Читать книгу The River to Glory Land - Janie DeVos - Страница 15

Chapter 4

The Lemon Tree

“Where?” Olivia shouted from the car’s exterior rumble seat as she cupped her mouth with one hand, while holding down her navy-blue felt Tam hat with the other. I felt bad that there was no room inside the car with Francie and me. But Olivia had been a good sport and given the birthday girl the interior passenger seat. By the time we got to where we were going, Olivia’s carefully coiffed, sophisticated chignon was going to be a tangled bird’s nest.

“I didn’t say ‘where!’ I said ‘we’re almost there!’ You’ll know soon enough,” I shouted back over my shoulder, though I kept my hands firmly planted on the wheel and my eyes glued to the road. The girls tried all afternoon to make me spill the beans about where we were going, but keeping the destination a secret was half the fun.

We were speeding down Atlantic Boulevard, on Miami Beach, paralleling the shoreline in my sporty two-toned gray-green Chandler Roadster. My parents had given me my well-loved car a couple of years before, when times were better. The world seemed like my oyster then. I laughed to myself. Several nights before, I shucked oysters at the hotel because the employee who usually did it arrived for work drunk as a skunk.

Sticking my hand out the window, I pointed upward to indicate that I was turning right onto the County Causeway, which would take us out over Biscayne Bay. Downtown Miami lay on the other side and as we sped across the bridge. I marveled again at how magical the city looked after sunset. The city’s power was restored almost completely, and light shined through the many windows from buildings of various heights, all of which reflected off the bay below. No matter how many times I drove across the bridge, the view never got old.

I turned left onto Biscayne Boulevard, then right six blocks down, and parked behind the Boulevard Bakery. Even though it was nearly 8:00 p.m.and the place was closed, the parking lot was half full already. As soon as I shut the engine off, Olivia and Francie craned their necks around to see what else was around us, other than the closed bakery.

“So?” Olivia said, leaning in toward us from the rumble seat. “Now what? We eat donuts?”

“The bakery’s closed, silly. Now you fix your hair so you don’t look as though you’ve had a roll in the hay.” I laughed.

“Lily, I’d never!” my sister quickly admonished.

“Well, we all know that but everyone else in the Lemon Tree will think otherwise.”

“The Lemon Tree?” Olivia and Francie shouted in unison.

“The Lemon Tree,” I confirmed, stunning them into silence. I took one last look in the mirror to check my dark wine-colored lipstick and smoky brown eye shadow. I applied my black eyeliner more heavily than usual, but I figured in the muted light of the bar it wouldn’t hurt. “C’mon. The night ain’t getting’ a bit younger, and neither are we.” I opened my door and stepped out into the pleasant evening air. The humidity was down, which was about the only sign that it was autumn.

The girls, excitedly talking over each other, exited the car and came around to my side as I was rolling my stockings down below my knees.

“Lily! Don’t you dare uncover your knees. That’s indecent!” Olivia said in a heated whisper.

“Oh, fiddle sticks, Livie!” I scoffed. “We’re about to go into a speakeasy filled with all kinds of motley characters and you’re worrying about my knees?”

“I don’t want them thinking we’re motley characters, as well,” she replied, looking around as she did.

As I stood up, I saw that Francie had just finished rolling down her stockings, too, and I noticed that her ample bosom looked less ample. “Why, Francine Hollister! Did you bind your breasts?” Looking more masculine was all the rage and it seemed as if our little blond friend was caught up in it.

“So what if I did?” she answered defensively. “I’m tired of every man looking at my chest when I’m havin’ a conversation. Why, you’d think my nipples were doin’ the talking! Besides, my beads hang better with a flattened chest.” We all laughed and agreed, and then I hooked my arms through theirs.

The speakeasy was actually on the second floor of the building, but the only way to gain entry was by going to the bakery’s inconspicuous rear door. Within the door was a small wooden window, which would be opened when you gave a special knock. The rhythm of the knock wasn’t enough to gain entry, however.

