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STARR TAILED ME to an address on Polk Street. We drove up to an unimposing warehouse. I parallel parked against the curb. Starr pulled against the fire hydrant. I studied the back of his head. He stretched his neck and waved. We hunkered down for a stakeout.
Moving to the rhythm of Sh-Boom, I scrounged in the glove compartment, hunted down an emery board, and filed my fingernails. Starr fiddled with something in the passenger seat, and with tender handholding, lifted a mid-afternoon snack to his mouth: turkey on rye, mustard, lettuce, and a slice of Muenster. How he managed to stop off at a deli and still arrive when I did, I’ll never know. When I saw him savor each mouthful between sips of Coca-Cola, my stomach growled with hunger pains.
The warehouse did a brisk business. Car after car drove up. Sometimes they kept on going. Other times they would make a U-turn at the end of block and cruise back at a slow speed. The drivers—all men and all alone—arrived in shiny Cadillacs, Lincolns, and Pontiacs. One arrived in a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. As one by one they sauntered up to the warehouse, they’d shrug into suit jackets, straighten ties, and center fedoras. By the looks of them, each was a straight-laced doctor, lawyer, businessman, accountant, banker, salesman, philanthropist, or chairman of the board. They had to climb a short flight of steps to an inconspicuous door near the loading dock and ring a strategically placed bell. Almost immediately, they were buzzed in. The door would bang shut behind them and the lock would reengage. From a side door, other men left the warehouse, contained grins consuming their otherwise vapid faces. Having spent spare time and money on various pleasures—some would say wisely, others would venture recklessly—they climbed into similar vehicles and drove off.
Starr cracked open his door, stretched, and ambled across the street. He dumped a brown paper bag into a garbage dumpster before sauntering to the warehouse door and ringing the bell. On the lookout for trouble, he craned his neck up and down the street. He didn’t go in when the buzzer rang but knocked on the door instead. A guy opened up. Their brief exchange ended on an amiable note. Starr shuffled back to the Buick, fedora pushed back from his forehead, and leaned against the front fender.
I got out of the Bel Air and strolled in his direction. A summer breeze caught my skirt, ruffling it across my knees. The sun loomed high in the sky, not a single cloud to be seen. The sidewalk was hot. The roadbed was hotter. I aligned myself next to Starr. He handed me a bag. Inside was a bottle of ice-cold Coke and a sandwich. Turkey on rye, mustard, lettuce, and a slice of Muenster. He tipped his hat forward to hide the grin. I elbowed him in the side and dug in.
Somewhere in the distance, a car backfired. The crack ricocheted off surrounding buildings. I looked at Starr. He looked at me. That was no backfire. The explosion came from inside the warehouse. Seconds later, a sheet of corrugated steel rolled up, and a spry man hurdled out of the loading dock, jumped down to street level, and made his getaway on foot.
Starr reset his fedora, angling it low over his brow. “Excitement seems to be over.”
I wiped my mouth with the handkerchief he’d lent me at the hotel. It was monogrammed with his initials. He probably purchased them in bulk. He was a surprising man. So maybe he wasn’t classless, just clueless. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
He ran his eyes over the loading dock. Except for the one man who had run as if his tail were on fire, no one else appeared. “Doesn’t look like they get many deliveries here. No trucks. No workmen. No inventory in the delivery bay. Are you sure the girl’s Plymouth is registered here?”
“Bet you never heard of the infamous 1310 building on Polk Street,” I said. “Otherwise known as the Big Dive. Once run by Al Capone. These days, two spinster sisters, last name of Li, own majority interest, but they’re nothing but a front. They keep their girls clean, the johns in line, and an unnamed alderman representing the 19th Ward grinning like a circus clown.”
“Kirk,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Who shares the wealth with Bloody Maxwell.”
“Pennyroyal,” he said. “And he sets aside a percentage of his take for―?”
“The trail gets murky there.”
“But you think it’s―”
“The police chief.”
“And the real majority interest holder?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“Arezzo,” he said, nodding.
We continued admiring the mundane architecture of the Big Dive. Several more men went into the warehouse. A couple men who’d gone in an hour earlier returned to their autos and drove away. I was down to the last corner of my sandwich and the last sip of Coca-Cola.
Starr snapped back his fedora. “Well ...” His intonation was loaded with intrigue.
“Well,” I replied, just as game.
We ambled up to the door and rang the bell. The door automatically disengaged. We entered a dingy room that had probably been a speakeasy during the Prohibition Era. The bar hosted an exclusive clientele of strictly male customers, no women allowed. The barkeep gave us the once-over.
Starr stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer. “Where’s the other guy?”
“What other guy?” the barkeep said.
“The one earlier.”
“Did Gus give you any trouble? Cause if he did―”
“Just wondering.”
The barkeep slid a mug across the polished mahogany, afterwards reaching under the bar and slamming a Browning .45 pistol on the countertop. “In case you were wondering, it’s loaded.”
“Wasn’t.” Starr quaffed the head of his beer. “Can I request a particular lady?”
“Not the lady you’re with?”
“Am I with a lady?”
The barkeep looked me over. “Guess you could call heads or tails.”
Starr flipped a coin. “Whaddaya know. It’s tails.”
The men in the room chortled, the barkeep loudest of all. “What’ll it be?” he asked. “Blonde, redhead, brunette?”
Starr deferred to me.
“Auburn,” I said. “Rita Hayworth lookalike. Tall.”
