Chapter Twenty-Eight
Polly
New York, New York
It’s business as usual at Polly’s. It has been for the past two weeks, ever since I met with Mrs. Carter. It must be.
At least, that’s what I repeat to myself over and over, night after night.
Whenever one of Lucky’s men swills a drink at the bar next to Robert Benchley or Donald Ogden Stewart, illustrious regulars who’ve become accustomed to standing side by side with notorious gangsters.
Whenever one of my girls retires to her apple-green-and-peach bedroom at dawn’s light, safe from being swept into the Combination for just one more day.
Whenever I pass Virginia’s empty room, which I refuse to fill with another girl.
Whenever my stomach roils and my heart pounds at Lucky’s crew.
And I tell myself to act the part again tonight, no matter how much I loathe the sight of these men.
I will have my revenge. But pretending that all is swell is a crucial piece of moving that forward.
Paint on some fresh lipstick along with your smile, I think as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the bar, a dour expression on my face. Cast no suspicion upon yourself, I admonish myself. Or neither you nor your girls will ever be safe again.
“You bastard!” a voice cries out, and two men spring back from the bar.
The slur brings me back to the moment. I can’t see who did the yelling, but the two guests who’ve retreated from the kerfuffle at the bar are visible.
They are two of my creative regulars, just back after a few weeks’ absence.
I suppose they decided Polly’s is safe enough, mobsters or not.
Not that anyone would dare discuss it. We all pretend that it’s normal to have America’s most wanted man and his goons among us, but I see the wariness in my regulars’ eyes and their jumpiness every time they hear a loud noise. Like now.
I crane my neck to see who’s responsible for the outburst and to assess whether I need to call Jerry up from downstairs. But I cannot see over the men—or the lone woman, Dorothy Parker—and I curse my short stature for the millionth time.
Stepping back from the bar, I hear someone yell back, “No, you’re the bastard!”
The two name-callers come into view, and I realize that the insults aren’t coming from Lucky’s thugs, who showed up tonight as usual even though I’ve seen newspaper reports that Lucky has fled town thanks to the heat of Dewey’s investigation.
No, it’s two of Lucky’s out-of-town friends who have stopped in to play some poker—Jack McGurn, a rumored hit man; and Bugsy Siegel, a racketeer who recently moved out West to launch some big project.
But the two men aren’t about to launch into fisticuffs. In fact, they’re laughing.
“No way you won that game without cheating, Bugsy,” Jack calls out, a smile still curling on his lips.
“What are you talking about? My opening hand was a pair of aces. There’s no better chance of winning than starting a round with two aces,” Bugsy replies with a self-satisfied grin, much to my relief.
Unlike my regulars, the moods of Lucky’s people can turn on a dime, bringing violence along with the change in temperament.
The vigilance it takes to preserve a modicum of peace is exhausting. Especially now.
But hopefully not for long.
Walking over to the table of writers and artists, I apologize and signal for the bartender to deliver a complimentary drink of their choice for their troubles. Walter Winchell materializes, and I order him his favorite drink as well. He always knows when and where to get free liquor.
Unlike some of the literary folks, Walter has never taken a temporary respite from my house. He knows that even mobsters can be good for the gossip business, and so he’s continued to patronize me throughout Dutch’s and now Lucky’s tenure. Plus, he can never go too long without visiting my girls.
“Still no Virginia?” Walter asks as he slugs back the dregs of his drink to accept the free one. “I’d love some time with her tonight.”
I have been dreading this question. Among all my guests, Walter knows my girls best. Not just their names, but their routines, their specialties, even their backgrounds. Or at least what they present to him as their “backgrounds.” Of course, he’s noticed that Virginia’s been absent.
“Still not back from visiting family.” I trot out the lie that the Lion and I have concocted, trying to keep my voice steady along with my gaze as I lie. It hurts me to think about her out there. Or worse.
“Must be some family emergency,” he comments.
Walter doesn’t challenge me overtly, but he raises a single eyebrow quizzically, and I know he doesn’t believe me.
Has he heard rumors from people who were here the night Lucky took Virginia?
Has he heard some scuttlebutt about this “Combination” that’s spreading across the city like wildfire?
Or—my stomach lurches at the thought—does he know something about Virginia’s whereabouts?
I want to ask him, but I can’t. I must keep up appearances. So I nod, as I don’t trust myself to discuss Virginia any further.
“You’ll let me know when she’s back?” he asks.
“I promise,” I say, thinking how delighted I’d be to share that news with Walter.
Tears threaten to well up in my eyes at the thought of the still-missing Virginia, for whom I continue to search.
These days, the hunt is quieter, as I’m trying to pretend I’m the same old Polly I was before Lucky infiltrated my house and stole Virginia away.
And I’m trying not to draw attention to myself in light of Mrs. Carter’s impending plan.
But before Walter can ask any more questions, the bartender mercifully arrives with his drink.
The rest of my guests have turned and are staring at something in the gambling room. Following their gaze, I see that Jack and Bugsy are carrying one of my velvet chaise lounges across the room. And they are directing two of their lackeys to move a poker table into the bar area.
What on earth is going on? Do they think they are interior decorators? Or is something more nefarious afoot? I weigh whether it’s worth it—or safe—to intervene. After all, they aren’t hurting my girls or me, so what difference does it really make?
But then, just as quickly as these shenanigans begin, they stop; the men become distracted by the notion of playing mahjong instead.
I hold my breath for a long moment, waiting for the jazz trio and the gambling and the chatter to recommence.
Only when the usual sounds fill the space do I exhale.
Yet none of this return to the usual order displaces my hidden anger at Lucky.
Because he may not be here tonight, but his presence looms nonetheless.
The Lion catches my eye and glances toward the bookshelf.
This well-practiced gesture is a signal for me to check in with Jerry downstairs.
Usually this means that someone has asked for me, someone that Jerry—and even the Lion sometimes—has already vetted.
Could this be the message I’ve been waiting for?
The signal from Mrs. Carter that the plan is underway?
I cannot take a chance that my exit will be noticed and that Lucky’s goons will trail me.
Kit has recently returned to the bar, and once I get her attention, I crook my head toward the most problematic of Lucky’s thugs.
She sidles up to Bugsy and Jack and offers them a glass of champagne.
As she busies them, I back away toward the bookshelves, as unobtrusively as possible.
Sliding the critical book off the shelf and waiting for the all-important click of the door, I take one look back toward the bar. Bugsy and Jack are fully engrossed in a lascivious exchange with Kit.
I almost turn back. I almost chicken out. Almost.
Then I remember the night Lucky stole Virginia. And I resolve to proceed. Whatever the cost.