Chapter Forty-Three
Polly
New York, New York
I pace the parlor in a repetitive loop, listening intently to the radio.
Every word, every tone, every nuance feels momentous.
When the announcer changes the subject, I stride over and change the station until I find what I’m looking for.
I’m on the hunt for any and all details about the trial of Lucky Luciano.
As the pull my family has on me loosens—I haven’t heard a peep from them since my parents walked away from me—my tie to my girls and the Lion has only grown.
Along with my desire to end the threat posed by Lucky and return to business as usual.
I want to do the very best for the Lion and the girls, and all this waiting is driving me crazy.
Meeting with Mrs. Carter and gathering up useful tidbits for her gave me purpose during this fallow time in my work, and I didn’t realize how helpful those tasks were for a woman of action like myself until they were over.
Now I find myself at loose ends, and I want to do something to shore up the case.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” the Lion calls out to me from the kitchen, where she’s fixing us a pot of tea.
I’d wanted a stiff drink for my nerves, but the Lion pointed out that the mantel clock had just chimed eleven o’clock in the morning.
“We’ve got hours to go before we receive a real report on the trial, and you’ll lose those famous wits that you’re always trying to keep if you start drinking too early,” the Lion declared. Normally the hour wouldn’t stop me.
She’s right, as usual. The runner I hired to gather information from courtroom staff and deliver it back to me will not arrive until later this afternoon. So tea it is.
As she steps into the parlor balancing a tray, I’m struck with the strongest sense of déjà vu.
As if the Lion and I have lived this day before.
Maybe even more than once. Then I quickly shake my head and shake off the feeling; it’s only that we’ve been holed up in my house for days now, waiting for Lucky’s trial to end, along with my fear that he won’t be convicted and he’ll be back on the streets, trying to control us. Or worse.
When she sees I haven’t ceased my pacing, she says, “I see you’re still at it.”
“It’s either that or set fire to the place with my cigarettes, right?” I retort, referencing one of the other complaints the Lion has been voicing lately. I keep a cigarette constantly in my mouth, lighting one from the other as soon as the snipe burns down.
“Something like that,” she says, settling the tea set on the table between the wingback chairs and plopping down into one. “Sit down and take a sip. Calm yourself.”
“I can’t stop moving.”
“What do you think will happen if you do?”
“I don’t know,” I say with an inhale. “Maybe we’ll lose the trial.”
The Lion snorts. “That’s superstition. Plain and simple.”
“I know, but I can’t help but think—”
A familiar series of notes from the radio followed by an announcement interrupt me. “Breaking news in the case of Charles ‘Lucky’ Luciano.”
I inch closer to the radio console, and the Lion leans forward in her seat.
“As our listeners know, after a rousing opening statement, Special Prosector Thomas Dewey has treated the jury to two witnesses who are ladies of the evening. They gave consistent accounts of exactly how the prostitution business works, particularly the brothels that have been the subject of the alleged Mob-controlled Combination, as well as the role the infamous bookers play in arranging the schedules of the ladies of the evening at various houses of ill repute around town. Special Prosector Dewey then brought two of the bookers onto the witness stand, Mr. Al Weiner and Mr. Dave Miller, both of whom have now pled guilty and agreed to give evidence on behalf of the prosecution. Mr. Weiner and Mr. Miller further explained the inner workings of the world of vice. But the defense has been merciless on cross-examination of these witnesses, and a sentiment is brewing among reporters covering the trial. How credible are the prosecution’s witnesses?
After all, the women are both addicted to narcotics, and Mr. Weiner and Mr. Miller have been tainted by this business and the prosecution’s promises of leniency in exchange for testimony. ”
The Lion and I glance at each other. What does this mean?
Is all of Mrs. Carter’s hard work for nothing—and all my risks and the girls’ sacrifices meaningless, too—because the witnesses hail from the very business that’s on trial?
Who else but prostitutes and madams and bookers and fixers and their bosses can describe how the business operates and how the Mafia has infiltrated it?
How can onlookers possibly expect squeaky-clean witnesses from a business that is the antithesis of squeaky-clean?
