Since long before the “pansy craze” took over New York’s cabarets and nightclubs, the New Fountain Hotel on Cordova Street has been known for its philosophy of benign tolerance and, when called for, willful ignorance. Staff are hired for their capacity to perform their duties like blind men in a gathering of nudists.
Unlike blazingly bright, barn-like drinking factories like the Kingsway, where working-class men sit and drink their beer in austere misery, the New Fountain’s interior has remained unchanged since the turn of the century when the saloon and the gin palace predominated.
Under a patterned tin ceiling and beneath the patchy amber light of a central brass chandelier, a series of plaster arches divide the area into sections, creating an ideal layout for various groups of like-minded individuals to engage in discreet gatherings—especially in the Ladies and Escorts area, where men and women are accommodated who are not necessarily dressed as such.
Upholstered stools at the bar invite drinkers to strike up new acquaintances, while banquette seating in the corners allows for more intimate conversations to take place.
McCurdy makes his way past tables occupied by robust women and clean-shaven young men until he locates Miss Wickstram at a corner table, looking sporty in a knife-pleat skirt, pale green shirtwaist and no lipstick, with two glasses in front of her, one empty, and a cluttered ashtray.
McCurdy is served a whiskey sour by a chubby young fellow with a possibly false moustache and a fixed smile of general equanimity.
Mildred waits for the waiter to move on, then leans forward. “This is going to have to be quick, Eddie. A friend has invited me to her birthday.”
“Pull the other one, Millie, you and your friend are kicking it up with the fairies at Ma’s speakeasy. The birthday cake is ten years old and it’s made of plaster of Paris.”
“Oh dear, that’s right Eddie, you’re a newspaperman. It’s easy to forget that.” She lights one of her disgusting Middle Eastern cigarettes, a process necessitating three safety matches, swearing under her breath as she blows a plume of smoke in his direction.
“Millie, whatever happened to your posh lighter?”
“I dropped it. At a place I don’t wish to return to.”
Her expression darkens, then snaps back to business. “Do you remember when I mentioned a story that might pry you out of your room? When you were in the Golden Empire, or whatever they call a dope-induced coma?”
He looks about the room. “I’m surprised you found the time to do research. You seem otherwise occupied these days.”
She puts her head at an angle and smiles with one side of her mouth. “Surely you’re not jealous, Eddie.”
“Confused is the word, I think. Both you and General Newson seem to have switched allegiances. Joined the other side, so to speak.”
“I hate sports metaphors.”
“Very well. I mean to say that you are shagging another woman.”
“Shagging isn’t the right word. Exploration is more like it. It’s a question of how far one chooses to travel.”
“In any case, at least you’re keeping up with the times—it’s very à la mode in Germany, I understand. If you can sing, you might put on a tuxedo and join a cabaret.”
“For that show of support, I shall up my charge by five dollars. But you will get a series out of it, so stop sulking and listen.”
“You don’t look exactly chuffed yourself, frankly.”
“Actually, I am feeling a bit shirty.” A long, smoky pause while she searches for le mot juste. “Eddie, do you remember when you were shot at?”
“Do you have to ask?”
“Well I fancy what I have to tell you is rather like that.”
“Somebody shot at you too?”
She searches for a clever way to say this, and finds none.
“The Grand Goblin tried to rape me.”
“Good heavens, Millie, surely you’re joking!”
“Do I look as though I’m joking?”
No, she doesn’t. You can’t fake that look. “Forgive me. It’s just that the Goblin part is a bit surreal. Spit it out, sister. Tell me your story.”
“I finagled an invitation to a meeting at Glen Brae—the pile they’ve rented for a hundred and fifty a month. I was taking a look around, and he, and I…”
A long pause follows. McCurdy examines his whiskey sour, which has become more so.
“I… resisted. Successfully.” She nods as though to remind herself.
Clearly it could be worse, but not by much.
He cleans his glasses while she blows her nose, puts away her handkerchief, takes a long, deep drag of her cigarette, then another, then sits back as poised as ever.
