Chapter Thirty-Four
Polly
New York, New York
“How much will you give me for them?” I ask, stroking my fur stoles in farewell.
I experienced one of my proudest moments when I’d finally saved enough to buy these beauties, the ultimate sign of success in my book.
I adored strutting through the streets of New York with one of them draped over my shoulders, like some Fifth Avenue matron.
The thought of parting with them now hurts.
The man winces at my blunt ask. “That’s not how we do things here at Rhodes.”
I know this is no Stuyvesant Curiosity Shop, where any old thing is bartered and pawned in the hopes of buying it back one day.
A place where towers of flimsy rings and ropes of cheap chains hang in the storefront windows and carousels of five-dollar shotguns spin on the street outside.
This elegantly turned-out establishment is a secret pawnshop for the well-to-do, not that they’d ever use so crass a word for it.
I overheard two of my grande dames discussing it one night while deep in their cups as the place where wealthy ladies off-load unfashionable jewels or jewels given to them by unfashionable men to acquire some secret “pin money” for themselves.
I haven’t got all day for the niceties; I have an appointment to keep. But the bills are coming in, so I’ve got to playact at nice. Even while it breaks my heart to sell the treasures for which I saved and saved, I need the money.
“Pardon me for my bluntness, sir,” I say, lowering my eyes in a semblance of humility.
“I’m rushing to meet my mother at the hospital for an urgent procedure, and I’ve got to have cash on hand just in case.
As my bank has decided to take an unexpected holiday, this is my only recourse.
” I seize upon a hot topic of the day as my excuse; President Roosevelt has been working to create consistency in banking—to help avoid panics of the sort we had a few years back—but banks are still known to declare the odd day off unexpectedly.
“Ah, I see,” he says, nodding as if he believes me. He’s used to the stories women tell for parting with their valuable possessions, and that seems to be part of the requisite exchange here. “That is what Rhodes is for. To assist you in a time of need.”
“I am very grateful,” I reply, keeping my gaze low. I can perform with the best of them. It’s part of my job description.
He stretches out his hands over the sparkling display case, brimming with miner’s-cut diamonds and gleaming pearls. “May I see the items? If you are ready, that is.”
I nod, unable to hide the regret and unwilling to try.
Unwrapping the stole from my neck and shoulders, I give it one last stroke before passing it to him, along with the second one draped over my arm.
As I do, I say a silent word of thanks that I never found the time to have the crimson silk lining of the furs personalized.
Because how much would I really get for fur stoles embroidered with the infamous name of the “Jewish Jezebel”?
—
Back in my new apartment in 65 Central Park West, my low mood at the loss of my furs is compounded by the state of the place.
As I glance around at the familiar King Tut bar, English country house decor, and mahjong and poker tables from my vantage point on the sofa with a stiff drink in hand, everything looks diminished in the bright light of day.
The gilt overlay on the faux Egyptian sarcophagus is flaking off, and the elaborate mahjong tiles are chipping.
Even the leather chairs, rolltop desk, and intricately carved table that had seemed so elegant now feel overdone and out of place.
This one-floor apartment, while spacious, doesn’t have the multiple stories, grand staircase, secret entrance, and elegance of the Majestic flat.
But it suits my changed purpose, I remind myself. And it’s much, much cheaper.
The Lion and my three remaining girls have been installed here with me.
For now, I run no trade from this house, and I hold no soirees, so I don’t need Jerry regularly; it broke my heart to let him go, as well as the two maids.
It’s not safe to fully set up shop, so I cannot justify the expense.
I keep the glitzier items around to keep up appearances and remind us of who we are, but I must remain squeaky-clean while the Dewey investigation continues and—hopefully—a trial looms. Not to mention, if I ran my usual business, I’d open myself up to the firm hand of the Combination, if they’re still operating as they did before the raids.
To offset my expenses and to keep some income flowing, I send the girls out to clients at hotels from time to time, but mostly we lie low and live on my ever-dwindling savings.
On those quiet nights when we gather in the kitchen, it feels empty without Mabel and Virginia.
The absence of Virginia, in fact, haunts me, and I continue to keep my ear to the ground as to her whereabouts.