And anyway, why does everyone assume that because we trade in vice, we can’t speak the truth?
Anger supersedes worry—I’m fired up by the hypocrisy and judgment of men who are only too eager to engage in vice in secret but deride it in public.
I leap up, ready to storm around instead of pace, when the radio announcer continues.
“Rumor has it that Special Prosecutor Dewey is calling a promising witness. If the whispers are true, Miss Nancy Presser will be on the stand next. She may be more than just a prostitute; allegedly, she was once a favorite companion of Lucky Luciano. Perhaps she’ll have more verifiable testimony to share than the tawdry witnesses that have preceded her. ”
When the announcer moves on to sports news—namely the debut of a hot new baseball player on the New York Yankees, Joe DiMaggio—I turn to face the Lion to get her take before I change the station again.
What does she think about Nancy Presser being called next?
I wonder. It seems awfully soon in the lineup, but perhaps the information I gave Mrs. Carter about Nancy bore fruit.
Significant fruit, if Dewey is putting her on the witness stand this early.
I wish I had a reason to reach out to Mrs. Carter for an update.
I know my curiosity alone doesn’t justify disturbing her during this busy time, but my future depends on the outcome of this trial.
As do those of the girls and the Lion. Returning to business for the sake of my family’s financial future doesn’t factor into it anymore.
Unless I hear from Mama, of course. The thought of that final squeeze from her makes my stomach flutter with hope. But not too much. I’m nothing if not realistic about the hold Moshe has on her.
Only then do I notice Angelica standing in the doorframe to the parlor, and I jump a little at the sight of her. She rarely rises this early, and anyway, her expression is strange.
“You gave me a start. You’re not usually up before noon,” I mock scold her.
The Lion lifts a cup. “Care for some tea?”
Angelica doesn’t reply, but she does walk toward us. She refuses the offer to sit in the empty leather wingback chair next to the Lion and shakes her head at the offer of tea.
Wrapping her flimsy nightgown around her, she turns toward me. “Did I hear Nancy Presser’s name on the radio?”
My heart begins to race, but I try at nonchalance. “I think so.”
“Why is she suddenly an important witness?” Her voice is sharp.
“How would I know?” I ask with a shrug. Then, as if the question is outlandish, I add, “It’s not as if I’m on Dewey’s team.”
“Aren’t you?” Her tone turns knifelike.
My heart thumps so loudly I worry that Angelica can hear it. What exactly does she suspect?
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I try to sound offended instead of afraid.
“Weren’t we just talking about Nancy Presser the other night? Didn’t Rosalie tell you some stories about Nancy’s experiences as Lucky’s companion? And now isn’t Nancy being called as an important witness?”
I’m at a loss for words. Then, realizing how crucial my reply is, I muster up some outrage.
“I’m hardly the only one who knows that story about Nancy Presser and Lucky Luciano, Angelica.
Do you think it’s impossible that one of the other girls in the slammer shared it?
Do you really think the prosecutors couldn’t get it out of Nancy themselves?
What exactly are you accusing me of? Conspiring with Thomas Dewey, the man who wants to get rid of women like us in New York City? ”
Now it’s Angelica’s turn to grow silent.
She blanches, in fact. Did she think I wouldn’t address her insinuation head-on?
Or when I laid out plainly the nature of her allegation—the top madam in New York City working hand in hand with the authorities to bring down Lucky—did it seem preposterous to her?
“No, Polly, that’s not what I meant. I guess I’m just surprised by the coincidence.” She races to explain herself, and her eyes are pleading. “And a little afraid. I’m just a cog in this big machine, and I’m worried about the future.”
I hear deception in her tone. Truth coexists with lies in Angelica’s words, and I will have to be careful around her. After all, if Lucky manages to evade jail and takes over prostitution in New York City again, Angelica’s suspicions could resurface and be whispered in all the wrong ears.
But there is something else in her statements, something that could prove very helpful to Dewey and his team, something that might ensure Lucky is locked behind bars for a long, long time.
Mrs. Carter and I need to unearth certain “cogs in the big machine” and get them on the witness stand.
And I have a good idea where to find them.