Chapter Forty-Nine
Polly
New York, New York
“Are you sure going out is good idea, Polly? I mean, madams are all over the news, and you are the most famous one,” the Lion says, ever cautious for me, ever worrisome on my behalf.
She might be alone in this concern. Certainly, I’ve seen no indication of my family’s interest in my well-being; they’ve gone silent. “You might be recognized.”
“I need to get out of the apartment,” I say, slipping one arm into my lightweight cotton coat and then the other. “Just to be around people. Pretend like everything is normal. Pretend like I haven’t been stuck here, listening to the radio and waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“You never can stop moving,” the Lion says with a tsk.
I am restless. Since my last meeting with Mrs. Carter, where we secured the Waldorf witnesses, I have no outlet for my desire to help the case along.
And I’ve been holed up. I’ve barely left the apartment because of my fixation on the radio trial reports; my only avenue for information is the same available to any Joe on the street.
Even the runner I employ to stand by at the courthouse and gather up tidbits returns with the same dross I can hear anywhere, a recounting of the terrible cross-examiner’s onslaught against the prostitute and madam witnesses.
I yearn for the moment when the Waldorf employees will take the stand and prove out these women’s claims. But I will not reach out to Mrs. Carter again to find out when that will happen, as I don’t have other evidence to offer at this stage and I don’t want to be a bother. Too much is at stake to disturb her.
“You’ll be browsing the aisles of Bonwit Teller, looking at scarves or purses, but everyone’s eyes will be on the free madam in their midst.” The Lion continues, crossing her arms now and bringing home her point. “Practically the only one left in the whole darn city.”
“Let them stare. And anyway, I think you overestimate my fame,” I reply, staying firm as I button up the coat. “No one will recognize me.”
She sniffs. “Are you forgetting how often your face has been plastered on the front of the newspaper? Very recently, in fact.” Without mentioning it explicitly, she references the terrible picture and article in the Daily Mirror that precipitated the chasm between me and my family.
“I’m always careful to cover my face.”
“The reporters were quicker than you when you stepped out of that last paddy wagon.” Now she’s rubbing salt in the wound in her efforts to keep me home.
When I don’t reply and continue buttoning up my coat instead, she asks, “None of the girls going with you?”
“Kit and Rosalie are out on a job, and as for Angelica coming along, I think I’d draw too much attention if I arrived flanked by one of my girls. Might be too bold a statement while vice is on trial.” I don’t need to mention my ongoing wariness of Angelica, as the Lion understands that implicitly.
“I think clothes shopping at the high-end department stores in the city like you haven’t a care in the world when your whole industry is up in flames is too bold a statement.
” Her arms are now folded in an impossible knot.
“But I’ll explain it to Angelica when she gets back from the hair salon.
She’ll be disappointed to be cooped up here for the rest of the afternoon. ”
I suddenly have an image of all the prostitutes and madams in New York stuck in their houses, waiting for the verdict on Lucky Luciano to be rendered.
It’s not just a verdict on the mobster; it’s a judgment on how prostitution will be conducted and policed in the future. And, in a way, how the world sees us.
Thinking about those other madams, I doubt that anyone else has someone like the Lion on the lookout for them. I lean toward her and buss her cheek.
Her eyes widen in surprise. The Lion knows how I feel about her, but displays of affection aren’t exactly our norm. “What’s that for?”
“For caring about me when no one else does,” I say, then shimmy past her and out the apartment door before she can react.
When I’m down the elevator and out onto the city streets, I feel I can breathe.
I need to step back into my old life, the one I led before the raids, the one before Lucky rolled out his Combination, and the one before I snitched to Mrs. Carter.
If only for a few hours. Then, I tell myself, I can go back to waiting, refreshed.
The day is warm, and I almost don’t need my coat.
But I chose the swingy coat and the low-brimmed cloche hat to make me more anonymous.
I’d like to be able to slide into department stores drawing as little attention as possible and return home with a spring in my step.
And maybe some shopping bags with inexpensive trinkets for the Lion and the girls, since money is too tight for much more.
I hail a cab and head toward Fifth Avenue, where a plethora of delightful stores await.
As we drive closer, we pass perfectly turned-out women window-shopping and chatting with each other, and I’m reminded that the world goes on, blissfully unaware and unaffected by the trial of Lucky Luciano.
For most, the trial is a sideshow attraction, a headliner in a frenzied media circus and nothing more.