“How we gettin’ in?” Olivia whispered. “They’re not going to open the door simply because y’all are showin’ your knees.”

“I got a referral,” I explained.

“From whom?” Francie asked. Both she and Olivia were looking rather wild-eyed.

“Your brother,” I replied, knocking the secret rhythm I’d been given on the door’s window.

“Rusty?” Francie cried.

Before I could explain, the small wooden window swung open, framing a rough-looking face.

“Who sent ya?” he bluntly asked. I could hear the sounds coming from beyond.

“Rusty–Rusty Hollister did,” I stammered, a bit startled by his abruptness.

Immediately, I heard the sound of a deadbolt sliding, and then the door swung open, revealing the darkened bakery kitchen.

“Follow me,” the man said, which we did, up a flight of stairs that was just beyond the door. At the top was another door, and from behind that one, I could hear jazz music and a woman singing. The man gave his own rhythmic knock and a small window in that door was pulled open immediately, framing the face of another rather seedy-looking character. “They’re okay,” our man assured him. Immediately, the heavy door opened wide, allowing us entry into the smoky, dimly lit room beyond. The heavy smell of smoke and loud music assaulted my senses, though it took my eyes a moment to adjust.

Slowly, we wound our way around tables, and as we did, the bandleader announced that they were taking a break and would be back for another set in fifteen minutes. Immediately, the sound of conversation rose, and I could feel eyes turn to watch us since the patrons were no longer distracted by the band. Glancing behind me, I could see the unease on my sister’s and friend’s faces, so I quickly led the way over to a small table off to the right. The girls hurriedly slid into their chairs. Amused, I slipped into my own chair and saw that Olivia had her eyes pinned to the table, while Francie was taking furtive glances in all directions.

“Olivia, just what is so interesting about this table? And Francie, the way you’re looking around, you look guilty as hell about something.”

Both started to protest, but I immediately cut them off.

“Lord, y’all! Would you just relax? We’re here to celebrate, not copulate!”

“Lily!” Olivia gasped, appalled.

“What’ll it be?” Suddenly, a bored-looking waitress with wavy coal black bobbed hair appeared at our table. She appeared to be in her late twenties, though the hardness around her mouth and dark eyes—eyes that had likely seen far too much for her years—gave her a used-up appearance. Her crimson dress was in the style typical of the day, with a drop waist and hemline just below the knee. It had probably been a pretty dress at one time, but it was too small for the woman’s large frame and many beads were missing from the bodice.

“I’ll have a Highball, please,” I said. “But mix it with soda water instead of ginger ale, would ya?”

I looked over at Olivia and Francie, and their eyes were no longer fixed on the table but on our waitress instead. I nudged my sister’s leg under the table.

“Oh.” Blinking and clearing her throat, she addressed our server as if she were ordering high tea. “What would you suggest?”

The waitress smiled a knowing smile, realizing that my sister was quite out of her element. “Well, sugar, that all depends on how high you want to fly tonight, or if you’d rather keep your feet a little closer to the ground.”

“Oh, well, I’ve never had a—” Olivia began, but I cut her off.

“Bring her a Southside,” I said, and Francie ordered one, too.

The waitress walked away without another word and once she was out of earshot, I leaned across the table so that only Francie and Olivia could hear my words. “Don’t go tellin’ the waitress you’ve never had a drink before!” I hissed. “You two need to straighten up and fly right! You’re acting like teenagers.”

“Well, I am and she’s—” Olivia heatedly replied before I cut her off.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Olivia!” I said, rolling my eyes. “Live a little! You sit in that stuffy office importing and exporting Lord only knows what all day long. Don’t you want to have a little fun?”

“Well, to my mind, I’m not sure if this is having fun. I’d have been just as happy to stay home and listen to The Eveready Hour. Eddie Cantor is on tonight, you know, and I just love—”

“Hey, Olivia,” Francie said, looking past my shoulder. “Isn’t that your boss, Albert Doxley, sittin’ in the far corner of the bar?”

