Damned in Paradise

were honeymooners, though not necessarily married. The Smart Set. Smart enough to still be rich, post-’29, anyway.

At the dock, just before we boarded, a pasty-faced navy lieutenant in crisp dress blues came up to Darrow and saluted; it amused the old boy. In fact, it amused all of us, the Leisures, Ruby and Clarence, and me, clustered together in defense from the fog.

“At ease, sailor,” Darrow said. “I’d imagine you’d be Lt. Johnson?”

“Yes, sir. I arrived from Honolulu on the Malolo this morning, sir.” The young lieutenant handed Darrow a legal file, one of those cardboard expanding jobs, tied tight in front; the lieutenant’s manner was so grave the thing might have contained military secrets. “I trust these documents will satisfy your requirements.”

“I’m sure they will, son. You don’t look old enough to be either a sailor or a lawyer.”

“Well, I’m both, sir.”

“Good for you.”

“Admiral Stirling sends his regards.”

Darrow nodded. “I’ll thank him for these, and give him my own regards, personally, in a few days.”

“Very good, sir.” Lt. Johnson returned the nod and disappeared into the fog.

“Something pertaining to the case?” Leisure ventured, hope dancing in his eyes.

Darrow said, matter of factly, “Transcript of the rape trial, the Ala Moana trial, they call it. Also some affidavits from our clients.”

Leisure grinned. “Splendid!”

“You have more faith in documents than I do, George,” Darrow said. “We’ll have to size our clients up, face to face, to know whether we’re in the clover, or in the soup. Speaking of which, let’s get out of this pea soup and into the lap of luxury.”

Darrow and Ruby went up the gangway first, with the Leisures and me following.

“Why’s everybody dressed to the nines?” I asked Leisure.

“So they won’t have to change,” Leisure said. “Formal dress at dinner, almost immediately after we board.”

I winced. “Formal dress?”

“Didn’t bring your tux along, Nate?”

“No. But I brought both my ties.”

Soon we were up on deck, lined along the rail, but no one was seeing us off, and if anyone had, they’d have been shadows lost in the fog. No bon voyage, here. So I took my leave of the Darrow party and got a steward’s help in finding my quarters.

In my cabin—Number 47, right across from First Class, where the grown-ups were staying—I found formal attire awaiting me on a hanger—white jacket, black tie, white shirt, black trousers, even a cummerbund and, tucked in a pocket, cuff links. Clarence Darrow had provided; he may not have been a fiend for preparation, but the absolutely necessary arrangements got made.

As if by magic, my bag had beaten me aboard: it was already on a luggage rack just inside the door. The cabin itself would suffice, particularly since it was larger than my one-room apartment back at the Hotel Adams, with considerably classier furnishings: bamboo bed, bamboo writing table and chair, cut flowers in a vase on the bamboo nightstand. The lighting had a soft, golden, nightclub aura, courtesy deco fixtures that echoed the leaf design of the green and black carpet, and the windows—that is, the portholes—had half-shutters. Unlike the Hotel Adams, where I shared facilities with other “guests,” I had a bathroom to myself, tub and all.

So what the hell, I took a bath; with luck, no one would notice one was missing.

The ship cast off as I was bathing—there was a lurch that sent my bathwater sloshing—and then the engines settled into a steady throb and I just soaped and soaked as the ship and I enjoyed friendly waters.

Before long, wearing formal attire for the first time in my young roughneck life, I went wandering smoothly down a wide stairway into a movie set of a dining room, a vast hall of glossy veneers, chrome trim, deep-pile carpeting and over six hundred wealthy passengers. Plus one pauper. I informed the maitre d’ I was with the Darrow party, and he put me in the charge of a red-jacketed waiter, who bid me follow him.

None of the Haves seemed to notice a Have-not was strolling in disguise amongst them, as they sat chatting and chewing at elegant round tables whose white linen tablecloths were arrayed with fine china, crystal, and gleaming silverware.

I leaned in and whispered in Clarence Darrow’s ear: “You look like the head waiter at the Ptomaine Hilton.”

Darrow craned his big shaggy head around. “You look like a bouncer at the best bordello in Cicero.”

Ruby said, “Clarence, please!” But it was, as usual, a good-natured scold. She was in a white-patterned navy silk dress with a cloth corsage and a navy felt hat with a dip brim; nice as she looked, she was underdressed for the room. The Darrows shopped at Sears.

Leisure, looking dapper in his own white jacket and black tie, half-stood as I took my place at the table; his wife looked lovely in a black chiffon frock with a Spanish-lace bodice, her hat a matching tam turban with jaunty bow. The Leisures shopped Fifth Avenue.

I still shopped at Maxwell Street, but old habits are hard to break.

The two attractive lawyers’ wives were no competition, however, for the newest member of our party, a woman-child with a heart-shaped face blessed with china-blue eyes, button nose, and Clara Bow Kewpie lips, haloed by a haze of blond, near-shoulder-length waves.