All for a Story (22 page)

Her eyes checked his glass. “Finish yours.”

“On three.”

By agreement, they counted together, glasses less than an inch away from their respective lips, and when they declared,
“Three!”
he waited to see her follow through before doing the same. By the time the last drop had disappeared, he was wobbly both in his legs and in his head, but he somehow summoned the stealth to snatch her empty glass away and slam it upside down on the bar, his own beside it. When the bartender arrived yet again with his trusty bottle, Max put his hand over the upturned bottoms and said, “That’s okay, buddy. We’re done.”

Monica pouted but hopped down from the stool. “Do you plan to devote your life to destroying other people’s fun?”

Keeping his eye on her for all but the briefest of seconds, he crossed the room to get their coats. Not trusting her to leave under her own power, upon his return he took her arm, though with her drink to his three, she hardly needed the support, and ignored her question. The door to exit was on the opposite side of the entrance, to facilitate an evacuation in case of the threat of a raid, according to Monica, and there was no path to it other than traversing the dance floor. Suddenly, the result of inevitable friction with the other couples, Monica was pushed fully against him. Then, without his intent or permission, they were dancing. Rather pressed together, moving in a rhythm semirelated to the music around them. His mouth was full of the taste of liquor, his head with the smell of smoke, and his arms with this tiny, soft woman. None of it right. He might appear to be a man determined to destroy the pleasure of others, but for a few minutes at least, he would do nothing to spoil his own.

He bent low, felt her hair soft and sleek against his cheek, and asked, “What did you write about this place?”

“Just the things that are good. And pure.” He felt her words through his skin. “Like you said to before you said to.”

Nothing about this moment felt good or pure, and it wouldn’t get any better by staying. He put his hands firmly on her shoulders, stepped back, and said, “There. You’ve had your drink and your dance. You won. Happy?”

“Blissful.” By the look on her face, he almost believed it.

“Then we need to go.”

This time he would not make the mistake of touching her at all. He waited for her to take the first step in the right direction and followed, stopping every few steps as she kissed cheeks and exchanged jokes about the boss man cutting short all her fun.

He was expecting another series of labyrinth-like tunnels to
take them away from this place and was surprised to find that the door led straight to a third-story fire escape with a narrow iron staircase leading down to the alley behind the building. It wasn’t until he began his descent that he felt the full effect of his drink, and he gripped the handrail despite its burning cold. After all, Monica was still walking ahead of him. One slip and they’d both tumble, with his body landing flat on top of hers. Nothing good or pure could come of that, either.

“You still going to take me home?” she asked when they safely reached land.

“Going to put you in a cab,” he said, taking a quick mental count of the money in his wallet. There was still the question of getting himself home too.

“Not in this neighborhood you won’t. Streetcars don’t even stop here after ten.”

“You might have told me that.”

“You might have asked. But don’t worry. A few blocks and you’ll be in more familiar territory. The fresh air will clear your head.”

Now there was a point they could agree on. She walked beside him; he not only matched her stride but trusted her to lead him, even though she’d given him no reason to trust her at all.

“You should read it sometime,” she said after a substantial silence.

“What?”

“My column. About this place. Last October, I think, in case you have any of the old issues.”

“Uncle Edward has them all in his office.” And depending on just where they’d be able to hail a cab, he was closer to the office than home. “I’ll look for it.”

“I think you’ll be surprised. Maybe I’m not such an empty-headed flapper after all.”

“I never thought that for a minute. The whole reason I suggested the anti-flirting assignment is because I think there’s more to you than what Monkey Business itself allows.”

“Just read it,” she said before breaking away and throwing her entire body into the hailing of a cab.

Unsurprisingly, a sleek auto with the word
Taxi
painted on its side headed straight for them. When it stopped, he opened the door and she climbed in immediately, scooting to the far side and patting the seat beside her in invitation. Max poked his head in, assessing the small, dark space, her smile, the fuzzed edges of his judgment.

“Tell the driver your address,” he said, and upon the cabbie’s estimated fare, handed a folded bill across the seat.

“What about you?” she asked, pouting again.

He touched his glove to his temple. “Head’s not quite clear enough. Think I’d be better off walking. And one more thing?”

“Yes?” He must be imagining her hopefulness.

“I’ll need your column tomorrow morning. First thing.”

“Ten o’clock? Sharp?”

“Nine.”

“Call Trevor. Tell him I’ll have it at eight.”

She leaned over, took the door’s handle, and slammed it shut, leaving him to watch her disappear into the night.

“All the Dirt on Anti-Flirt”

This little Monkey doesn’t like to brag, but she’s been known to turn a few heads. What can you expect when a girl walks around in a perfect little package? Stylish clothes, careful makeup, and a hairstyle that will never see a braid or bun. She’s a modern girl with modern dreams, and she likes all the perks that come from living free from pantaloons and petticoats. And so, what’s a girl to do once the heads turn? To flirt or not to flirt? That is the question. If a man winketh, shall we not wink back? If he honketh his horn, shall we not smile and wave? Monkey’s new club has the answer, and that answer is “No.”

