Chapter Twenty
Polly
New York, New York
I’ve known Lucky by reputation for years, of course.
Even though I’ve never been formally introduced.
You can’t run in the sort of circles I do and not know the infamous boss of all bosses, or even spot him across the room in a nightclub from time to time.
And I could claim a sort of tangential relationship with him, in that when he’s wanted to impress and entertain out-of-town guests, he has requested a couple of my girls to visit the gents’ hotel rooms. But that’s a far sight from knowing the man. As now I do. Quite unluckily.
I study Lucky as he holds court at the King Tut bar.
His silvery-gray pin-striped suit is handmade from the finest wool, tailored to perfection, and his distinctive oxfords can only have been made by the famed British shoemaker John Lobb, whose one-hundred-and-ninety-step process entails the creation of exact replicas of clients’ feet, called lasts.
When Lucky arrived earlier, I helped him slip off his cashmere overcoat and detected the scent of a Clive Christian cologne, one of the priciest and most exclusive British fragrances out there.
With one sidelong glance and one inhale, an observer might mistake Lucky for an English gentleman, and I guess that’s the point.
But an assessment of his demeanor and a long gander at his face would change all that.
He has an air of quiet, almost polite menace, which I find much more terrifying than Dutch’s obvious seething. I never know where I stand with Lucky. Neither his unsettling bearing nor his hard-as-nails gaze, however, instills as much fear in me as his scar.
A simple scar wouldn’t faze me. I see all sorts of defacement in here, and my girls get up close and personal glimpses, of course.
Sometimes, we laugh about it at the kitchen table before we turn in for the day.
But Lucky’s disfigurement is of an entirely different nature.
The angry, red, raised mark runs from one ear to another and connects across his neck.
If the rumors are correct, rival mobsters slit his throat from ear to ear when he tried to encroach on their territory and left him for dead.
No one, and I mean no one, lives through that sort of slashing.
The fact that he survived an unsurvivable wound—leaving him with that grisly scar, a droopy eye, and a fierce notoriety—launched his nickname, “Lucky.” And it telegraphs his indomitable character.
Lucky nods in my direction, a signal that I should scamper over.
It simply won’t do to keep the capo di tutti capi waiting, particularly in front of his guests.
He doesn’t make a habit out of appearing at my house; he certainly doesn’t make it his office, as Dutch did.
Instead, he pops in when he has a special client or celebrity visitor that he wants to influence, not that he needs to do much swaying given his role as Mob boss.
The rest of the time, Lucky leaves his thugs to mind “the shop,” as they’ve taken to calling my place, and wreak all sorts of damage.
All this, I can tolerate. What I cannot bear are the Combination practices Lucky has recently instituted elsewhere. How I’m going to handle the gossiped-about consolidation when it comes my way, I haven’t quite figured out.
“This is the Polly Adler,” Lucky says to the man standing opposite him before I can even offer them another drink or one of the special Cuban cigars I’ve set aside.
Lucky then gestures to me as if I were a well-dressed mannequin at Bergdorf’s wearing a pricey fur he’s about to purchase. Again, this I can take, if it keeps the peace. If it gives my girls and my house a modicum of protection.
“I am indeed,” I say, waiting to be introduced. But Lucky doesn’t bother to share the other fellow’s name with me, another well-dressed gangster, by the looks of him. And the man doesn’t bother to greet me; he just stares me up and down.
I stand stock-still, awaiting my next instruction. The man returns his gaze to Lucky, disgust flashing on his face.
“She’s got the best girls in town? This woman? She’s hardly a looker.”
Lucky chortles. “She don’t need to be a looker to offer up lookers to us gents.”
My stomach roils at these insults, delivered as if I am not standing right in front of them.
These days, I’ve grown used to entertaining the crème de la crème—American blue bloods, stars of the stage, famous singers, noted writers, even the odd British aristocrat—and I’ve become used to their slights.
But they’re never quite so crass, and this stings.
Endure it I must, so I keep my expression even and my smile in place. This placid expression is what Lucky sees when he turns to me and says, “Anyway, Polly is the best madam in the city.”
Is this meant to smooth over his guest’s comments? Or Lucky’s own? I doubt it. I’m just another cog in his grand machine of consolidating crime and vice.
The man puts his drink down on the bar, crosses his arms, and announces, “Then I’d like to have the very best girl. Bring her to me.”
Giving them my broadest smile and coyest glance, I trot out the usual patter. “All my girls are the very best. Which one you’d prefer is a matter of taste. And we cater to all tastes.”
“I like a girl who’s game for anything.” The man actually licks his lips as he says this, a vile gesture that my usual clients would never make. Then he has the audacity to rub his hands together expectantly. I do not want to give any of my girls over to this man.
