Lair of Dreams

“Perhaps if you sang a little of it, Miss,” Henry prompted.

“Of course! It went something like this.…” Theta launched into the chorus of Henry’s song, purposely forgetting some of the words and humming along as if she’d only heard it once.

Henry’s eyes widened in mock-surprise. “Why, Miss, that’s my song!”

“Your song? You don’t say!”

“I do say.” Henry picked up the chorus, supplying the right words, and Theta gazed at him with a swoony face. At the end, she applauded enthusiastically. “Oh, that’s wonderful! You’ve gotta come by and play that for Mr. Ziegfeld.”

“Of all the luck,” Henry said, grinning. “I don’t believe it.”

“I don’t believe it, either.” Behind the desk, Mr. Huffstadler scowled. “You kids think I fell off a turnip truck this week? Your song stinks, Mr. DuBois—and so does this phony act. Now get out before I throw you both out.”

Theta dropped her smile, along with her breathless voice. “Yeah? You wouldn’t know a good song if it came up and bit you in the a—”

“Ascot!” Henry said quickly. “May I escort you out, Miss Knight?”

“I wish you would, Mr. DuBois,” Theta said. She leaned in to the Amazing Reynaldo. “And if you’re really a reader of thoughts, you oughta be blushing to beat the band if you can read mine right now, ya big phony.” She slammed the door behind her for good measure.

At the front desk, David Cohn grinned up at Henry and Theta from behind his typewriter. “Nice try.”

“Well, it almost worked.” Henry tipped his hat. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.” David fiddled with some paper, glancing shyly at Henry. “Hopefully, we’ll meet again. Hey!”

“Yeah?” Henry said, turning around.

“For what it’s worth, I thought your song was pretty good.”

“Good or pretty good?”

“Nothing wrong with your song that a little more heart and a lot of hard work couldn’t fix.”

“You a Diviner, too?” Henry joked.

David Cohn smiled. “No. Just honest. But nobody pays you for that.”





After saying good-bye to Theta, Henry hopped the El to Chatham Square and made his way through Chinatown in the brisk chill. He moved in and out of shops, pretending to be interested in ceramic bowls and fabric for a new suit, while surreptitiously looking for the girl he’d only met inside a dream.

A commotion erupted in the street. Police were turning out a restaurant, allowing the health inspector passage. The owner protested the disruption to his business mightily: “This is a clean place! No sickness here.”

“Do you have your papers?” the policeman asked one of the waiters, who didn’t seem to understand. “Your resident permit?”

A translator spoke quickly with the frightened waiter.

“He left it at home,” the translator explained to the police. “He’ll go get it now.”

“Nothing doing, pal. No papers, we take you in.” The policeman whistled for his partner, and they loaded the terrified waiter into the back of the wagon.

“Can’t he go home and get his papers?” Henry asked innocently.

The policeman scrutinized Henry. “We’re just going our job,” he said wearily, and Henry was reminded of a time in New Orleans when he and Louis had hidden under the bar while police raided Celeste’s, rounding up all the boys dancing together. One of the cops, a fella named Beau, had been seen dancing at Celeste’s himself a number of times.

“I’m just doing my job,” he’d said to the owner, as if it would be apology enough.

Henry had been powerless that night, and he felt powerless here. He couldn’t help this man. He couldn’t even find the girl. He was just about to give up and go home when he turned the corner onto Doyers Street and stopped cold. Nestled next to a jeweler’s shop was the Tea House restaurant, just as it had been in his dream.

Maybe he wasn’t so powerless after all.

Henry ducked inside. He hadn’t been hungry before, but it smelled delicious, so he took a seat and ordered a noodle dish, and while he waited, he looked around for any hint of the girl with the green eyes.

“Best chow mein in town,” an older man at the next table said in an Eastern European accent. He nodded to the police out on the streets. “The sleeping sickness.”

“Oh, yes,” Henry said, barely listening. A trio of girls walked past the front windows of the Tea House, but none of them was his mysterious dream walker.

“On my street, Ludlow, there is right now a girl of only twenty, she has been asleep for two days,” the old man continued. “Her mother can’t wake her up. Her father can’t wake her up. Even the rabbi can’t wake her up. How do they take ill? Is it in the food or the water? In the air? No one knows.”