Chapter Five
Polly
New York, New York
Day is giving way to dusk by the time I instruct the cabbie to let me out a block away from the Majestic.
I sigh in relief at the sight of my apartment building.
The prospect of sinking into a hot bath, washing away the grime of jail, and changing clothes after a day and a half in the same garb almost makes me feel like crying. And I never cry. Not anymore anyway.
As I pass by the uniformed porter who has already opened the heavy brass door for me, we are careful not to make eye contact.
When I step into the marble-tiled lobby, the same is true for the concierge, who gives me the slightest of nods that only I would recognize.
These men need plausible deniability if the cops ever find my house and come sniffing around, asking if they’ve seen me. And I need these men.
Instead of heading to the elevator bank or mounting the sweeping staircase to the second-floor landing, I step behind the stairs. There, amidst the lacquered wood and metallic Art Deco wall decor, is a panel that’s not a panel. It is a secret door.
After checking behind me to ensure the coast is clear, I knock three times in a distinctive pattern. The wall panel opens up to reveal a hidden set of steps. There, barrel-chested, brawny-armed Jerry stands. He’s ever trusty, ever present, ever ready to protect me.
“You all right, Miss Adler? After last night in the Big House, I mean,” Jerry says, his face the picture of concern.
“It was a rough one, Jerry. But you know me, I’m hard-boiled.”
“That you are, Miss Adler. That you are.” His cheeks suddenly flush, and he stares down at the floor. “A-And I’m sorry that I couldn’t stop the fuzz. I should’ve been with you at the Algonquin—”
I interrupt him with a wave of my hand. It’s painful to watch the big man stammer, and anyway, I know it’s not his fault.
Jerry has been with me for nearly ten years, ever since I poached him from his bouncer job at the Stork Club.
He’s saved me and my girls from trouble more times than I can count, and I know he would’ve fended off the cops at the Algonquin if he could.
But I cannot allow him to tag along to every tryst I arrange for the girls. My clients would never agree.
Jerry nods in thanks and gestures toward the staircase behind him. “Need any help getting upstairs, Miss Adler?”
I playfully slap his arm. “Help? Me? You know better than that.”
He chuckles, and I trudge up the stairs, my heels silent as they land on the plush Oriental rug I selected. The luxurious experience of my house is meant to begin with the very first step.
Reaching the landing, I run my eyes over the expansive formal parlor, designed to resemble the library of an exclusive English private club.
The plush patterned rug under an upholstered sofa with chairs arranged around the fireplace.
Leather-bound volumes on built-in shelves, with one innocuous but all-important book hiding in plain sight.
Crossing the room, I slide out a toffee-colored tome, and the shelving unit pops open, revealing my second secret door. Opening it wide, I step within—into an entirely different world.
A gilded bar dominates the room, but it is hardly the most astonishing decor element.
Faux limestone blocks line the walls, and an enormous replica sphinx and King Tut’s sarcophagus, complete with artificial gems and precious metals, loom over the bar.
The Broadway set designer I hired for the job knew her stuff, making my guests feel transported to ancient Egypt.
Or so they tell me. It’s one of the things that makes “Polly’s” feel more like the most exclusive club in the city than a brothel.
The red velvet gambling room is just off the bar to the left, where fierce rounds of mahjong and poker take place on specially designed tables.
A dramatic staircase leading up to the girls’ ornately decorated rooms takes center stage in the middle of the King Tut bar.
It serves as a reminder of what else is on offer, delights that are available but never required.
I hope I never have to move house again.
Every time I get raided—or even get word that I might be—I’ve got to decamp to another location.
I can’t even count the number of times I’ve been through that rigamarole as I worked my way up from a dingy one-bedroom walk-up to this palace.
Shaking my head, I tabulate the cost of breaking down and moving my house and then finding a new place.
Not to mention that I’ll never find a building as perfect for my clandestine activities as the Majestic.
Behind the bar, I reach for a drink. Not hooch—although it is tempting—but coffee, even though it’s yesterday’s stale brew.
I’ve got to have my wits about me while I parse out this arrest situation.
Was I identified entering the Algonquin with my girls?
It’s been known to happen, especially because my face is well-known to hotel managers across town, and not all of them approve of my trade.
Or was there an insider with a hand in it, someone who knew Dutch had been in a suite with us?
From my interactions with the cops during the past day and a half, the latter seems unlikely; no one has asked a single question about Dutch, Coll, or any gangster.
