Lair of Dreams

“Gee, why didn’t I think of that before? Henry DuBois’s Accordion Follies! The Ins and Outs of Love…” Henry sighed. “That’s almost bad enough to be a Herbert Allen song.”


“Herbert Allen! I’ve heard his songs on the radio!” Evie said. “I like the one that goes, ‘I love your hair I love your nose I love you from your head to toes, My daaaaarling girl!’ Or the one that goes, ‘Daaarling, you’re top banana / Baaaby, you’re my peaches and cream / Orange you gonna be my Sherbet—’”

“For the love of Pete, please stop,” Henry groaned, cradling his head in his hands.

Theta poured the rest of her booze into Henry’s glass. “Herbert keeps getting his rotten songs in the show over Henry’s just because he’s published,” she explained. “It’s all the same song. The same horrible song.”

“Gee, they do sort of sound alike, now that you mention it,” Evie said, thinking it over.

“Every time I play something for Wally, Herbert finds a way to sabotage it,” Henry said, picking up his drink again. “I tell you, if Herbie Allen fell off an apple truck tomorrow, I wouldn’t cry.”

“Well, then we hate Herbert Allen,” Evie said. “I’m sure whatever you write will be dreamy, Hen. And then we’ll all be singing your songs in hotel bathrooms.”

Theta appraised Evie coolly through her cigarette haze. “Jericho asked after you.”

“Oh? And how is dear old Jericho?” Evie kept her voice even, though her heart beat faster.

“Tall. Blond. Serious,” Theta said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that big lug is sweet on you. And you on him.”

“You don’t know better!” Evie mumbled. “You don’t know at all.”

“You can’t stay away from the Bennington forever, Evil.”

“I can so! May I remind you that Uncle Will wanted me to keep my talent under lock and key? Why, if I’d listened to him, I wouldn’t have any of this,” she said, throwing her arms wide and nearly knocking Henry’s drink from his hands.

“We’re in a bathtub, Evil,” Theta said.

“And snug. As. Bugs.” Evie knocked back more gin. A warm buzz was starting to take the edge off the headache from her object reading and she wanted it to stay that way. “I refuse to become morose! This is a party. Tell me something happy.”

“Flo’s calling a press conference next week announcing our new act and letting me give my first interview as Theta St. Petersburg-ski, smuggled into this country by loyal servants during Revolution,” Theta said, in an exaggerated Russian accent. She scoffed. “What a load of bunk. And I gotta sell that act to those tabloid jackals.”

“Well, it’s not like they can prove otherwise. For all you know, you could be a Russian aristocrat. Right, Henry?”

“Right,” Henry said, staring at his drink.

Evie squinted at Henry. It wasn’t like him to be so solemn. “Henry, you’re very quiet this evening.” She put her face up to his. “Is it because you’re an artiste? Is this what artistes do? Get sad and quiet in party bathtubs?”

“Mostly, we take baths in bathtubs.”

“You are sad. Is it because of this Herbert Sherbet fellow?”

Henry pasted on a smile. “Just beat.”

A girl and her fella stumbled into the bathroom. “When will these accommodations be available?” the girl slurred. Her date held her up. “I should like to make a resh… reservation.”

“I’m afraid this booth has been reserved indefinitely,” Henry said with an apologetic bow of his head.

The girl peered at him through smeary eyes. “Huh?”

“Scram!” Theta yelled.

The girl pulled up the strap of her gown with as much dignity as she could muster. “I shall complain to the management,” she said and slammed the door behind her.

“I think that’s my cue,” Henry said, pushing out of the bathtub. “Thanks for a swell party, Evie.”

“Oh, Henry! You’re not leaving yet, are you?”

“Forgive me, darlin’. I have a pressing engagement. With sleep.”

“Henry,” Theta said. Her voice carried a hint of warning. “Not too long.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry about what?” Evie asked, swiveling her head from Henry to Theta and back again.

“Anything,” Henry said, giving a courtly bow. “Ladies, I’ll see you in my dreams.”

“What was that about?” Evie asked once Henry had gone.

“It’s nothing,” Theta answered.

“Uh-oh. I know that face. That isn’t a happy Theta face,” Evie said, sitting up so suddenly she sloshed the contents of her flask onto her dress. Theta took the flask away.

“That’s not fair,” Evie groused. “I shall report you to the authorities for the crime of gin-napping!”

“You can have it back in a sec. I got something I wanna talk about.”

Evie rolled her head left toward Theta and sighed heavily. “Oh, all right.”

“I wanna talk about what happened to us. I wanna talk about the Pentacle Killer.”