“I’ll admit that’s pretty spooky.” Henry lowered his voice. “Do you think he’s… special, like you and me?”
“I don’t know. There was just something about him, like I’d known him my whole life. I can’t explain it.”
Henry took up a lilting jazz number of his own. “Now you’re starting to make me jealous.”
Theta kissed his cheek. “Nobody’ll ever replace you, Hen. You know that.”
“We could go up to Harlem, try to find him.”
“The Hotsy Totsy is padlocked.”
“Plenty of other clubs to scour. And then you can see which ones are hiring dancers, because you know what Flo would say about your dating a Negro poet numbers runner.”
“Flo doesn’t have to know.”
“Flo knows everything.”
Wally came rushing down the aisles, clapping for attention. “Everybody—places! Mr. Ziegfeld has arrived!”
The rehearsal was long and dispiriting. Mr. Ziegfeld hated everything. He stopped them during every number, shouting, “No, no, no! That might fly at the Scandals, but this is a Ziegfeld show! We stand for something here.”
They’d been running the Heavenly Star number for nearly an hour, and nothing was going right.
“That bit doesn’t land,” Mr. Ziegfeld yelled from the back of the theater. He was an elegant man with combed-back white hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. His suits—and he always wore a suit—were rumored to be made on Savile Row in London. “We need a laugh. Something.”
“Well, we could bring Mr. Rogers back,” Wally said.
“I’m not worried about Will Rogers. Will Rogers could gargle and it would be funny! I’m worried about this number!”
Everyone was on edge. When Mr. Ziegfeld wasn’t happy, no one was happy. He might fire them all and hire a new chorus, turning the whole thing into a publicity stunt.
“Again!” the great Ziegfeld barked.
Henry launched into the music. The star of the piece, an arrogant crooner named Don, descended the long, wide staircase, singing with melodramatic vibrato: “Stars up in heaven, fall from the sky. So tell me, my darling, why can’t I fall into your arms like a heavenly star, and live there forever just as you are…”
At the piano, Henry rolled his eyes as Theta looked his way. Constipaaaation, he mouthed, and Theta tried not to laugh. Arms out, the girls began their elegant descent. Out in the audience, Flo looked as if he’d been sucking on a dill pickle. They’d end up doing it again, Theta could tell. But no amount of rehearsal could ever make the number work. It was lousy—sentimental and cheap. As her feet felt for each step, she remembered a piece of advice she’d gotten in vaudeville: If you want a laugh, do the unexpected.
As the girls strutted gracefully forward down the long staircase, Theta intentionally went the wrong way, gliding to the left like a deranged Isadora Duncan, screwing up the other girls, who had to scramble to get around her.
“Hey, watch it!” Daisy griped.
“Sorry, Mother,” Theta said, eliciting snorts from some of the other girls.
“Theta! What are you doing? Get back in line!” Wally shouted.
Theta kept going. She bumped into a glittery hanging star. “Oh!” she said, petting it as if she were a drunken flapper. “Sorry, Mr. Rogers.”
The company glanced nervously at Theta and then out again to Mr. Ziegfeld sitting in the audience. Don, the stick in the mud, picked up the song again, glaring at Theta with a tight smile. Theta stumbled down the stairs, humming loudly. “Don’t stop, Don, honey. You’re doing swell! Even Mr. Rogers liked it,” she said, gesturing to the glittery star. “Oh, Henry!”
Theta raced to Henry’s side near the wings and threw her arms around his neck, giving him a passionate kiss. “Oh, it’s okay. He’s my brother.”
“Just don’t tell our mothers,” Henry quipped, and this time everyone laughed, except for Don, Daisy, and Wally, whose cheeks reddened.
“Miss Knight! I think we’ve had quite enough of your bad behavior—”
“Gee, Wally, that’s not what you said last night,” Theta cracked. She was skirting dangerously close to the edge. She might have even gone over. For all she knew, she’d be out on the street in a minute. Somewhere in the dark, Flo was watching, waiting to pass judgment.
“Mr. Ziegfeld, I can’t work under these conditions,” Don huffed.
A hush fell over the entire company as the great Florenz Ziegfeld marched down the center aisle. “Fine, Don. You don’t have to. I can always get someone else.” Mr. Ziegfeld looked at Theta, his eyes narrowed. Slowly, he broke into a grin, applauding her performance. “Now, that was entertaining!”
Theta let out the breath she’d been holding.
Ziegfeld pointed at the stage manager, talking as fast as New York traffic. “Wally, add that bit in. Build an act around it. And get me an item planted in the gossip rags: ‘Ziegfeld discovers new star in…’ ” He smiled at Theta.
“Theta. Theta Knight.”
“Miss Theta Knight!”
“And her brother, Henry DuBois,” Theta added.
The chorus girls giggled anew at this, except for Daisy, who had sided with Don. She stared daggers at Theta.
“And her brother,” Flo echoed. “I like this kid. Where you from, honey?”
“Connecticut,” Theta lied.
“Connecticut? Who’s from Connecticut?” The great Ziegfeld made a face like he’d tasted sour milk. He paced near the orchestra pit, thinking. “You’re a long-lost member of the Russian nobility whose parents were killed by communists—that’ll win hearts. You were smuggled out of the country by loyal servants in a daring midnight escape and sent on a ship to America, land of dreams. Wally, let’s get some shots of her on a ship. Put a bow on her head. A big bow. Blue. No, red! No, blue. Sweetheart, give me a forlorn look.”
Theta cast her eyes heavenward and clasped her hands over her chest. “Sad enough for ya?” she asked out of the side of her pitiful pout.
“Perfect! Another minute and I’ll need a handkerchief. Now, you were raised by sympathetic nuns in Brooklyn—Wally, find me a convent school in Brooklyn that needs a donation—where my dear wife, Billie, was visiting—make sure the papers get that part about Billie, along with a picture of her holding a baby—and she heard you sing. ‘Silent Night.’ ” Ziegfeld grimaced. “ ‘Silent Night’ too much?”
He looked to Henry, who shrugged.
“ ‘Silent Night’ it is,” the great Ziegfeld continued. “And she brought you straight to me, your Uncle Flo, who knows beauty and talent when he sees it. I like it. You’re about to become famous, kid.”
“Mr. Ziegfeld, Henry could write you a swell number. He’s very talented.” Theta shot Henry a Speak up for yourself look.
“I could.”
“Fine, fine. Hank—”
“Henry, sir.”
“Hank, write me that number. Make it…”
“Hummable,” Henry finished for him.
“Exactly!”
Henry gave Theta an I told you so face, and she answered with a tiny shrug that asked, What can you do?
“Wally, get this up on its feet. I have to go meet Billie to look at a country house—that woman can spend money. Fortunately, I’ve got a lot of it.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Ziegfeld,” Wally said, following the great man out. He looked back at Theta, and she stuck out her tongue at him.
The girls crowded around Theta, congratulating her on her good fortune, while Daisy stomped off, cursing a blue streak.
“Upstaging people isn’t very nice,” Don sniped as he breezed past.
“If you were any good, I wouldn’t be able to upstage you, Don,” Theta shouted after him. She hugged Henry. “Do you know what this means?”
“More rehearsal?”
“We can finally afford a piano, Hen. And everybody’s gonna walk out of the show singing your song.”
“Don’t you mean humming my song?”
“Don’t get cute. It’s a start.”
“I can see it now,” Henry said, sweeping his hand wide. “Florenz Ziegfeld presents Mr. Henry DuBois’s memorable melody, ‘The Constipation Blues’!”
Theta hit him.
RAISING THE DEVIL