crown house, he couldn’t find Joe Junior. He wandered to the stable. The English coachman, Nicky Speers, was currycombing Uncle Joe’s prize carriage horse, a beautiful bay named Prince.
“Nicky, have you seen Joe?”
Speers rubbed the horse’s muzzle affectionately. Prince tossed his head and blubbered. “Young Mr. Joseph doesn’t confide in me, but I strongly suspect he went out to Pullman.”
“Have you met his girl?”
“He sneaked her in here one night for five minutes. A Bohunk, she is. Pretty thing. Fine strapping figure, though there’s something bloody cold about her, too. Hand me the brush, please. Righto, that’s a good lad.”
It wasn’t until after the evening meal that Joe Junior returned. Through the half-open door of his room, Paul heard his cousin stride along the hall, whistling. A few minutes later Paul knocked at his door. Joe Junior called for him to come in. He was stripping off his shirt. There were three short parallel scratches on his back.
“I looked for Julie at the park this afternoon.”
“When it’s this warm? Paul, my boy, you are love
-struck. Badly.”
Paul sank down on the bed with a glum nod. “You saw your girl today, I suppose.”
Joe Junior winked. “Yes, sir!”
“Will I meet her sometime?”
“Never in this house. If I brought her around, Pop would raise hell, same as Pork Vanderhoff will if he finds out about you. Rosie’s old man, Tabor, joined the Railway Union that Gene Debs started last summer. Three or four miles of spur track come into the Pullman works, so Debs organized there. King George Pullman hates that. Rosie’s ma worries about it because they live in the company housing.”
“But you had a good time today.”
“The best. Rosie isn’t one of these delicate society girls. The kind that imagines babies come from heaven, or faints at the sight of a couple of dogs doing what’s natural. You may have that problem with Julie.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t think of—”
“Come on, sure you would, you’re a man, aren’t you?” Paul’s face was red. Thoughtfully, Cousin Joe added, “Julie’s a peach, but I think she’s proper. At least the Vanderhoffs raised her to be proper. So don’t be too disappointed if she—well—holds back.” He laid a sympathetic hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Know what I mean?”
“Yes. But I don’t think you are right about her. Anyway, she will be my girl.”
“Sure. Sure she will,” Joe Junior said with a certain false heartiness. “Listen, I’m worn out. Tomorrow’s a workday.”
Paul said good night and walked back to his room. Joe Junior’s remarks about Julie left him anxious and troubled again.
The Crowns observed many German traditions but ignored others. Always, in the homeland, the fir tree, the symbol of Christmas, was put up on Christmas Eve. The Crowns brought in their tree, and decorated it, two weeks earlier. Uncle Joe liked the anticipation and the festive look the tree created. But he never permitted the candles to be lit until Christmas Eve, and he personally hung the pickle as any good German father did. With everyone else out of the room, he hid the small cucumber-shaped glass ornament on the tree as cleverly as he could. A reward of one gold dollar went to each of the younger family members who found it without touching the tree. A year ago, Paul had found it first, in less than a minute. Joe Junior had refused to take part, claiming he was too old.
The Crowns went to church often during the Advent season. There were many special services. Paul had always enjoyed Christmas music, and last year the anthems and carols had seemed joyous, triumphant, beautiful beyond belief. This year he found church—indeed, the whole celebration—an annoying distraction. He found everything a distraction except the young woman looming so large in his life.
Even so, on Christmas Eve, he got sudden goose bumps when the choir and congregation at St. Paul’s sang “Stille Nacht” in the soft glow of the candles illuminating the sanctuary.
Back on Michigan Avenue, they lit the candles on the tree and toasted the season with spicy mulled wine. Uncle Joe lifted his cup to Paul.
“This is a most important anniversary. A year ago we gained a new member of this family. May the coming year be even better and even happier for you, Paul.”
“I thank you very much, Uncle.”
“Pauli. Our Pauli,” Aunt Ilsa said, giving him a great hug and kiss and managing to spill some of the mulled wine on her fancy holiday skirt. For a moment or two Paul felt that yes, perhaps he was where he belonged.
Christmas fell on Monday. Uncle Joe and Aunt Ilsa were again generous with their gifts. Paul received several shirts, two pairs of corduroy knickerbockers, and a silver-plated comb and brush set, obviously expensive since each brush had a raised Crown insignia on the back. Paul’s prize gift was a fancy bicycle suit—sack coat and knee-length pants—of fine cassimere wool in a brown pincheck pattern. He was delighted. He only wished he could have given a gift to Julie somehow.
By Wednesday of that week, half the household had colds. Half the brewery workers, too. At noon Saturday, Paul was sent home from Crown’s with a fever.
The delivery wagon from Frankel’s meat market was tied at the hitching block nearest the rear entrance on Nineteenth. Paul dragged himself into the kitchen, which was deserted except for Frankel’s delivery boy, a gangly older youth with an enormous spit curl arranged to hide some of his prematurely bald head. The delivery boy wore a voluminous tan duster that reached to his knees.