I turned around and saw that she was right, and then looked back at my sister and saw that she had gone even paler than she usually was.

“I…uh…I,” Olivia stammered. “Lily, I have to go.” She started to rise but I quickly grabbed her wrist.

“Easy there, girl,” I laughed, pulling her back down. “What’s he gonna do? Fire you for bein’ here? Need I remind you, he’s in this illegal drinking establishment, as well?”

“Yes…but…”

“But, what?” I replied, suddenly feeling my good humor starting to wear thin. What was supposed to be an evening of fun and adventure was starting out quite badly. “Now, look; we have drinks on the way and if y’all aren’t having any fun after we’re halfway through them, I’ll drive us on over to Jepp’s Ice Cream Shoppe, buy us all shakes and we’ll call it a night. Deal?”

Before the girls could answer, our waitress reappeared with the drinks. Much to my amazement, my sister lifted her Southside to her nose, sniffed it, took a tentative sip, and then drank a good third of it down.

“Well, I swear,” I said softly. “Olivia, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’d had quite a bit of practice at this.” Her face was no longer pale but quite pink.

“Well, I have to do something to fortify myself,” she replied as she daintily wiped her mouth with her cocktail napkin.

“Don’t look now, Olivia, but that Doxley fella is headed this way,” Francie said, averting her eyes so that the man wouldn’t catch her watching him.

Olivia stiffened, then whispered, “Oh, Lord.”

“Fortify yourself some more, dear sister. Bottoms up,” I laughed, and my sister lifted her glass to her mouth.

“Evening, ladies,” Albert Doxley said as he arrived at our table.

Olivia’s employer was handsome, but in an almost pretty sort of way. As was the style of the day, he parted his dark brown hair in the middle and slicked it back with a generous amount of Brilliantine. He greased his pencil-thin mustache as well. His dark eyes were bright and alert looking, as though he never missed a thing. “Imagine running into you here,” he laughed. Unlike my sister, Albert didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed by it. As a matter of fact, everything about him seemed comfortable and at ease; including his choice of clothing, which was a pair of wide leg trousers and loose-fitting shirt.

“Mind if I join you for a minute?” Before anyone could answer, Albert sat down in the one remaining chair at the table. “So, are y’all here for a special occasion, or what?” he asked as he turned toward the waitress and signaled her over.

I gave Olivia a couple of seconds to answer, but when neither she nor Francie said anything, I jumped right in. “It’s Francine’s birthday.”

“Oh, well, happy birthday.” Albert smiled brightly, showing a full mouth of perfectly straight white teeth. Just then, the waitress appeared at his side. “A round of drinks for the table,” he magnanimously declared.

“Oh, no…Mr. Doxley, really. Tomorrow’s Monday. I have to work in the morning—” Olivia interrupted herself as though she realized how ludicrous her statement sounded.

“Miss Strickland.” Albert smiled, obviously amused. “Feel free to come in late. And I promise to keep your workload light. Now, tell me,” he said, moving on to another subject, “what’s on the agenda for your night of celebration?”

“Uh…this is it,” I said, surprised by the question. To my way of thinking, bringing the girls to a speakeasy was pretty big doin’s. Before anyone could respond to his question, Albert focused on someone just past my shoulder.

“Ah, there’s my party now,” he said, rising from his chair.

“Albert,” a deep, smooth voice said from behind me. “Every time I see you, you’re surrounded by beautiful women.”

Turning, I looked up and was startled to see Scott Monroe standing there. Though we had never officially met, I knew who he was. Scott was a pilot, and when he wasn’t shuttling people back and forth between South Florida and the Bahamas, or Cuba, he was smuggling booze in. I had read that the authorities arrested him and a passenger when they found a substantial amount of liquor onboard the plane. Though the two of them never admitted whom they were bringing it in for, I was certain that at least part of the load was for Chick Belvedere, owner of the Belvedere Hotel, which was my grandparents’ biggest competitor on the beach. I had seen Scott and Chick together a few times. The fact that the Belvedere was thriving while our hotel was dying made it clear that something was drawing people in.

