“I’m not moping off. Why would I mope off?”
“On account of . . . Well, you know. Certain events.”
No! I’m not moping off. Just let it drop, would you?”
Is there no one who hasn’t heard the details of my disgrace?
I HEAD OUT ON FOOT and after a couple of miles find myself in a residential area. The houses are in disrepair, and many have boards over their windows. I pass a breadline—a long row of shabby dispirited people leading to the door of a mission. A black boy offers to shine my shoes, and while I’d like to let him, I don’t have a cent to my name.
Finally I see a Catholic church. I sit in a pew near the back for a long time, staring at the stained glass behind the altar. Although I want absolution dearly, I am unable to face confession. Eventually I leave the pew and go to light votive candles for my parents.
As I turn to leave, I catch sight of Marlena—she must have come in while I was in the alcove. I can only see her back, but it’s definitely her. She’s in the front pew, wearing a pale yellow dress and matching hat. Her throat is delicate, her shoulders square. A few curls of light brown hair peek from beneath the brim of her hat.
She kneels on a cushion to pray, and a vice grip tightens around my heart.
I retreat from the church before I can further damage my soul.
WHEN I RETURN to the lot, Rosie has been installed in the menagerie tent. I don’t know how, and I don’t ask.
She smiles when I approach and then rubs her eye, curling the tip of her trunk like a fist. I watch her for a couple of minutes and then step over the rope. Her ears flatten and her eyes narrow. My heart sinks, because I think she’s responding to me. Then I hear his voice.
“Jacob?”
I watch Rosie for a few seconds longer and then turn to face him.
“Look here,” says August, scrubbing the toe of his boot in the dirt. “I know I’ve been a bit rough on you the last couple of days.”
I’m supposed to say something here, something to make him feel better, but I don’t. I’m not feeling particularly conciliatory.
“What I’m trying to say is that I went a bit far. Pressures of the job, you know. They can get to a man.” He holds out his hand. “So, friends again?”
I pause a few seconds longer, and then take his hand. He is my boss, after all. Having made the decision to stay, it would be stupid to get myself fired.
“Good man,” he says, grasping it firmly and clapping me on the shoulder with his other hand. “I’ll take you and Marlena out tonight. Make it up to you both. I know a great little place.”
“What about the show?”
“There’s no point in doing a show. No one knows we’re here yet. That’s what happens when you blow your route and wildcat all over the damned place.” He sighs. “But Uncle Al knows best. Apparently.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Last night was kind of . . . rough.”
“Hair of the dog, Jacob! Hair of the dog. Come by at nine.” He smiles brightly and marches off.
I watch him leave, struck by how very much I don’t want to spend any time with him—and by how very much I’d like to spend time with Marlena.
THE DOOR TO THE STATEROOM swings open, revealing Marlena, gorgeous in red satin.
“What?” she says, looking down at herself. “Is there something on my dress?” She twists, inspecting her body and legs.
“No,” I say. “You look swell.”
She raises her eyes to mine.
August comes out from behind the green curtain, wearing white tie. He takes one look at me and says, “You can’t go like that.”
“I don’t have anything else.”
“Then you’ll have to borrow. Go on. Hurry up, though. The taxi’s waiting.”
WE ZIP THROUGH a maze of parking lots and back alleys before coming to an abrupt stop at a corner in an industrial area. August climbs out and hands the driver a rolled bill.
“Come on,” he says, extracting Marlena from the backseat. I follow.
We’re in an alley surrounded by large redbrick warehouses. The streetlights illuminate the asphalt’s rough texture. On one side of the alley trash is blown up against the wall. On the other are parked cars—roadsters, coupes, sedans, even limousines—all flashy, all new.
August stops in front of a recessed wooden door. He raps sharply and then stands, tapping his foot. A rectangular peephole slides open, revealing male eyes under a single bushy brow. The sounds of a party pulse from behind him.
“Yeah?”
“We’re here for the show,” says August.
“What show?”
“Why, Frankie’s, of course,” August says, smiling.
The peephole shuts. There’s clicking and clanking followed by the unmistakable sound of a deadbolt. The door swings open.
The man looks us over quickly. Then he beckons us inside and slams the door. We step through a tiled foyer, past a coat check with uniformed clerks, and descend a few steps into a marble-floored dance hall. Elaborate crystal chandeliers hang from the high ceiling. A band plays on a raised platform, and the dance floor is jammed with couples. Tables and U-shaped booths surround the dance floor. Up a few steps and along the back wall is a wood-paneled bar with tuxedoed bartenders and hundreds of bottles lined up on shelves in front of a smoky mirror.
Marlena and I wait in one of the leather-lined booths while August goes to get the drinks. Marlena watches the band. Her legs are crossed and that foot is bobbing again. She moves it in time with the music, rolling her ankle.
A glass is plunked in front of me. A second later August drops down beside Marlena. I investigate the glass and find it contains ice cubes and scotch.
“You okay?” says Marlena.
“Fine,” I say.
“You look a little green,” she continues.
“Our Jacob here is suffering from a teensy hangover,” says August. “We’re trying the hair of the dog.”
“Well, make sure you let me know if I need to get out of the way,” Marlena says dubiously, turning back to the band.
August lifts his glass. “To friends!”
Marlena looks back just long enough to locate her frothy drink and then holds it over the table while we clink. She sips daintily from her straw, fingering it with lacquered nails. August tosses his scotch back. The second mine hits my lips, my tongue instinctively blocks its progress. August is watching, so I pretend to swallow before setting the glass down.
“There you are, my boy. A few more of those and you’ll be right as rain.”
I don’t know about me, but after a second brandy alexander Marlena certainly comes to life. She drags August onto the dance floor. As he twirls her around, I lean over and tip the contents of my scotch into a potted palm.
Marlena and August return to the booth, flushed from dancing. Marlena sighs and fans herself with a menu. August lights a cigarette.
His eyes land on my empty glass. “Oh—I see I’ve been neglectful,” he says. He stands up. “Same again?”
“Oh, what the hell,” I say without enthusiasm. Marlena simply nods, once again absorbed by what’s happening on the dance floor.
August is gone about thirty seconds when she leaps up and grabs my hand.
“What are you doing?” I say, laughing as she yanks my arm.
“Come on! Let’s dance!”
