I want to shrink away. Nothin’ in his voice is hard, but he comes off as a rough-and-tough bimbo. Even though he doesn’t make me as nervous as Buck, his tone is enough for me to nod and not show any distaste toward the spreading nickname.
“I’m Raymond,” he says, opening the door wider. “Ah, hold on.”
He turns his attention to the two men we saw outside, positioning himself so he’s blocking them from the basement door to Doc’s. Blanche pulls me from the hall into the physician’s office, and I press myself against the wallpapered wall.
“Here to see the doctor?” Raymond asks the men. Two more walk up behind ’em; 5:13’s four-man quota has been met.
“Think we may have colds,” one with graying temples remarks.
“The doc does honest work,” Raymond says. “I assume you plan to be honest, too?”
The other man steps forward, keeping his voice soft. “We ain’t pigs, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Raymond stares at him, his face unflinching. His lips curl into a grin and he slaps the man’s shoulder. “First ones here. Got the place to yourselves. Go on down.”
After Raymond opens the basement door, the men gesture for Blanche and me to go first.
My second trip down the stairs is a different experience than the first. I smooth my already-tucked hair behind my ears and take a step down on my own accord. Last time, coming here could be rationalized away as a one-and-done thing. Now I’m choosing to go back. Choosing.
I open the door, and music hits me. I wouldn’t be surprised if the upbeat tempo and rhythm blows back my hair. Being that Blanche convinced me to take out all my hairpins, it’d be a whirlwind of blonde strands.
I ain’t more than a single step into the room, with its empty bar, its empty tables, and its empty dance floor, before Blanche chuckles next to me, bumping my shoulder. “Well, this ought to be your theme song.”
“Why?” I ask, noting how the stage certainly ain’t empty. I’m told the performers vary from night to night—one singer, two, sometimes three. Tonight is a single girl: dark skin, dark hair, dark dress, draped in pearls. She raises a gloved hand to say hello.
Blanche laughs again and swings her bent arms dramatically. “It’s called ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’”
“You slay me,” I say sarcastically. But then I turn more serious. “What’s this type of music called?”
“Dixieland. New Orleans jazz. Hot jazz. It goes by many— Well, ain’t he looking yummy tonight.”
Blanche picks up speed. Buck is her destination, in his pin-striped suit. I suck in a breath; Mary is right behind him, coming out from the bar’s back room. Having nowhere else to go, I follow Blanche. It feels like the four men from upstairs are following me, too, but that’s only ’cause they’re on their way to the bar.
Buck breaks his kiss from Blanche to greet me, his smooth hello somehow making me feel uncomfortable and two feet tall. Behind him, Mary shakes her head in amusement. When our eyes connect, her smile fades. She saunters over to the bar in her dress shoes and swishing dress without sayin’ a word.
I wring my hands at Mary’s snub and avert my gaze, which lands on my own satin pumps with ridiculously decorated heels.
“Looking good, Saint Bonnelyn,” Buck says, upping my level of discomfort. “Wasn’t sure I’d see your face again.”
“My protégé,” Blanche says, saving me from having to respond, and wraps her arm ’round my waist, pulling me against her like a doll.
My black pantsuit was a compromise. I didn’t want to wear a shorter hemline and Blanche didn’t want me to wear a long skirt again. Apparently, women’s trousers are popping up here and there. Enough, anyway, for Blanche to allow me to wear ’em. She conveniently had a pair that she’d purchased the other day, in my smaller size, waiting for me in Big Bertha.
Not like she’d wear ’em even if they fit. Her sleeveless dress has layer upon layer of a fabric that moves with every motion she makes. “The right kind of glad rags for a night out on the town,” she insisted on the drive here.
“You lassies okay working the bar and keeping the glasses clean?” Buck asks us. “We just made an alcohol run, so you should have more than enough for the night.”
We both nod, Blanche a bit more enthusiastically.
“If you need me, I’ll be back at the tables, keeping the games going. Mary will be ’round, too.”
After that, we all get to work. By the end of each hour, eight more people have filed in. Before I know it, Doc’s is at full capacity. Even though we stop letting people in at eleven, I’ve no doubt the party will be hopping ’til the wee hours of the morning, my deadline to impress Mary.
I clear the tables at lightning speed. I gather drink-mixing ingredients for Blanche as quickly as possible. I wipe down the bar top without being asked. And when my butt is squeezed and I jump, catching Mary’s attention, I convince myself it’s only a bump of an elbow—that can somehow grip.
On edge, I keep my head down, focus on the work.
That is, ’til a boy steps up to the bar—the boy from the other night, with the lopsided grin, who looked like he had so much to say.
“Gin Rickey, please,” he says now, ignoring Blanche, his eyes narrowing in on me.
Gin, lime, sugar, soda.
Loudly, I set them out for Blanche to do the mixing, annoyed with myself when my hand shakes from the intensity of his gaze.
“No,” he says to me with a cocky smirk. “I’d like you to fix my drink.”
If Blanche wasn’t so amused, I think she’d be mad at his brush-off. But no, she pushes the small of my back ’til my stomach bumps the bar. “Go on,” she whispers into my ear.
I know how to make the drink, been watching Blanche do it all night, but I’m only seeing black spots where Pour gin and lime juice over ice, top with club soda should be.
There might as well be a spotlight over my head, the way they both stare at me, but I only have eyes for Blanche.
I don’t want to do this, my eyes say.
Why, I swear she says back.
I widen my eyes farther, shocked she ain’t seeing how this boy is gawking at me like he could eat me right up, and how that attention is wrong, coming from a non-Roy.
“Is there a problem here?”
Mary’s voice. I swallow, my mouth too dry.
I tighten my hand ’round the bottle’s neck, turning to her. “Not at all,” I say, barely looking at her. “Going to fix this man a drink.”
“Good,” she replies, and disappears into the back room.
The nameless boy whistles from ’cross the bar. Arrogant. Self-satisfied. Amused. Frustratingly attractive. If I were one to cuss, now’d be the time for it. I’ve spent the night trying unsuccessfully to meet Mary’s unreadable expressions with a Forgive my insults smile, while working my rear off.
This boy ain’t going to ruin it for me.
Swallowing a growl, I prepare his drink, pushing it toward him through the spillage when I’m done. Taking his money feels dirty, with how he licks his lips. His “Keep the change” feels even dirtier.
Then he goes and opens his mouth again.