All for a Story (21 page)

“That’s part of it.” They were standing in front of a crowded diner, not exactly the place he’d ever thought he’d be sharing his faith. “Why don’t we go in there? Get a cup of coffee, maybe something to eat. I’m starved.”

“I’m not.” A glint had come to Monica’s eye, something like what he’d seen in his office. A cold sheeting like she was freezing right in front of him. “But you go on ahead.”

She had turned and gone five steps away before he caught up and grabbed her elbow.

“Monica, I said I don’t want you to go in there alone.”

She wheeled around. “Then prove it.”

Her words and posture issued a challenge, and any choice to do otherwise fell away.

“You won’t be sorry,” she said without a hint of gloating at her obvious victory.

They continued past another diner, a Chinese restaurant, a pawnshop, and a cigar store —all of which appeared to be open for business despite the fact that the hour was approaching ten. Nobody on the streets seemed to have any inclination to go home, but even in these few moments they appeared much less threatening. Still, he would have felt better seeing even one police officer patrolling, especially when the street grew darker and narrower, when the warmth of yellow-lit storefronts bathed in streetlights became rows of three-story walk-ups with windows more dark than not.

He walked behind Monica, telling himself it was for her protection, as he would be able to see any potential attacker from a
block away. He didn’t tell her as much, though, for fear that she would either be offended or once again call his bluff by throwing herself into danger.

“This is it,” she said without any preliminary hint that they were closing in. How she distinguished this particular house from the others was beyond him, as it was too dark to see any painted numbers and more than one had a dim light shining above the porch.

“How do you know?”

She looked at him like he was an idiot. “I’ve been here before.”

Straight up the steps she went. Max would have preferred to lead the way just in case some armed gangster stood behind the door. But when he mentioned the possibility, she laughed.

“You’ve been reading too many dime novels, Mr. Moore.”

“If you’ll recall,” he whispered, hoping she’d follow his example in doing so, “we had an armed gangster in our offices not long ago.”

She rolled her eyes and tsked. “I am never going to live that down, am I? Trust me, the gangsters only come out if you don’t know the code. Still want to go first?”

“No.”

Taking on the posture of an orator, she said, “‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; or close the wall up with our English dead.’”

Shakespeare again. He’d have to bone up if he wanted to keep up with her conversation. “It’s the American dead that worry me.”

She cupped her palm against his cheek. “‘In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility: but when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger.’”

“The war’s over,” he said, though her passion was coming close to kindling a mirrored one in him.

“The one over there, maybe. But there are a million battles right under our noses, and you don’t even see it. Now, come on, tiger.”

She rang the front bell, and a few seconds later, the door was opened by a woman with skin the color of freshly brewed coffee. She wore a red dress and a sequined headband wrapped around a mass of sleek, black curls. A ribbon of smoke curled from a cigarette in a long, thin ivory holder.

“Monica, baby,” she said in a voice rich as cream.

“Celine.” Monica stood tiptoe as the woman bent to exchange a kiss on each cheek. When the kisses were over, she said, “This is Max.”

“Max, eh? Short for Maximilian?” Celine brought the ivory cigarette holder to her lips and took a long drag while studying him from head to toe and back.

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” He wasn’t sure if he should offer a kiss similar to Monica’s greeting, and even though her right hand was occupied with smoking, he extended his anyway, waiting patiently for her to return the gesture.

“And how long have we known Max?”

“Awhile,” Monica said. “He’s practically family.”

“Well,” Celine said after another long look, proving she wasn’t at all convinced, “I’d walk you in, but there’s no one else right now to watch the front.”

“Slow night?”

Celine shrugged. “It’s early yet.”

Monica grabbed his hand. “Come on. This is one of my favorite places.”

They proceeded up the stairs, and as they passed the open doors of the bedrooms, he realized they were in somebody’s actual home. He knew of restaurants with secret back rooms and
underground clubs, but here there were framed photographs on the walls and quilt-covered beds. A new, dark idea struck.