You might have noticed a little item in the papers, way in the back where nobody cares. Miss Alice Reighly and her group: the Anti-Flirt Club. If you’re a woman ready to crawl back into the last century and wait for your cotillion escort to favor you with a dance, this might be the place for you. If you believe women should be silent, invisible, disappearing meekies, then you are a candidate. (Ladies only, please. They might find the presence of a man to be too frightening.)

There’s a motto at the Anti-Flirt Club: “Those who flirt in haste repent in leisure.” Ha! Ha! Any girl who’s batted her eyes at the wrong sheik knows if she flirts in haste, she gets him first, before some other sheba takes him away.

Miss Reighly also says we aren’t anybody’s baby but our mothers’. True enough, I guess, but this Monkey remembers her mother marching in the
streets for the vote. For equality. And what better way to show you’re equal to a man than to give to him as good as he gives to you? Don’t be fooled, my little monkey girls. Your power isn’t in your vote. It’s in your eyes. It’s in any part of you that you can use to bend his will. Bat your eyes and blow a kiss. No reason you can’t close the bank later.

I never gave away anything without wishing I had kept it; nor kept it without wishing I had given it away.

LOUISE BROOKS

THE NEW EDITION of
Capitol Chatter
looked out from its familiar perch in the magazine rack on the pharmacy wall. On the front cover, modest yet above the fold, a small, serious picture of Max Moore presided over the headline “The New Voice of
Capitol Chatter
,” directing readers to the editorial on page two where Max-the-editor promised a new direction in content and tone. He’d kept the actual text secret from the staff, and Monica knew she’d have to shell out her own nickel if she wanted to read it. That, or wait for the first disgruntled, disappointed, blood-lusting customer to toss their copy in the gutter.

Then again, she could always just browse.

She ordered an egg cream at the counter before sauntering over to the newspaper rack, where she ran her finger along the titles, pretending great interest in each one. There were few other customers in the place, and the gentleman in the white apron was
occupied with her egg cream, so with a nonchalant look around and behind, she slid the paper from the rack and opened to the second page.

“A Time to be Kind.” That was the title of the piece, and with the first sentence Monica could hear his voice.

Edward Moore, the late editor of this publication, died alone. It’s something I fear could happen to us all.

She read on about how Max wanted his publication to be a place where readers gathered to celebrate and rejoice, not to gawk at pain and vice. Yet somehow he wrote in such a way that condemned neither the writers nor the readers of the previous source of those exact elements. Her heart melted with his words, and she knew anybody else who read this would feel the same. He offered promises fueled by hope. Then, the final paragraph.

Even our lovable little Monkey seems ready to swing into new territory.

“Hey, lady! This ain’t the liberry. You wanna read that, hand over a nickel.”

Despite the innocent appearance of his starched white apron and cap, the guy behind the counter looked ready to do battle, even if his only missile was a tall glass of frothy egg cream.

Monica smiled, though he’d only see it in her eyes, as she held the newspaper to her face and fluttered it like a coquettish fan.

“Sorry, mister. I was just intrigued by the front page, about the paper turning all nice and everything.”

“That rag,” he said, setting the egg cream none too gently on the counter. “Not worth the pain of fishin’ a nickel from your pocket.”

“Gee,” Monica said, lowering the paper to give him the benefit of her whole smile, “thanks, mister. That’s awfully generous of you. And so unexpected.”

He looked confused, then snarled. “I didn’t say you didn’t have to pay for it. I’m just sayin’ it’s a waste of money. Fork over or put it back.” To illustrate his insistence, he held the egg cream like a hostage the whole time Monica dug in her purse for the money.

She read the rest of the paper leisurely, twisting on the soda-counter stool while she sipped the admittedly delicious treat. There was Tony’s story about the dog, and another about a woman who found ten dollars in the street and gave it straight to the Salvation Army, saying, “It’s the gifts from God that you have to give back.” Monica couldn’t remember the last time the word
God
appeared in a
Capitol Chatter
story, at least not in any positive context.

Another pleasant surprise was Zelda’s debut column. The first paragraph or so told her story —an immigrant to this great country and a heartfelt desire to make it her home.

And for those of you who have always known your home to be here, I want to help you keep it as beautiful as it appeared in my dreams.

Her writing made no apology for her language skills, and Max had allowed it to go to press with certain subtle gaffes in syntax that complemented her natural charm. She promised the expertise of a maid and the warmth of a mother.

As Monica prepared to turn the next page, toward the back, where Monkey Business heralded the personal ads, a little knot of dread fizzed along with the sip of egg cream. She pictured her words —her rough-draft column —seeing it clearly as it emerged from the roller of her little typewriter at home. All those clever
turns of phrase, her trademark snideness. It would be like some clanging cymbal in the midst of a charming interlude. But curiosity tinged with vanity prevailed. Her tongue was cold from the drink when she licked it against her thumb.

There it was, the familiar cartoon of the cheeky monkey wearing a strand of long flapper beads, its tail forming the second
s
in
Business
. And her own headline: “All the Dirt on Anti-Flirt.” She smiled for the briefest second at her inimitable cleverness, but the self-satisfaction was fleeting at best as she noticed the text below:

Editor’s Note: The following is the first installment of a series. The sentiments expressed therein do not reflect those of the editorial staff of
Capitol Chatter
.