“Millie, I’m waiting for you to tell me that you called the police. Obviously the swine should rot in gaol.”
“That wouldn’t have been wise, Eddie. At the meeting I recognized several coppers.”
“Oh, I see. I’m afraid I get the picture.”
“And there were no witnesses. It was what people call a one-on-one transaction…”
McCurdy sees the film come over her eyes again, so he quickly moves on. “Well, in any case, if revenge is too strong a word for you, I recommend what the general would call a punitive action.”
The term seems to cheer her up. “Eddie, that is precisely what I have in mind.”
“And I assume that the series of articles you propose bear upon your recent… experience.”
“Correct. But just because I have a personal interest in the subject, do not think for a moment that I’m doing this for nothing.”
“Millie, you’re turning into a battle axe.”
She uses two more safety matches to fire up another cigarette. “Where do you wish to start?”
“Not with the details of your assault, please. It’ll only upset my stomach.”
“Very well, let’s start with the Klan. As you probably know, today’s Klan has nothing in common with their ancestor but the regalia.
“It’s a sort of Birth of a Nation fan club as I understand it.”
“Also like a football club.”
“Sporting yobbos, sort of thing—who support the club by shelling out for dues and merchandise?”
“Correct. Its members are its customers. But unlike your football club, its existence depends on its ability to constantly acquire new members.”
“Seeking new blood, like a leech. Well, I suppose it’s a living.”
“Or you could say it’s a case of expand or die, like a single-celled germ. When they run out of new members in one town, the sales force moves on to another. It’s a big country, with hatreds yet to be mined. Which brings us to my personal villain, one Luther Forrest, now Grand Goblin of the Vancouver branch, after founding chapters in California, Idaho, Oregon, Washington and Alaska. And that is where our series—”
“A series about the business plan of the KKK? Where do we publish this—Success magazine?”
“Don’t be snide. You don’t know about Indiana.”
“I never hope to. Indianans are bible-thumping, cow-tipping rustics who like to play basketball.”
“The home of basketball, that’s true. But also once the home of three hundred thousand dues-paying Klan members. In Indiana, for the past several years, it has been impossible to get elected without them. Now math was never my forte, but at seventy-five dollars a membership it adds up to a lot of dues, not to mention the price of robes, hoods, Klan water—”
“So I take it we’re about to make a big splash in the Indianapolis News.”
“Very funny. I must say, if this is what you call creative thinking, it’s no wonder you can’t write a decent poem.”
“That was uncalled for, Millie.”
“You’re pouting again. I’m sorry, but at times I find you unbearable.”
“Is that the upshot of our discussion? If so, I should like to pay my bill, take my leave and jump in front of a passing tram.”
“Surely not before I tell you about Daisy Tyler.”
“Daisy Douglas Tyler?”
“The same. One item unmentioned in her publicity material is that she founded a parallel women’s chapter in Indianapolis, called the Queens of the Golden Mask. It was billed as a temperance and eugenics movement, but really a woman’s auxiliary for the Klan, with its own dues, robes and all the rest.”
“You have to hand it to the American entrepreneur. The can-do spirit in action.”
“Except that earlier this year, her frontman, Grand Dragon Stephenson, was convicted of kidnapping, rape and murder. He was a piece of work—biting was involved. There was an inquiry and some government members went to gaol. Along the way, membership in the Klan collapsed—and with it, the Queens of the Golden Mask.”
“Another rapist—is it a contact sport with them?”
“No, it’s something men do in their spare time, usually while drunk. In any case—”
She stops in mid-sentence as her eyes swivel up. McCurdy turns in his chair and looks above him at the clean-shaven young American from the Kingsway Hotel, with the excellent teeth and small pistol.
“Mr Johnston. We meet again.”
“Yes indeed, suh. I trust you have recovered from the tanning you got at the Kingsway.”
“No permanent damage, thanks to you. Let me introduce you to my friend, Mildred Wickstram.”
“We’ve met.”
McCurdy takes a closer look from one face to the other, and it all fits.