“Wait a minute. This isn’t a . . . ?” What term could he possibly use without causing offense?
Brothel? House of ill repute?

“No,” she said in that eerie way she had of diving into his thoughts. “My soul isn’t that far fallen.”

They came to a closed door, which she opened without hesitation. When it had closed behind them, they were in a narrow but not steep staircase lit with a single bulb. At the top was a second door, through which, as they climbed closer, he could hear faint sounds of music.

“We’re actually going over to the flat next door,” she explained over her shoulder. “It’s a whole hidden third floor —no access from its own building.”

“Smart,” he said, feeling a twinge of guilt at his admiration.

“Now let’s see,” Monica was muttering as she studied a row of switches by the door. She hummed a bit of a familiar tune, then pressed the switches in a precise sequence. Faintly, over the music, he heard the replication of her tune in a series of chimes.

“Was that ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game’?”

“Yes,” she said, pleased. “The proprietor played for the Senators for two years before they realized he was a Negro. I think this place is his way of getting revenge for that same kind of stupid law.”

It hit him then that, upon crossing the threshold to this secret room, he would be knowingly breaking a law for the first time in his life. There was no separating the excitement from the fear churning in his stomach, and those elements —combined with a very real hunger —made him feel light-headed at the moment. So much, in fact, that it seemed his mind had left his body entirely, floating away with his better judgment, leaving the shell
of himself to suffer the consequences of following a pretty girl on a snowy night. Wasn’t that, in fact, the perfect beginning to a cautionary tale?

A small, square window near the top of the door slid open, and a dark face appeared, the whites of the eyes prominent as they searched out the waiting company.

“It’s Monkey Business,” Monica said, at which the little door was slammed shut, and the big door opened wide.

As soon as the door opened, the hint of music from the other side exploded into deep, layered jazz, leaving Max to wonder just how it —not to mention the sound of the crowd inside —had ever been contained.

“Monkey girl!” The man on the other side not only dwarfed Max by a good six inches, but he could not possibly be the owner of the establishment, as his nearly onyx-black skin would never allow him to pass as a white man for two minutes, let alone two years. The Monkey girl in question launched herself into his arms, and he swung her around as if she were no more than a child, then dropped her at Max’s feet, saying, “An’ who we got here?”

“This is Max. Max, this is Big Sam.”

Big Sam took a step back. “Glad to see you got rid of that other fella. Never liked him.”

“Oh, Sam,” she said, “I don’t think you’d like anybody.”

Max extended his hand, tried not to wince at Big Sam’s bigger grip, and said, “Good to meet you.”

“Max is my new boss. At the paper.”

Sam smiled, revealing two prominent gold teeth. “Well, how about that? This girl here, she somethin’ else. Come in here, what was it, about five month ago? Late September. And ever since, people comin’ in here all kinds of night askin’ if this the place that Monkey girl writes about.”

Monica turned to Max. “I come here all the time. I’ve probably written about this place more than any other.”

“We do it up like family here,” Sam said. “I ain’t gonna pat you down, but I need to know if I have to worry about you shootin’ up the joint.”

“As in, with a gun?” Max asked, wondering if Big Sam knew just how ludicrous the question was. He didn’t even own a gun, much less carry one around.

“He’s straight,” Monica said, patting Max’s shoulder as if he were some sort of show horse. “You can’t even imagine.”

“Well, then,” Sam said, backing away, “welcome to the Shangri-La.”

The accompanying gesture had ten times more grandeur than the room could absorb. The entire space was one undivided room, with a bar set up along one side and a slightly raised platform on the other. There, a four-piece band consisting of piano, drum, saxophone, and clarinet played a sultry jazz number that may have been solely responsible for half of the heat in the room. A few tables were set up against the remaining walls, where small clusters of people sat amid pillars of cigarette smoke and empty glasses, but the heart of the room was its center —a space barely large enough for couples to maintain movement.

“Take off your coat,” Monica said, shrugging out of her own and tossing it casually onto a pile under which must have been some sort of rack. “We can dance.”

