A Pair of Aces (gripping)

Chapter One

Polly Adler

New York, New York

Something feels off. The sensation hits me the moment we step into the swanky Algonquin Hotel suite.

As I glance around the mahogany-lined sitting room, all seems in order: Our host lifts up a gleaming cocktail shaker to welcome me and my girls; nearly all the gents relax in the royal-blue plush velvet armchairs arranged around the low-lit space; the warm hum of jazz from the phonograph drifts around the room.

But in my line of business, I’ve learned the hard way to trust my instincts.

I turn toward my girls. Virginia, Kit, Rosalie, and Angelica stand behind me, dressed to the nines in glittering, figure-hugging gowns and heels so high they teeter alluringly as they walk.

Hands on hips, they are busy sussing out the men, unbothered by whatever has gotten under my skin.

Could I have misjudged the scene? Nothing to do about it now.

I motion for the girls to start mingling.

“Polly Adler, welcome! Come have a martini!” Our host, Archie Elwyn, renowned owner of theaters up and down the East Coast, calls me over to the bar nestled into the corner of the room.

As I sidle up, he gestures to the man facing him, the only one with his back to the room.

“I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Brown. ”

The man swivels in his chair to face me.

His face is sallow, and his rumpled gray suit hangs off him like a sack.

He certainly doesn’t resemble Archie’s usual guests, well-heeled film studio executives and theater impresarios with whom Archie’s trying to make deals.

And whom my girls are meant to please. Anything to keep my plays on the stage and the theaters full, I’ve heard Archie say often enough.

But this Mr. Brown doesn’t look like he could afford a ticket to one of Archie’s productions, let alone have the funds to produce one.

Not to mention there’s a barrel-chested man of enormous girth standing cross armed against a nearby wall, not partaking of the fun but certainly scrutinizing it.

And I see the telltale bulge of a gun under his suit jacket.

“I hear a lot of talk about you, Polly. Word on the street is you’re the best of the best. Aces, even, in the skirt trade,” Mr. Brown says.

His voice is low and gravelly and his accent thick. As an immigrant always trying to polish up my own speech, I’ve become tuned in to others’ pronunciations, and I’m guessing this man hails from the Bronx. Not the usual hometown of Archie’s theater folks.

I’m not certain how to reply to Mr. Brown’s remark, and I stare at the man for a beat too long. It’s an unspoken rule that no one overtly mentions my business. Especially outside my house, the place where I typically conduct it. The walls have ears, after all, particularly hotel walls.

Archie’s eyes are fixed on me; I don’t think he’s ever seen me speechless. Stepping into the awkward breach, he asks, “Polly, would you mind popping into the butler’s pantry and grabbing me some olives for these martinis?”

I nod, happy to move away from this strange Mr. Brown. Opening the door to the small space outfitted with cabinetry and a brass sink, I fling open one cabinet door after another in the hunt for olives. And then I freeze.

Stacked inside a deep cabinet in the corner is a heaping pile of tommy guns. Definitely not the sort of thing men use to duck hunt, which Archie is known to brag about endlessly. These submachine guns are the signature weapons of criminals, and this qualifies as an arsenal.

What in the hell is going on here?

The butler’s pantry door swings open, and I jump. I almost reach for one of the tommy guns to protect myself before I realize it’s Archie. “These better be stage props, Archie,” I hiss, my voice so quiet as to be nearly inaudible.

He places a hand on my arm in a futile effort to calm me. “Times are tough, Polly, and investors are scarce. I’ve had to expand my horizons.” His volume is barely above a whisper.

“What do you mean?” I feel sick.

“Don’t you know who the men out there are?” He looks genuinely surprised.

“Why should I? I mean, they don’t look like your usual Hollywood honchos, but one john is as good as another as long as they pay what’s due and don’t hurt my girls.”

“Mr. Brown is Dutch Schultz.”

I feel like I’ve been slapped, and I lean against the wall of cabinets for support.

Dutch Schultz? The man who’s created an underworld domain so expansive he controls gambling and extortion and God knows what else in New York City?

Dutch is one of the most powerful mobsters in town and notorious for the violence that earned him the position.

Suddenly I stand up straight and move to exit the butler’s pantry. “Where are you going, Polly? You can’t leave. You definitely can’t take the girls.” Archie’s voice is tremulous.

“I’m not an idiot, Archie. I won’t put myself or you in harm’s way by pulling the girls and angering the men, although you deserve it.

You played me for a sucker by inviting us here without telling me the truth.

” I pause for a deep breath, then say, “Excuse me. I need to check on my girls, to make sure they’re all right. ”

Mustering all of my five feet—my height in three-inch heels, if I’m honest—I push past Archie and reenter the suite.

I take a quick measure of the sitting room.

The girls are perched on the men’s chairs, flirting and sipping drinks.

Using the private hand gestures and eye contact we employ, I check in with Virginia, Kit, Rosalie, and Angelica in turn, and all’s well, according to the girls.

But I observe this tableau with new eyes, and though the men seem jovial enough, I cannot unsee their roughness. I want to take the girls and run.

Just then the so-called Mr. Brown motions to me. My heart races as I force a smile onto my lips and walk toward him.

“Polly, I want to get your address. Me and my boys might like to stop in from time to time. I like the look of your girls, and I like the way you handle yourself.” Dutch glances at me as if he’s bestowed the compliment of a lifetime instead of a death sentence.

“Of course, Mr. Brown,” I say, keeping the smile pasted on my lips.

Although I mean the exact opposite. In the fifteen years I’ve been running my business, I’ve done everything I can to avoid connections with the upper levels of the Mob.