Hoping that a delay might temper his appetite, I say, “I’d be happy to introduce you to a few of them. They’re currently busy but should be available quite soon.”
This is a lie. Virginia happens to be free, awaiting her standing ten-o’clock-Friday-night client, who will not arrive for nearly another hour.
Lucky’s face whips toward me, and he reaches for my upper arm. Squeezing it so tightly it nearly takes my breath away, he seethes, “I’m sure you can rustle up your very best girl for my friend right now.”
He releases my arm, and I stumble backward. “Of c-course,” I stammer, then right myself and weave through the room toward the staircase.
The Lion meets me there, and we walk up together. “Heat’s turning up, is it?” she mutters, having seen the exchange between me and Lucky.
“Yup,” I answer, keeping my lips tight in case Lucky is watching.
“Matter of time, from what we’ve heard,” she replies.
Since Dutch died, the gossip about Lucky’s actions as the head of the Combination has grown and become fearsome.
Streetwalkers have been rounded up and reallocated all over the city, and smaller whorehouses have folded as their girls are combined into newly formed, midsized brothels, all under the command of Lucky and his central bookers, who dole out assignments to the girls on a day-by-day, hour-by-hour, and, in some cases, minute-by-minute basis.
Only bigger, more exclusive houses like mine and Diamond Lil’s have escaped this consolidation. So far.
We push open Virginia’s door, stepping inside her apple-green-and-peach-colored bedchamber and closing the door behind us.
The blond-haired beauty is lounging on the bed, smoking, and reading a celebrity magazine, all without smudging her crimson lipstick.
“You two look a fright,” she says with a giggle.
“Lucky’s here—” the Lion starts.
“He’s always here these days,” Virginia interrupts with a roll of her eyes.
How can she be so flippant? We would only be in here if we were worried, and she knows that. “He wants you to meet with some man he’s got with him. Someone he wants to impress,” I say, hoping to instill some urgency in Virginia.
“I can handle that,” she says with a shrug, grinding out her cigarette in the crystal ashtray on her nightstand.
“This is Lucky Luciano we are talking about,” the Lion says, not bothering to mask her irritation at Virginia’s lightness.
The lanky blonde pushes herself to standing. Her frothy white robe swirls around her ankles as she towers over us. “Ladies, if I could handle Dutch Schultz’s loathsome men, I can handle Lucky’s guest.”
Swinging open her door with a dramatic slam, Virginia pauses on the landing overlooking King Tut’s bar.
Waiting until every eye in the room is upon her, she slowly sashays down the stairs.
The Lion and I remain on the top step, taking in the scene and holding our collective breath.
Virginia has got to be able to pull this off.
A path opens for her amidst the crowd as she saunters toward the bar. Sidling up to Lucky, Virginia holds out a cigarette for his guest to light. The threesome chat for a minute while the Lion and I watch. And then Virginia’s body becomes erect as the scene grows tense.
I hurry down the stairs. Signaling to my barman to pour two champagnes lickety-split, I approach Virginia, Lucky, and the man. “I see you gents have met Virginia,” I say, keeping my tone merry and offering them the drinks.
“She is a beaut,” the man says, never taking his eyes off her.
“I am glad you find Virginia pleasing,” I reply.
Lucky says, “In fact, he finds her so pleasing that he’d like to install her at his local brothel.”
“It’s no Polly’s, but it’s close to my business in New Jersey,” he says almost apologetically to Virginia. Then to Lucky, he says with a leer, “It may be a bit too close to the wife for comfort, but that way, I can see this whore whenever I like.”
I give Virginia a sidelong glance, and her eyes are wild.
Just then, I feel her hand on my hand, secretly pleading for this to stop.
“My apologies, sir, but Virginia lives and works here. She has for years. But you are welcome to see her here whenever you like. I’ll make certain she is always free for you.
I’ll even send her to you whenever you wish. ”
Lucky slams the crystal champagne flute down on the bar so hard that the stem breaks and golden liquid spills everywhere. “Virginia is my whore, not yours, Polly. And I will say where she lives and works from now on.”
Lucky reaches for Virginia’s arm and begins tugging her toward the secret bookshelf door, the man right behind them.
Virginia resists, twisting and turning back toward me.
All the rage simmering beneath my surface—rage over my loss of power, rage over my inability to protect my girls, rage over being forced into this life because my family sent me to this country at twelve when I was innocent and vulnerable—bursts forth.
I race toward Lucky and yell, “She will stay here.”
Lucky freezes, his left hand still on Virginia’s arm. He pivots toward me and, with his right hand, punches me in the face.
And then everything goes black.