True, the appearance of Assistant District Attorney Carter was unusual—and this Dewey team’s crackdown on crime has everyone nervous, even though the word on the street is that prostitution is outside its mandate.
Coffee in hand, I plop down on one of the barstools.
Just then I hear a soft padding from the staircase that leads to the girls’ rooms. Who the hell is that?
All my girls are still in the slammer, and I’m guessing my trusty right-hand woman and housekeeper, the Lion, is still at the friend’s place she scampered to.
That’s her usual pattern when the heat is on.
And she wouldn’t be coming from upstairs in any case.
She and I each have our own rooms on this floor, not too far from the kitchen.
I slide my hand over the bar and remove the gun I keep hidden underneath. I aim toward the staircase until I hear a screech.
“Miss Adler! It’s only me, Mabel!”
One of my steadiest girls—one who’s been with me for years, through at least seven houses—is descending the stairs. Her auburn hair is tousled, and her dressing gown has slipped off one shoulder. She’s crouched down, ducking behind the bend in the banister and clutching on to it for dear life.
“Sorry, Mabel! You just startled me, that’s all. And after the arrest and the slammer, well—”
“What happened? I got here at my usual eleven o’clock, and the place was deserted,” she says, a little unsteady on her feet as she continues down. “Jerry said you guys got picked up at the Algonquin?”
I’d forgotten all about Mabel. She’s a Columbia student—about to finish her master’s degree, in fact—and only works one night a week.
My other girls live here with me. Mabel arrives late and stays overnight on her evening with me, handling the wee-hour stragglers for whichever of my girls she’s covering, and I completely forgot it was her night.
She may have stayed on even when she got the news of our arrest, because I think she concocts some elaborate lie for her parents and may not have been able to return home.
“Yeah, it was a real doozy.”
“But you got out all right?”
“Yup, although Magistrate Kross set a humdinger of a bail.”
“How much?”
“Two thousand five hundred smackers. I can afford it, but I’d rather not spend hard-earned cash on that.”
Mabel lets out a low whistle. “What about the other girls?”
“I am hoping they’ll be out tomorrow morning. The magistrate has them next on the docket.”
We settle down on the barstools, and Mabel asks, “How did they find you and the girls?”
“Isn’t that the million-dollar question?”
Mabel stiffens and asks, “You don’t think it was an inside job, do you?”
I know what she’s really asking is whether I suspect her.
And I don’t. Mabel is nearly done with her time here, and getting her hands dirtier than absolutely necessary isn’t her style.
She’s too smart for that. What about one of my two maids?
They knew we were headed to the Algonquin.
I’m good to my girls and my maids—much more generous and protective than any other madam—so I don’t think spitefulness motivated any of them.
But what if one was getting secretly swacked on opium or had a kid sister who needed an operation?
Would they have ratted me out for the cash, even if it meant a stint in jail for themselves?
Or could it be one of the other high-end madams, jealous of my prominence and wanting to steal my clients?
All possible, but the most likely scenario is that an Algonquin Hotel employee spotted me.
Certainly, the Lion is the essence of trustworthiness, and I would never, ever consider that she would turn on me.
My tiny, feisty, devoted housekeeper has been with me for years.
She and I first became acquainted while she was working in the ladies’ room of a restaurant I frequented.
One evening, I discovered the colored attendant—usually the essence of efficient courtesy—crying in a stall.
Her daughter had been in a terrible fire in South Carolina, and she didn’t have the funds to go to her.
I gave her everything I had on me and made excuses about her whereabouts to her boss, offering up a free night with one of my girls to hold her position.
The forty dollars turned out to be enough for her train ticket.
I had no expectation of seeing the money or her again, but one day, she turned up with the money on my doorstep and offered up her services.
How she discovered the location of my house is anyone’s guess.
She wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I refused her cash but took her in.
Her steadfast presence is now such a part of the Polly’s experience that my clients call her “Richard the Lion-Hearted,” or the Lion for short.
I wish she was here right now, as no one can calm me like the Lion when I’m feeling overwhelmed by this life.
“I doubt it. My best guess is dumb luck on the cops’ part, emphasis on dumb. Probably a tip-off from some hotel pen pusher,” I answer, finishing my coffee. I slide off the barstool and head toward my private suite, where I’ll finally scrub off the stink of the jail and the courthouse.
But before I reach the door, I turn back and say, “One thing I do know, though. We’ll have to keep our eyes out for Assistant District Attorney Eunice Carter.”