As I step out of the cab on Fifth Avenue, I walk toward Bonwit Teller.
How well the Lion understands me, I think, to know that I’d start here.
The store was an early favorite when I finally had money to spend and is a place I return time and again.
Nodding at the doormen as they open the doors for me, I step inside, breathing in the heady scent of perfume and money.
I peruse the glass cases of jewelry and the racks of scarves and the rows of hats on bodiless mannequins, but nothing captivates. Maybe I should have started at Saks, I think. It’s a little pricier, but I never leave there empty-handed.
Passing by the doormen again as I reenter the day, I decide to walk to Saks.
The weather is fine, and the air feels good on my skin after so many hours spent in my house.
My arms swing, my pace increases, and my mood lifts as I near the vast, classically designed flagship store. Saks Fifth Avenue never disappoints.
Weaving through the steady stream of well-heeled women—and a few sharply dressed men—entering and exiting the famed store, I stride through the doors and into the accessories department.
I browse until a fine black leather handbag catches my eye.
But when the well-hidden price tag reveals that the pocketbook costs a hefty thirty-five dollars, I carefully replace it on the shelf.
Two years ago, I would have picked it up with a snap, but these days, it’s too dear.
I stroll into the makeup department next, where glass cases offer the latest powders, lipsticks, rouges, mascaras, and eyebrow pencils.
Women of all ages and shapes flock to the counters, eager to take the makeup companies up on their promises that the right makeup purchase will turn them into the next Greta Garbo or Jean Harlow.
And even though I know better, I find myself considering a deep pink shade of Elizabeth Arden rouge.
But then the elegant display of the new luxury makeup brand Lanc?me lures me in.
And I wander over to examine an array of lipsticks in striking gold packaging.
There at the center of several bold red lipsticks—the most popular trend in beauty—sits an unusual pale pink shade.
Sliding the sample out of the case, I twist the base, and the subtle scent of rose wafts into the air.
“Miss,” I say to the brunette salesgirl behind the counter with her back to me. She’s busy restocking a drawer, but I’m sure she’d prefer a sale to that sort of work. “I’m interested in this lipstick.”
The woman turns to me, the gentle curls of her long, chocolate-brown hair bouncing as she does, and asks, “How may I help you, ma’am?”
In that moment, I have a flash of recognition. Despite the wildly different hair color, the slightly altered arch of her brows, the conservative clothes, and the crimson, bow-shaped lipstick application, I realize who she is. It is Virginia.
She survived—and she got out. This is beyond my greatest dream for her.
So few of my girls ever really leave the world of vice.
Mabel, of course, completed her studies and should be a teacher now.
There’s Gigi, who married one of her regular johns, a rarity in this business; Muriel, who became the pampered mistress of a nightclub and radio comedian; and Fran, who finished her college studies and teaches high school in Connecticut, last I heard.
But more often than not, they descend in the ranks of prostitution, get hooked on Cadillac, or choose a different, but no less fraught, illegal path.
Martha, for example, was rumored to have left my house to work as a high-end pickpocket.
Many are too wounded by their past to take advantage of the present I offer them and build a new future.
But not Virginia.
My mouth opens at the sight of a healthy, successful Virginia, and I feel my hands lift as if to reach across the counter and embrace her. But she gives me the subtlest shake of her head, which she then inclines toward an older woman serving a client next to me. That must be her boss.
I would do nothing to jeopardize the hard-won freedom Virginia has managed for herself, especially given the terrible circumstances of her departure from my house.
I know she could provide Mrs. Carter with a wealth of information that would help seal Lucky’s fate—as could I, for that matter—but I’ve offered up enough girls and madams as sacrificial lambs to this trial, a fact about which I feel terrible.
If I mean what I say—to myself and others—that my girls are my family and that I want the best for them, then I need to let Virginia go and allow her to embrace this life she’s fashioned, against all odds.
Our eyes meet, and I smile at her. “Thank you, miss,” I say, and hold up the tube of lipstick. “What a beautiful, fresh shade this is, so different from all that red! I’m always so delighted when someone—or some company, in this case—forges a new path. What is this color called?”
Virginia smiles back with such gratitude that it almost brings a tear to my eye. “It’s called Rose de France, ma’am.”
“Well, that settles it, miss. I’ve always wanted to go to France, and I sure do like roses. I’ll take two, please. One for me, and one for a friend.”