Sure, I’ve had the occasional gangster visit my house in the company of one of my regulars, but I’ve fended off any opportunities for a regular relationship.

On one occasion, a policeman friend offered to make an introduction to Dutch because, as my friend put it, he’s a good spender, but I firmly declined.

Why would I invite bloodshed into my house?

There’s trouble enough in my line of work.

“Can I get a card?” he asks when I don’t immediately offer up the location of my secret house.

Here and now, how can I say anything but yes?

Reaching into my bag with a trembling hand, I pass him one of my infamous calling cards.

Printed in vibrant blue ink, the card features only my phone number and a line drawing of a parrot perched on a stand, a subtle nod to my name, as so many parrots are named Polly.

No actual reference to my name or my address can be found anywhere on the card.

I can’t risk it ending up in the wrong hands.

“You won’t see my address on the card, but my house is in the Majestic,” I say, and he nods once.

“Mr. Brown” passes the card to the behemoth guarding the room, who slides it into the inner pocket of his jacket. And then he says, “You’ll like being in my circle. I treat the people in it real good.” Looking at Dutch—who allegedly murders as casually as he picks his teeth—I cannot breathe.

“Will you excuse me?” I ask, gesturing toward the powder room.

Lifting his hand in permission, Dutch turns back to his martini and to Archie, who’s resumed his place behind the bar.

I cross the room, trying my level best to keep my gait steady and my expression pleasant.

As soon as I enter the marble-tiled powder room, I lock the door behind me and sink to the floor, my back against the door.

Fighting tears and trying to catch my breath, I wonder what I’m going to do.

I’ve been given no choice but to invite the Devil to my doorstep, and I know all too well what happens to brothels that become the regular haunts for prominent mobsters.

Should I move to another apartment, start over with a new name and a new house?

Should I leave town altogether? But what would happen to my girls?

Just then, I hear two distinct voices outside the powder room door.

They speak in low tones, but I’m sure one of them is Dutch.

A phrase catches my attention: “Mad Dog.” My shallow breathing grows even shallower at the mention of the violent former hit man currently at war with Dutch.

Mad Dog Coll’s quest for power has left the city on edge: Dozens of men are dead, including Coll’s own brother; immeasurable numbers of buildings, shops, and automobiles have been destroyed; at least eight gangsters have been kidnapped; and, worst of all, a five-year-old Harlem boy, Michael Vengalli, was accidentally gunned down during a botched shooting of bootlegger Joey Rao.

Even for the Mob, Mad Dog’s path of destruction has been brutal.

I press my ear to the door. “Boss, I don’t think we’ll ever get a better shot at Coll.”

Dutch’s gravelly voice is barely audible, but I manage to hear him ask, “Where is the bastard?”

“In a phone booth at a drugstore on the corner of Eighth Avenue and 23rd Street in Manhattan. Our boys are at the scene.”

“Order it,” Dutch says.

“Do you want to do the deed yourself?”

“Nah, I don’t want to dirty my hands with that scum.” Dutch chuckles. “But I might want to watch. Or at least see the aftermath.”

“Lulu, round up the men,” the other man barks. Within seconds, a clatter of footsteps sounds in the hall, and the hotel suite front door slams shut.

I wait in the powder room for another painfully long minute until I hear my girls murmuring.

Pushing myself to stand, I take a quick peek at my face in the mirror.

With a shaking hand, I slide my compact from my bag, powder my blotched face, and reapply my crimson lipstick.

No one has ever called Polly Adler pretty—my features are too blunt, my figure too plump, and my heritage too Jewish by popular standards—but no one will ever call me unpolished either. Or weak.

Squaring my shoulders, I unlock the powder room door and enter the suite.

Except for Archie, the men are gone, and only my girls remain.

Sipping on their Whiskey Slings and Gin Rickeys and Pink Ladies, they appear nonplussed at the disappearance of the men.

And why should they be concerned? The girls are in the dark about the identity of the men, and I will do nothing to illuminate them.

My job is to see nothing and hear nothing and do nothing.

Because people who are blind and deaf and immobile can’t be whacked on suspicion of snitching.

“Time to go, girls,” I announce with a clap of my hands.

“Aw,” Kit complains, drawing deeply from her Pink Lady. “Can’t we stay a little longer? Archie’s pouring some delicious cocktails. And maybe the men will come back.”

Archie offers me an apologetic smile, but I don’t return it. “No, Kit, the men are gone, and we should be, too. Archie, I wish I could thank you for a terrific evening.”

Without waiting for the girls’ acquiescence, I head toward the front door, knowing they will follow. When the elevator arrives, we all file inside and ride down to the lobby in silence. Just before the elevator doors slide open, I say, “I promise some killer cocktails when we get to the house.”

They chatter excitedly as we stroll through the Algonquin lobby, elegantly decorated with English oak and marble and chockablock with palm trees and flowers.

I’m familiar with it from many assignations like this one and the occasional pop in to drink with some of my regulars who haunt this place.

But tonight, the hotel feels unusually empty, even for a Wednesday night, and I spot none of the literary types who toggle between this establishment and my own.

Where is everyone? Are all the guests out on the town watching some big jazz band I don’t know about or a Broadway debut I haven’t heard of yet?

A lone doorman holds open the brass doors for us, and I ask him to hail us a cab.

But as soon as we land on the sidewalk, we are swarmed by blue-uniformed New York City cops.

My arms are pulled behind my back and cuffed, as are the girls’.

An officer steps forward from the pack and, with a wide grin, announces, “Miss Polly Adler, you are under arrest.”