Page 37

THREE

O n Forty-Fourth Street and Eighth Avenue, just a block west of Times Square and still in the glow of its lights, Francis points at a small wooden door hidden under a short flight of stairs. There’s no sign on it, no address number, nothing. Just a black dot in the center and a rope-pull handle.

“Ready?” Francis asks.

“For what?”

“You’ll see,” Francis says. “You trust me, right?”

Eddie balks. “Wait,” he says. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how we got here.”

“We walked,” Francis says. His face scrunches into a look of concern. “Remember?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Eddie says. “I mean, how did we—how did you—I mean, I was just—”

He stumbles on his words, because as soon as he chooses them, they don’t make sense anymore. How can he articulate his questions, without sounding like he’s lost his mind? Even the idea of saying these things out loud seems ridiculous. How did we get to 1930? Why did you keep showing up in pictures when you weren’t even there in the first place? What were you doing waiting tables at the Algonquin? Why were you at the courthouse with Mae West, or at the club with Gladys Bentley? How did you know I’d be in Central Park? What happened to my clothes? Why is my camera still here, but not my sneakers? What on earth is going on? The questions are endless, but none of them make any sense at all.

Except one. Eddie steadies his breath and asks it. “Are you real?”

Francis takes a step closer. He takes Eddie’s hand and presses it against his chest. “Feel that?” he asks.

And Eddie does feel it. A heartbeat. Strong and even and true.

Francis puts his own hand on Eddie’s chest. “We’re almost in sync,” he says.

Just then, the small wooden door swings open and a pair of young men comes stumbling out, arm in arm, giggling. They look at Francis and Eddie, nod, and keep walking.

“Come on,” Francis says. “Let’s have some fun.”

Francis grabs Eddie’s forearm and they duck through the door and into a dark, narrow hallway. Eddie can’t see a thing. He churns with excitement and anxiety. From deep inside the building, Eddie can hear music. It’s muffled, distant, but he hears a piano, drums, and, is that a clarinet?

They approach a second door. Francis knocks twice. The door opens a crack. Music spills out.

“Speak,” a voice, sharp enough to cut through the din, says.

“It’s me,” Francis says, leaning toward the door.

“Me who?”

“Me myself and I,” Francis says. “And I brought groceries.” He tips his head toward Eddie.

The door slams. Eddie turns to go, but Francis tightens his grip. “We’re in,” he says, grinning.

The door swings open and a pair of thick arms sweeps them inside. Their owner, a burly man with a mustache that connects to his sideburns (no beard), reaches from the stool he’s sitting on to touch the Polaroid camera hanging over Eddie’s shoulder. “What is this?” he asks.

Eddie speaks quickly. “It’s kind of like a camera, it makes instant—”

“Camera?” the burly man says. “No. Not allowed.”

“But it belongs to my—”

“No.”

“Don’t worry,” Francis says. “We can leave it here with Link. It will be safe. I promise.”

Eddie hands the camera to Link, who stashes it on a shelf behind his seat before leaning back to pull open a pair of heavy red curtains, revealing another door. “Push,” Link says, and Francis pushes, and suddenly the music is much louder, the laughter, too, and the air is dense with cigarette smoke. The lighting is very low, but Eddie can see dozens of bodies, dancing and singing along to a song by, yes, once again, Cole Porter. Let’s be outrageous / Let’s misbehave!

The center of the room whoops and spins, while around the perimeter clusters of people chat and laugh and wave their hands in animated gestures. Men in black, brown, and gray suits mostly, hats cocked or discarded altogether, some with stained lips or lined eyes, others with slicked hair and sharp brows, still others rough and scarred like boxers. A few women, too, in bright, elaborate dresses and drawn-on beauty marks. At the far end of the room, a few musicians sit on rickety stools, playing joyously, toes tapping, while a man struts between them, singing over the bouncing tune. Francis tugs him toward a waistcoated waiter and plucks two glasses off his tray.

“Seltzer,” the waiter says, rolling his eyes. “The bootlegger couldn’t make it today.” He walks on.

“Seltzer is very in these days,” Francis says. “The latest thing.” Eddie sips, savoring the needles and pins on his tongue.

Just then, a voice from across the crowd, high-pitched and dramatic. “Francesca!” Within seconds, as if a gate had been unlocked, Eddie and Francis are swarmed by young men in slim jackets and foppish hair, their faces glistening. All about Eddie’s age, or maybe a year or three older.

“Francine, where ya been? We thought you’d been hauled off to Welfare Island!”

They laugh, surrounding Francis and covering him with sloppy kisses on the cheek.

Francis accepts all their kisses, then holds up a hand. “Enough!” He takes Eddie’s arm and announces, “Boys, girls, et cetera. Meet Eddie. He’s not from here, so behave. Especially you, Gene.” Francis winks at a tall, husky young man in a black tuxedo with heavy rouge on his cheeks.

