Chapter Thirty #2
“No free reads, lady,” the newsman barks, and grabs the paper out of my hands.
I reach into my handbag and hand the guy a nickel. He gifts me a toothless smile as he hands the newspaper back. I return to the article, and, distracted, I walk away from the newsstand and right into Robert Benchley.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” Robert exclaims.
I almost burst into tears at the hearty welcome.
As I’ve traveled west, I’ve faced nothing but disregard from those I counted as friends back in New York, particularly on the heels of the headlines.
The women have looked down their noses at me, and the men have given me sidelong glances when their wives and dates turn away.
I know what they think of me. Exploiter of women.
Dealing in the unspeakable and unsavory and immoral.
But what they don’t want to admit is that the exploitation and the unsavoriness was in place long, long before the “Jewish Jezebel” came on the scene, and that it was men who dreamed it all up.
And if they knew the truth—that I was forced into this life like every other girl, and that I’m a rarity among madams in only taking seasoned girls who understand this work, and in giving them a protected house with security, weekly medical checkups, healthy meals, and even weekly beauty appointments—would that change their minds? I doubt it.
Forcing myself into my usual jaunty, sardonic persona, I retort, “What’s an old codger like you doing in a swell place like the Royal Hawaiian Hotel?”
He snorts in laughter, then links his arm through mine. “I’ve been hunting high and low for a companion that can keep up with me, and I do believe I’ve finally found someone up to the task. Fancy a drink?”
“Robert, it’s not even noon.” He laughs, and I go on. “Well, noon, schmoon. A drink would be just the thing to get the sour taste out of my mouth, the one that’s been with me since I left New York.”
We march into the largely empty hotel bar and take a seat before the bartender. “You’ve got to try this drink they make at the House Without A Key,” Robert says, referencing the well-known lounge at the nearby Halekulani Hotel.
“What’s it called?” I ask, lighting a cigarette.
“The Halekulani, of course,” he says.
“Should’ve guessed,” I reply, and listen to Robert list the ingredients for the Royal Hawaiian bartender.
When we have the two colorful drinks in hand, we clink glasses and sip. “Delicious,” I declare, and we chat amiably about the Honolulu nightlife. Downing one Halekulani and then another and another, all on empty stomachs.
For the first time in weeks, I feel a bit like my old self, and a bit tipsy, if I’m honest. And then Robert says, “You know we have to talk about them. The raids.”
I signal the bartender for a fourth Halekulani for us both.
The last thing on earth I want to talk about is the raids; I am sick to death of thinking about them and fearful of a misstep discussing them with someone else.
But I nod, because if I seem reluctant to chat about the most-discussed topic in my world, I will appear very, very suspicious.
“Damn awful business,” I say.
“It is. So many terrific gals behind bars,” he says, finishing his drink. “How did you manage to get out in the nick of time?”
This is the sort of question I’ve been dreading. But for which I’ve prepared.
“Dumb luck. I’d sent one of my runners out for supplies, and he got word from a house that got raided before mine. My girls and I packed up lickety-split and got the heck out of Dodge.” I recite my practiced excuse.
“Thank heavens.” Robert sighs.
“I’m not sure the heavens are responsible, but I’ll take what I can get,” I say, then, reminding him that the long arm of the law hasn’t always bypassed me, add, “I mean, I just got out of jail a few months ago. I can’t imagine what my sentence would be if I’d been caught.
I thought I’d get as far away as I could. ”
“Your escape is cause for celebration,” Robert pronounces, lifting his glass to mine for another clink. And then he swills his new drink back in one.
“I’m grateful.” As I sip, I wonder whether I passed muster with my lie and my tone.
“No one is happier than me that you are safe,” Robert adds. “Except perhaps Walter Winchell.” We both laugh at the thought of Walter being deprived of “Polly’s girls” for too long.
But Robert isn’t done. “Polly, people back in New York get why you left—and they’re damned grateful you got out. But they’re wondering…” He trails off.
My stomach lurches, and my heart starts to race. What do people know? What are they wondering about? Has there been scuttlebutt that I am a snitch?
“About what?” I ask, trying to keep the cigarette between my fingers from shaking.
“About why you’re staying away. I mean, New York City isn’t the same without Polly’s. We need you back,” he says, and I breathe a sigh of relief that Robert’s primary curiosity is whether Polly’s will be up and running again.
“Soon, I hope. Just want to make sure the heat has died down before I open up shop again.”
“You know, Polly,” he says, his words beginning to slur. He is two drinks ahead of me, after all, and I’ve been accused of having a hollow leg. “I’ve often thought that your life story would make a terrific book.”
I burst into laughter. “My life? A book? That’s rich.”
“I’m serious,” he says, and even though he’s drunk, he’s earnest. “It has all the hallmarks of the greatest Horatio Alger rags-to-riches stories.”
“Come on,” I say with a smile and a playful slap on his arm. “Discretion is key in my line of work. Telling my story would mean sharing my secrets, and I’m pretty sure that could get me in a heap of trouble. Not to mention, can you imagine me writing a book?”
“Well, if you ever change your mind, I’d be happy to help,” he says, staring at the bottom of yet another empty glass. How on earth is he gulping down all these Halekulanis and still standing? “I am known for my scribbling, after all.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Bartender,” Robert suddenly calls out across the bar, which has gotten a bit more crowded in the time we’ve been here.
A group of five other bar patrons take notice of his state, but I’m not worried.
Despite the fact that the Royal Hawaiian is the poshest new hotel, this morning’s bar clientele appears a little rough around the edges.
Not so much their attire, but a certain hardness in their expressions that I’ve come to recognize in my profession.
So I’m unconcerned that Robert’s morning inebriation will ruffle their feathers.
When Robert doesn’t get an immediate reaction, he yells out again, “Bartender, don’t you know who you’ve got sitting at your bar? You can’t keep the Polly Adler—the world’s most famous madam—waiting for a drink!”
I want to disappear. The very last thing I want in this faraway outpost is to have attention drawn to my identity. I came here to flee all the notoriety. But I suppose, no matter how far I travel, I can never flee myself.