As Scott listened while Albert explained that Olivia worked for him, and we were celebrating Francie’s birthday, I quickly assessed the man. It was the first time I’d been this close to him. There was no doubt about it; he was handsome, but not in the usual way. His features weren’t perfect. For one thing, his nose was slightly crooked, as though he’d seen the wrong end of a fist, and his nostrils were flared, making him look rather arrogant. He had a small scar beneath his chin, as though that same fist might have found its mark there, too. His light brown hair wasn’t styled in the latest fashion. Instead, he parted it just off-center, and it had just the slightest wave. He also wore it a bit longer so that it touched the collar of his crisp white shirt. But his eyes were the most striking feature of the man. They were slightly heavy-lidded, as though he was covertly taking inventory of everyone and everything. Just then, he turned to me, as though he sensed I was looking him over, and he smiled.

Quickly averting my eyes from his, I heard Albert invite him to pull up a chair and order a drink.

Scott lifted a glass of some dark liquid. “I’m set, thanks,” he said. Then, “I don’t have long, Albert. I’m flying out in about an hour.” He looked around at the rest of us. “Please excuse the interruption, ladies.” He smiled. “I’ll try not to keep Albert for too long.” Scott touched his index finger to his forehead in a small salute and then walked off toward the bar.

“Ladies,” Albert said, rising. “You’ll please excuse my hasty departure. Miss Francine, do have a wonderful birthday,” he said, turning toward her. Then he looked at my sister and, with a twinkle in his eye, said, “And as far as your tardiness is concerned, Miss Strickland; I’d be willing to bet that your employer will be a tad late himself. Ladies,” he said, “I bid you adieu.” Albert bowed slightly and walked away.

“Well, I swear, Olivia,” Francine said, with eyes agog. “Is he always that debonair?”

“Somewhat, I guess,” Olivia replied, her eyes following her boss as he walked toward the bar.

“I bet a couple of belts under his belt helped, too,” I wryly remarked as I watched Albert take the empty bar stool next to Scott’s.

“Lord, but that fella comin’ in to do business with Mr. Doxley sure is dreamy,” Francine said in a breathy voice.

“He’s a fly boy,” I replied. “And a criminal.”

“How’d you know that?” Olivia asked.

“I hear talk. He’s a bootlegger. He flies the stuff in. Rumor has it he keeps company with that Gertrude Lythgoe.” The girls looked at me as though I was speaking Italian. “You know, the Bahama Queen,” I said, figuring they’d certainly know who she was by her moniker. They still looked confused. “Lordy, do y’all close your eyes to everything goin’ on in this town?” I took a deep breath and continued. “Gertrude Lythgoe runs a liquor business out of Nassau. ’Course you know the stuff is legal there. She runs it in here, but has help doin’ that. By sea, she has Bill McCoy, for one, and by air, she’s probably using Scott Monroe. She’s one vicious lady. To my way of thinking, anyone keeping company with her is just as bad, if not worse.”

Francine leaned in so as not to be heard. “Who’s she sellin’ booze to in this town?”

“Let me put it to you this way, Francie,” I replied. “Any business in the hospitality industry that’s thriving—be it a hotel, dance club or restaurant – you can pretty well bet your bonnet that booze is bein’ served there, and I don’t mean the legal complimentary one-drink-with-dinner kind of thing.”

“No foolin’?” Francine asked, wide-eyed.

“Every one of ’em?” Olivia asked thickly. By now, she was very well fortified.

“Lord! Do y’all keep your heads buried in the sand? What’s bringing in the cash is stocking booze by the barrelful!”

“For land’s sake,” Francine said in a breathy whisper.

“And by air, too,” I laughed, looking over at Scott Monroe at the bar. Startled, I realized he was looking back, and I had the uncomfortable notion that he knew exactly what we were talking about.