“Police?” Blanche asks.
“Nah. We’d be pinched by now if he was with the law. I think he’s poaching us.”
“Which means…” Blanche says.
“Bet ya he’s opening another speakeasy in town, seeing how it’s done.” Mary rubs her lips together, thinking. “If only we could find his joint. I need to know what Doc’s is up against, if their place is a threat to ours.”
“We’ll find it,” I say, without missing a beat, and motion between Blanche and me.
“There you go again, volunteering.” Blanche grins. “But you know I’m in.”
“Good,” Mary says.
Yes, this is good, a good distraction from Roy’s upheaval of my plans. I ain’t ’bout to let Doc’s be taken from me, too.
26
“I’d really prefer if you lassies waited here.”
“Nope,” Blanche says to Buck. “Can’t shake us now. Besides, this was our idea. You’re the one taggin’ along.”
“My idea,” I say from the backseat. I take a puff of my cigarette and blow it out slowly, an earlier argument with Roy still swirling ’round me like the smoke. I tried to get him to reconsider going back to school after winter break, but he’ll hear nothin’ of it. In fact, he’s been working less, playing the stock market more. I don’t like it. It’s too fickle—not like holding down a job, not like finishing school to get an even better job.
At least he’s not playing cards, hasn’t even stepped foot in Doc’s in months. It saves us from fighting ’bout that, though we haven’t been doing much talking, in general, almost as if we’re living in different worlds. I haven’t even told him we’re tracking down Red Head, as Blanche refers to our poacher.
Buck shifts uncomfortably in the driver’s seat of Big Bertha and glances ’cross the street at the darkened grocery store. I don’t bother sayin’ anything more; they can quarrel all they want ’bout if Blanche and I are going inside the Supper Club or not.
My door ain’t locked.
After Red Head left Doc’s the other month, Raymond followed him home. Once we knew where he lived, trailing him a few times wasn’t hard. It didn’t take long for Blanche, Buck, and I to find his hole. From there, we only came late at night, letting the days pass in between visits, as not to raise suspicion, waiting for the perfect time to make our move. Our trio has been nothin’ but thorough as we scrutinized the joint and how it works, paying people off for information.
The Supper Club doesn’t have the same rules as Doc’s, where we stagger letting people in. Doc’s is also in the heart of Dallas. This here club is off the beaten track. Just an hour ago, the grocery store went dark. People started slipping into its alley not long after. Same thing has happened every night we’ve come.
Buck taps his finger on the steering wheel. “Going to ask one more person the password.”
Blanche sighs. “We already know it. Monday is ‘escargots,’ Tuesday is ‘duck confit,’ Wednesday is ‘ratatouille’…”
I roll my eyes at the ridiculousness of the passwords, as if anyone ’round here could afford these fancy French foods.
“Thursday is—”
“I know,” Buck says. “Just want to make sure. We ain’t kind to people who show up off schedule, ya know. Can’t assume this place is any different if ya futz the password. And it’s Saturday … They could mix things up tonight.”
He scratches his temple with some rolled-up bills.
Blanche huffs. “We don’t got time for this, and I don’t like those other gals working my shift while I’m sitting in Big Bertha.”
Buck goes to respond, but I’m already shrugging off my coat, snatching the bribe money from Buck’s hand, and climbing out of the car. I saunter toward a couple approaching the grocery store and flick my cigarette to the ground.
“Excuse me,” I say, startling the woman. She gasps, covering her mouth. After an eyeful of me, equally gussied up, she lets out a soft giggle.
The man tips his hat toward me. I close the distance between us, pressing my lips against his ear. “Filet mignon?” At the same time, I press the money into his hand.
When I pull back, his lady wears a scowl like she’s ’bout to leave a handprint ’cross my face, but the man is clearly amused, smirking. He nods, and I’m gone, practically skipping back to Big Bertha and leaning in Buck’s open window.
“Filet mignon,” I repeat.
“Oh, really?” Blanche says sarcastically.
Buck narrows his eyes in a playful manner. “Let’s go.”
“Good.” Blanche pulls on a brunette wig. “’Cause Mary ain’t happy we’re missing so much work.”
“She won’t be happy if we get caught, either, and bring unwanted attention to Doc’s.”
I shake my head at their bickering, and Blanche throws another wig at me.
Wigs on—a mustache for Buck—the three of us casually walk down the darkened road and turn into the alley for the first time.
“I’m regretting not asking Clyde to come,” Buck says to himself.
I startle at Clyde’s name, having not heard it for so long.
“You get that boy into enough trouble,” Blanche retorts.
Taking careful steps ’round the potholes, so reminiscent of the alley where I first saw Clyde, there are two things I wonder: what trouble Buck has gotten his brother into recently, and why I’d feel safer if Clyde were here.
Pushing the thoughts away, I wrinkle my nose at the alley’s foul smell and rub my arms, trying to chase away winter’s chill. We find the door, barely visible from the road, at the back of the alley.
Buck hesitates, then whispers, “Shit, what if there’s a special knock?”
Blanche rolls her eyes, steps up, and raps the door three times. A little square in the door slides open, and in a true-to-form Blanche Caldwell sultry tone, she recites the password.
The square slides closed, and I scour the alleyway. Going into Doc’s is one thing—it’s my illegal establishment—but walking into someone else’s lion’s den to snoop ’round gives me a prick of heebie-jeebies.
The door silently opens. We’ve been accepted, so far.
Blanche goes first, past the muscular doorman, with Buck second, me last—just in case they get any ideas of letting only us gals in.
There’s nothin’ but shadows in the room we enter, and I glean that it’s similar to the back entrance to the diner I used to work at—crates, shelving, and boxes. But this room has a trapdoor, with light seeping up through its cracks. It’s the only form of light in the room, giving us no choice but to walk toward it.
“Looks like we’re going down,” Buck whispers.
He pulls open the trapdoor, and when Blanche and I stand there like dolled-up mannequins, he descends the ladder first.
Blanche goes next, grumbling ’bout how this place marginalizes women and their shoes by making them climb down a pencil-thin ladder. I awkwardly lower myself through the hole, never having been one for athletics. My arms shake as I descend each rung.
The three of us squeeze into a room barely big enough for two, with a lone door inches away. Music pulsates through it.