“I don’t dance,” Max said. Rather, shouted, given the volume of the music. He did, however, take off his coat as the near-sweltering heat of the space demanded. His inclination to simply drape it over his arm was thwarted when Monica grabbed it and threw it on top of hers.

“Then let’s get a drink.”

“I don’t drink. You know that.”

“Well, we have to do something, or Big Sam’s gonna think you’re a lawman. And you don’t want to know what he does to sneaks.”

She took his hand and led him to the bar, where she leaned over the rough-hewn wood so far that her feet dangled off the floor and ordered two of whatever was best. The man behind the bar was dressed in a starched white shirt and collar with a black bow tie, and he filled two squat glasses with a dark liquid without a single wayward splash.

“Pay the man,” Monica said. “Four bits, am I right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the barkeep said.

“It looks trashy if a woman buys her own,” she said, as if Max were hesitating due to frugality. Of course he would pay, both as a matter of etiquette and self-preservation, though he was already promising himself these would be the first and last drinks he would buy. When he made that same promise aloud to Monica, she raised her glass in a toast and said, “To the alpha and the omega of drinks,” before downing half of it in one gulp. The other half, he assumed, would have to wait until she could untwist her face long enough to drink it.

“Not quite as smooth as Uncle Ed’s whiskey?”

“Not by half.” After a shuddering exhalation, she held the glass out to him. “Have a drink.”

“No. But thanks just the same.”

“If you don’t, I’ll have to drink it all. Can’t let it go to waste.”

“As you wish. But as soon as those glasses are empty, I’m taking you home.”

Her face lit up with the thrill of a challenge, and he instantly regretted his words. Once again she brought the glass to her lips and tilted it, leaving a slick taste of the liquid on her lips.

“It’s going to be a long night, Mr. Moore.”

She left him little choice. He picked up his glass and took a burning swallow. Though he was inexperienced in the world of alcohol, he knew this was cheap but powerful liquor. By the time he set the empty glass on the bar, the stuff felt like it was burning a hole in his stomach. Monica, managing to keep the rim of the glass pressed against her bottom lip, laughed.

“My goodness, what you won’t do to take a girl home.” She opened the snap on her purse and pulled out a tuft of folded bills. The action caught the attention of the barkeep, who came immediately to her.

“Another round, ma’am?”

“Listen.” She counted out the bills, four of them, and slid them across the bar. “I have a very important job for you. You see these glasses?” She clinked hers against his empty one. “No matter what, even if you have to drizzle in a few drops at a time, until I say so, don’t let these go empty. Got it?”

He looked briefly at Max as if apologizing for his loyalty before saying, “Yes, ma’am.” There was definitely more of a spring to his step when he scooped up the bills, left, and returned with a bottle. Max’s glass was full again.

“Clever,” he said, genuinely impressed. “But I’m not drinking that.”

“It’s drink or dance, Mr. Max.”

Everything about her was inviting. The way her lips perched on the edge of the glass made him want to do the same. The way she swung her foot brought his own to life in the wake of the music. Reluctantly, he took his eyes away from her and surveyed the men and women coupled on the floor. The jazz sounded like a menagerie of moans, like heartache set to music, and the dancers clung to each other in the center of the room. It was a sight he’d never seen before. Not only because of the setting and
circumstances, but the men and women —dark-skinned cheeks pressed against fair-skinned faces.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen Negroes dancing before. Or just not with whites? Certainly they let the races mix in California.”

“I’m not the authority,” he said. “In fact, I’ve never given the subject much thought.”

“What do you think about it now?”

His fingers closed around the glass, and he found the second drink to go down much smoother than the first. The moment he set it back down, empty, the bartender was on the spot to fill it again.

“That bad?”

“Not at all.” How could he explain that this was one more layer to a strange new world he’d never had any intention of exploring? The music and the whiskey were twisting together, tying him in place, anchored by Monica’s eyes. All night long he’d thought of nothing other than keeping her safe, and the way he felt right now, the greater the distance between them, the safer she’d be. “Finish your drink.”