“Moi?” Gene responds, dramatically touching his chest with outstretched fingers.

“Vous,” Francis says.

Gene bows to Eddie. “Welcome to my resort,” he says.

“Hello,” Eddie says, but it’s a timid hello, not loud enough for anyone to hear over the music. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hello!” but he chokes when he says it. He tries a sip of seltzer to clear his throat but in his nervousness, he swallows it wrong, choking even more. Soon he’s coughing uncontrollably, eyes watering and cheeks going red. He turns away from the boys, embarrassed. He hears them laughing nervously, making it even harder to catch his breath.

“Sounds like you after your last first date, Buzzy!” one of the boys says.

“Oh please, Buzzy hasn’t had any reflex of that sort since 1922,” says another.

“Shut up!” says a third, probably Buzzy.

Francis claps Eddie’s back gently. “You all right?”

“I think so,” Eddie chokes.

“Good.” Francis’s voice is close. Eddie feels his breath on his ear. “I thought we might lose you. Now come meet these animals. I promise they’re good guys. Just a little, you know, quippy.”

Eddie regains his breath and turns back to the boys. “Hello!” he shouts, clearly this time. “I’m Eddie!”

The boys cheer, swarming around him and kissing his cheek.

“Nice to meetcha!” chirps a boy. “My name’s Vincent.”

“He means Vincenza,” says a boy named Georgie. “Welcome to the club, Eddie!”

“One more pansy for the patch!” says Gabriel.

“You single?” Vincenza asks, tugging at Eddie’s sleeve.

“Hands off!” barks Georgie, taking Eddie’s other sleeve. “He’s mine!”

Francis swats Georgie’s and Vincenza’s hands away and takes Eddie’s arm. “Don’t mind them,” he says as they step back from the gaggle. “The boys always get excited when someone new comes around. They’ll settle down soon enough. Before you know it you’ll be old news, just another nickname.”

“Nickname?”

“Everyone gets one eventually.” He holds out a hand to shake. “Nice to meet you. I’m Francesca.” Eddie takes his hand, and Francis leads him across the room.

They find a corner where they can lean against the wall and watch the crowd. “They say that Prohibition will end soon, and that places like this won’t be illegal anymore,” Francis says. “I guess that’s good, even though I kind of like the cloak and dagger of it all, you know? It’s exciting being an outlaw. But I suppose that feeling will last, one way or another. Not for everyone, of course. But for people like us, yes. We will always be outlaws. Sometimes more so, sometimes less. But it will always be there. You know what I mean?”

Eddie nods like he understands, because he does.

Standing next to them is a pair of men in a tight embrace. They begin to kiss. Right on the lips! Eddie looks around nervously, then back to the couple. They kiss again. And again! Eddie is amazed, and enthralled. Kissing! Right here, in public! He turns to Francis in disbelief, but Francis isn’t watching the men. He’s craning his neck above the crowd, straining to see the stage.

“It’s time for Gene to sing,” Francis says, pointing to the tall, husky man with the rouged cheeks, who is stepping onto the bandstand.

“Is that—”

“Yes. You just met him. Gene Malin is his full name. Although sometimes it’s Jean Malin. Other times Imogene Wilson. Depends on where he’s performing and what mood he’s in. He hit the big time recently, but we still call him Gene.”

Gene Malin stands with one hand on his hip, and his other hand holding a cigarette. “Hello, pansies,” he purrs into the microphone. “I’ve got a new song for you.”

The crowd groans. “We like the old ones!” someone shouts.

“Hush, you,” the diva scolds. “This one’s called ‘That’s What’s the Matter with Me’ and I think you’ll see… it’s ducky!”

The band starts, and Gene Malin begins to sing.

I don’t know whether I’m mister, miss, or missus / I’m on the spot as you can plainly see

His voice is rich and musical, but also light, as if he’s not just singing the words, but reciting them, in a way that’s both comic and pensive. The crowd laughs at the line about why does that fellow act that way and gasps at the line, this thing is breaking up my life . But Gene Malin finishes on a happy note, posing demurely, and also dramatically, as he delivers the final phrase: And that’s what’s the matter with me, that’s all . The audience claps and cheers, prompting Gene Malin to reprise that final line. And this time, everyone sings along, even Eddie.

And that’s what’s the matter with me, that’s all!

“That’s all!” Buzzy shouts.

“That’s all!” the other boys shout.

“Now we dance,” Francis says.

“Dance? But I don’t know how to—”

Francis leans closer to Eddie and whispers, “No one cares.”

His eyes are more colorful than they’ve ever been before, and Eddie dives into them.