But with so many girls off the streets these days—many locked up in Mrs. Carter’s prison—it feels a fool’s errand.
The only saving grace has been that Lucky has hightailed it out of his swanky hotel suite to destinations unknown as Mrs. Carter’s noose gets tighter around his neck.
I feel more comfortable in New York thinking that he’s not here, that the next time he’ll traverse the city streets will be in cuffs.
It’s a ways until we reach that milestone, yet I don’t have unlimited time.
I find myself in a pickle. I can’t make enough money to keep my operation going and my girls afloat long-term unless I run my house, but I can’t run my house until Lucky is behind bars and the Combination shut down.
So I’ve got to help get Mrs. Carter’s show on the road, which, of course, risks everything.
Assisting her feels like slowly digging my own grave; sooner or later, I will get caught snitching.
The whole situation gives me a pit in my stomach, but I’ve got no choice other than to plunge back in.
I rise from the sofa and head to the foyer. Slipping into my navy wool coat, I reach for the belt to tie it around me. I feel hands on my shoulders. Looking back, I see the Lion’s warm brown eyes studying me.
“Be careful out there,” she cautions. She alone knows where I’m headed. I can trust no one else.
“It’s a sunny spring day. Perfect for a stroll,” I say with a small smile, downplaying today’s task.
“Let’s hope it stays sunny,” the Lion replies, ever the pessimist. Ever the protector.
“It will,” I reassure her.
Then I remember. Before I open the door, I hand her an envelope with a Rhodes logo from my purse, so full it practically won’t seal. “This is for the bills. And something to squirrel away for a rainy day,” I say.
With an apologetic look on her face—she knows how hard it was for me to part with my furs—the Lion slides the envelope into the big pocket on the front of her apron. Then, with a wry grin, she says, “I thought you just told me it was going to stay sunny.”
—
Heading down to the lobby from my sixth-floor apartment, I give the doorman a discreet nod as I pass through the front doors. It simply won’t do to acknowledge each other publicly. I’m too notorious for congeniality.
The green awning shades me from the blinding spring sunlight as I step out onto Central Park West. Squinting, I proceed onto the corner of Central Park West and 66th Street, and as I wait for the streetlight to change, I glance back at my new apartment building.
The structure has none of the glitz and glamour of famed architect Emery Roth’s other, more dramatic dwellings, like the San Remo, the El Dorado, or the Beresford.
But the sixteen-story tan brick and terra-cotta building does have a certain Neo-Renaissance charm and, most importantly, solidity. The qualities I now need in droves.
I enter the park and walk north on the path closest to Central Park West. Strolling, as if I have nowhere to be and not a care in the world, I linger once the path nears the lake.
A mother and her young son stand hand in hand by the water’s edge, chatting companionably.
An unexpected tear wells up in my eye at this maternal scene, although I’m not sure why.
My wristwatch shows that the hour is near eleven o’clock. I only have three blocks until I reach my destination near 75th Street—the Ladies Pavilion.
Approaching Hernshead, the rocky outcropping along the lake’s western shore, I spot the pavilion tucked away.
The fanciful structure, with its stone floor, slate roof, and intricate wrought-iron sides, was designed first as a shelter for those waiting for carriages and then as a shady respite for the strolling ladies.
But I know this meeting place was not chosen for its views of the lake or its protection from the sun or wind.
It was selected for its seclusion. That, and the fact that no man would be caught dead here at the “Ladies Pavilion.” Or, at the very least, would stick out.
A lone figure sits on one of two pavilion benches, gazing out at the water.
I can’t see the finer details from this distance, but I don’t need them to know that it’s Mrs. Carter.
The perfectly erect posture, the prim folding of hands on her lap, and the tucking of crossed feet underneath her give her away.
As I walk closer to her, the starched white collar on her dark suit and the two-toned oxford pumps confirm her identity.
I cannot decide if she looks like a consummate professional or a church lady.
I do not speak as I walk into the rectangular pavilion, maybe ten feet wide and sixteen feet long. I do not even look her way. Instead, I settle onto the bench on the opposite side of the gazebo and stare out at the lake. As she is doing.