“Say, pal, I got a problem,” he said. “Where’s your cook? I been hunting all over, I can’t find her.”
“Louise was sneezing and coughing last night, she went to bed. I suppose she is resting in her room.”
“Then I got to speak to the lady of the house.”
“She will be out all day. Or so she said this morning.”
“Jesus, that is a problem.” The delivery boy scraped the nail of his little finger up and down a crevice between two front teeth. He flicked something off his nail and said, “I’m supposed to pick up a list, special order, for New Year’s.”
Without thinking much about it, Paul said, “Why don’t you go up to Louise’s room on the third floor? Knock softly, so you don’t wake her if she’s sleeping. If she is awake, I expect she will give you the list. Go up the back stair there, behind the pantry. On the top floor it is the second door on your left.”
The older boy thanked him, calling him pal again, and disappeared.
Paul hung the kettle on the hob to boil. He craved a strong cup of tea with milk. A few minutes later he walked from the kitchen to the short hall just beyond. The hall was relatively dark. From there he observed the delivery boy standing in front of the decorated tree, admiring it.
Before Paul could make his presence known, a voice boomed from the second-floor landing. “You down there. What are you doing?”
“Just having a glim at your tree, pal.”
Manfred Blenkers rushed down the stairs. “I have seen you before. What’s your name?”
“Jimmy Daws. I’m from Frankel’s.”
“We don’t allow tradesmen in this part of the house. Get out at once.”
Manfred Blenkers made the word tradesmen sound like a filthy epithet. Though Manfred was the absolute monarch of household affairs, Paul thought this was going too far. He walked out where they’d see him.
“I sent him upstairs, Manfred. He was searching for Louise, to take a special order for Monday. I said it was all right to go to her room so long as she was awake.”
“You gave this person leave to roam around the house?”
“Yes, what is wrong with that?” Paul resented the prosecutorial tone.
“Listen,” the delivery boy broke in. “I went up the back way, I talked to her, I got the list and came down the front way. So what? You’re makin’ a hell of a fuss over nothing.”
“Don’t curse in this house or I’ll see that you’re fired, you guttersnipe. Remove your dirty boots and your dirty self from these premises, instantly.”
Midway through that, Paul decided he couldn’t put up with any more. He screwed up his nerve and stepped forward; “Mr. Blenkers, you have no right to badger him like that.”
“What? What are you saying to me?”
Somewhere above, there was a gasp. Paul saw Fritzi crouching behind the rail of the upper landing.
“I am telling you, Mr. Blenkers, he needed to see Louise, I told him where to find her. What is the harm?”
“Your uncle will decide that when he comes home.”
“If you want to tell him, go ahead. I will tell my side, we will see who comes out best.”
Paul said it calmly, looking straight at the steward, who now had a vaguely wounded expression. The delivery boy was nervously tapping the front of his long tan coat with his right hand. His left hand was deep in his pocket, as if he were holding his belly because it hurt.
Manfred recognized that his authority had been breached. With a lot of hand-waving, he cried, “All right, enough, leave, both of you!”
He marched noisily up the stairs. Grinning, Paul bobbed his head tow
ard the kitchen and the delivery boy followed him out. As the door shut, Paul heard Fritzi’s delighted laugh, and clapping.
The kettle was spouting steam. Paul lifted it off the hook with tongs, put it on a decorated tile to cool. Jimmy Daws was giving him a long stare, indicating that judgment by an older, superior person was in process.
“Thanks for helping me out with that spook. I’ve locked horns with him before. I’d as soon slit his throat as look at him.”
Paul didn’t imagine he was serious. “Manfred is all right, but he acts like he is a general. Nobody likes him very much. Do you want some tea?”
“Can’t stand the stuff. Got to go. More stops to make. Tell you something. I don’t ordinarily make friends with Dutchmen. In your case I’ll make an exception. Shake, pal.”
They shook. Jimmy Daws kept his left hand in his pocket. He walked out and Paul brewed his tea.
When the family sat down to the evening meal, Aunt Ilsa immediately spied something and put her hand to her mouth. One of the display racks in the cabinet of gold-edged Bavarian china was empty.
“The largest platter is gone. The most valuable piece.” She rushed to the cabinet. “There is also a small plate missing. No, two!”
Paul remembered the delivery boy with his hand in his pocket, as if he were holding something under his long tan duster.
Aunt Ilsa excused herself, pulling a handkerchief from the waistband of her skirt as she left. Paul felt wretched.
He pushed his plate aside, appetite gone. “Uncle Joe, I think this is my fault.”
“No,” Fritzi exclaimed from across the table. Everyone ignored her. Paul explained what had happened. “I sent him upstairs. I did not expect him to be a thief.”
“Why would you?” That was Aunt Ilsa, back again, touching her hanky to her puffy reddened eyes. Stepping behind Paul’s chair, she patted his shoulder. “You’re a trusting person, Pauli. You did what you thought best. Don’t I always say people are more important than things?”