“She’s got a cold. Try again tomorrow.”
Starr slapped down a fifty-dollar bill. The barkeep considered it. It didn’t take long for him to palm the cash and cock his head toward a door in the rear. “She can probably squeeze you in.” He looked at me. “But not her.”
Put out at being treated like a door without a hinge, I planted hands on hips and winked.
The barkeep winked at Starr. “I get it. But it’ll cost you another bill.”
Starr came up with the extra fifty bucks and cocked his head in my direction. “And here I thought she was a cheap date.”
“They’re never cheap.” The barkeep reached under the counter and pressed a button. The door swung open.
A warning voice whispered in my head. Suddenly cold with dread, I hugged my arms. Starr’s face clouded with uneasiness. I figured we’d come this far, might as well go all the way. Besides, I wanted to see what was on the other side of that door. Starr saw the determined look in my eyes and offered a gentlemanly elbow. I slipped my hand through it, and we walked boldly forth.
As soon as we stepped through the door, it swung shut behind us with a loud clap. Starr tried to open it, but there was no doorknob, and no doorknob on the metal door in front of us, either. We were trapped in a space roughly the size of a coffin. Pockmarks the size and pattern of machine-gun fire cratered the surfaces of both doors. Brown stains dotted the floor and walls. The odors of bleach and ammonia pervaded. Claustrophobia closed in.
Starr tugged nervously at his collar. “Any last-minute thoughts, Grenadine? Prayers for salvation? A comforting word or two will do.”
“Go back?”
A buzzer released the second door with an electronic click. We hesitated, but after nodding at each other, stepped forward. The door clacked shut behind us and locked automatically. We were stopped by a third door spaced only a few feet in front of the one behind us. It was a tight squeeze. I started to sweat.
Starr dragged loose his tie. “Know any Latin?”
“Quantum materiae materietur marmota monax si marmota monax materiam possit materiari.”
“Woodchucks, Grenadine?” he said, annoyed.
“Want to hear the one for Peter Pecker instead?”
He berated me with a growl. Like before, the buzzer buzzed, the door clicked open, we stepped through, and the door at our backs locked. We faced a fourth door defaced even worse than the other three.
Starr wiped perspiration from his brow. “Any church Latin? Last Rites, maybe?”
“You’re not Catholic,” I said.
“I am now.”
“Gloria in Excelsis Deo.”
He drew the sign of the cross athwart his heaving breast. In answer to his prayer, the door swung open. We stepped into a waiting room.
A bouncer occupied a steel desk. A pistol rested inches from his right hand while a phone was perched at his left. He gestured toward wooden benches lining three windowless walls. Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, approximately twenty johns occupied the benches. Starr took his place at the end of the nearest bench and unbuttoned his collar. The johns stared suspiciously at me, but gentlemen to the core, made room, squeezing to the left one by one until there was just enough space for me to sit.
Every ten seconds, an oscillating fan blew a windstorm into the face of the bouncer and a back draft onto the rest of us. A sign on the wall read: NO SPEEKING, NO SPITING, NO SWARING—THE MANAGMENT. The clock on the wall ticked. The men hacked, blew their noses, cleared their throats, sighed with impatience. Starr rested the palms of hands on his thighs and made his fingers do pushups. He was as nervous as I was.
A young lady clothed in two essential garments and stiletto heels entered through the far door. Like a model for haute couture fashion, she made a slow circuit of the room, silently acknowledging anyone she knew. Her face lacked emotion. Her eyes were lifeless. “Alex. Jason. Mike. I’ll get to you later.” She touched the shoulder of the john at the head of the line and escorted him out. The other johns moved up one place, each taking their turns, until an empty spot opened beside me. The bouncer picked up the phone, didn’t say a word, and hung up.
The metal doors of the gauntlet banged open and slammed shut in timed succession. A new john emerged, pale and battle fatigued. After refocusing, he silently took his seat, ran a handkerchief over his balding pate, and reset the fedora with shaky hands.
Wearing the same dead expressions as the first fille de nuit, girls entered, sometimes alone or in twos and threes. They made the identical circuit, heels clicking on the cement floor. Eventually each girl circled around to the front of the line, said a word or two to the eager john waiting there, and gave him permission to accompany her into the bowels of the whorehouse. The chosen men usually removed their fedoras, faces flushed with anticipation, and chased after the heady scent.
Eventually, an auburn-haired beauty appeared in the doorway. The bouncer indicated Starr. She took him by the hand and pulled him along. Gulping with trepidation, he glanced back. Recognizing her as the alluring beauty arrested at the airport while Cynthia Kay Whitehead looked on, I nodded approval. Starr followed her like a cuddly poodle eager to please. The other customers didn’t appreciate us getting preferential treatment, but what could they do with a lethal weapon nearby.
I stood, ironed out my skirt, and tagged along. The door swung shut in my face and the lock engaged. I tried the doorknob. It wouldn’t give. The bouncer cleared his throat and crooked an inviting finger. I pointed at my chest. Did he mean me? He nodded in the affirmative and nudged his head towards a side door. A wave of nausea tumbled through my belly. My mind whirled with a mixture of curiosity, hope, and terror. I tried the doorknob again, pulling with all my might, but it refused to give. The bouncer cleared his throat once more and toyed with the revolver. My gut told me not to go through the other door. I usually followed my gut. But damn it, I wasn’t going to let Starr have all the fun. I gathered up courage, pulled open door number two, and took a broad step forward.
