1

They had gotten back from the fair very late, were still sleeping when a loud pounding on the door woke them.

“’Retta! Lemme in!”

Beside her, Emily felt Haskel’s body tense.

“Stay here,” she whispered into Emily’s ear. “Don’t make a sound.” She got up, put on her tartan robe, and stepped to the hallway door. She did not open it.

“Not a good time, Len. I’m working.”

“What kinda how-dee-do’s that? You got another man in there, darlin’?” He sounded as if he were drunk again. “Tha’ why you won’ lemme in?”

“No, Len.” Haskel took a deep breath. “But I do have a model—posing for a painting—and I’m paying for her time. Come back in an hour.”

“Wanna see you now.” More pounding.

“An hour, Len.”

“Wha’m I s’posed to do till then? You got any cash?”

Emily heard the sound of bare feet, the rustle of papers as Haskel rummaged on the table, steps back to the door. “Here’s a dollar. Get yourself some coffee and a doughnut.” A soft sound as she slid the bill under the door.

He swore. “Some kinda welcome home.” Then there was silence, and finally the sound of heavy footsteps on the marble stairs of the old building.

Haskel returned to the bedroom. “Do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Get dressed and give me a couple hours? Go to Fong Fong’s and have breakfast?”

“Are you throwing me out?” Emily heard the indignation in her own voice.

“No, I—”

“You’d just like me away from your bed so you can be alone with your husband?”

“Yes,” Haskel said gently. “I need to settle things—once and for all—and I don’t want you caught in the middle.”

“I already am.”

“Please?” Haskel took the pack of Viceroys from the bedside table and lit one with a swift strike of a match against her thumbnail. “If you’re here, it will only muddy some already very murky waters.”

“How?”

“Divorce papers. If he signs, I’m a free woman. If he sees you, he’ll use it as an excuse not to.”

Emily thought about that. She blew out a long stream of air, then nodded. “I’ll make myself scarce, but—look. I haven’t asked—Lord knows I’ve wanted to—how is it that I’m here, naked as a jaybird—the taste of you still on my lips—and you’re someone’s wife?” She crossed her arms. “What’s the story?”

“Fair enough. I left home when I was seventeen and came out here. All the black sheep, right?” Haskel began to pace. “I found where the artists hung out—a bar called the Black Cat. I was tall enough that nobody asked any questions. Len was part of that crowd.”

She walked to the window, lit another smoke off the end of the first. “Believe it or not, he was a poet. A good one, too. He’d been published—in The Atlantic. That impressed me.” She sighed. “I was young, he was handsome. That part’s an old, old story.”

Haskel was silent, staring out at the courtyard. “He was thirty when we got married; I was barely eighteen. We settled into a fleabag on Union Street with four other people, pooled everyone’s money, made a pot of spaghetti last for three days, and drank bootleg wine. After a year, I got a scholarship to art school.”

She tapped her ash into a saucer. “By then the Depression had hit. Jobs weren’t easy to find and he couldn’t keep one. He was better than those average Joes, and had to let everyone know it. He’d get fired and go into a blue funk. When I sold my first painting, the chip on his shoulder just got bigger.”

“Was he still writing poems?”

“Yes, but no one was interested. One mimeographed rag that paid in copies, not cash. Each rejection, he’d go get plastered, start a fight. Couldn’t punch for beans. Spent a night or two in the drunk tank and came home, blaming me.”

“Why?”

“I was lowbrow, just a hack, working for the pulps. He was the real artist.” She tossed the butt into the sink. “But I was supporting us—Len couldn’t stand that. He never came after me, like Ma. Still, once or twice—” She shook her head. “One morning there was a note: Sorry, angel, off to Portland—or Los Angeles or Chicago—need new experiences, new material. He sold vacuums, hoboed, lumberjacked, got a job on the railroad or as a carny. A few weeks, six months, I’d never hear a word. Nights, I drew lingerie ads for the Emporium and modeled for art classes. I made other friends—Diego and Frida, girls from school. I met Franny. My world got bigger. Then he’d come back, full of stories, dead broke. And it would start all over again.” She reached for the bag of coffee. “Truth is, I worked hard, and I was good at what I did. After a while, he stopped even trying.”

“Why didn’t you divorce him then?”

“People like me don’t have lawyers.” She poured grounds into the percolator and turned on the hot plate. “And it didn’t seem important. I’d moved into this place, was making enough to get by. He wasn’t around much. I had a few—friends—now and then, mostly kept to myself. It wasn’t perfect, but it was all right.”

“What changed?” Emily slipped into her dungarees and a crumpled checked shirt—time to take a bundle down to the Chinese laundry. She perched on the edge of the table.

“One day I realized I was tense as a cat—waiting for the knock on the door that would upset my nice orderly life. On guard, like I used to be with Ma. Except I wasn’t that girl anymore. I didn’t need to hide in the cellar, holding my breath. It was my goddamn life.” She slapped the table for emphasis. “I met Helen this spring, at one of Franny’s dinners. When she started modeling for me, I asked her to file the papers.”

“How long since you’ve seen—him?”

“Three years. Almost four. Not even a postcard.”

Emily was quiet, then asked the question that made her stomach dance with fear. “Do you still love him?”

“No.” Haskel turned and drew her into a hug. “He’s just a stranger I used to know. After today, he’ll have no claim on me.”

“What if he won’t sign?”

“I’ll throw him out on his ear and wait until November, when the court will declare it finito. As far as I’m concerned, it’s been over for years. Okay?”

“I think so.” Emily let herself soften against Haskel’s body, feeling her own heart thumping, Haskel’s pendant cool and smooth against her cheek.

“Good. Because right now the best gift you can give me is to disappear until noonish. Let me clean up my old mess without worrying about you.”

“I can do that,” Emily said, even though she wanted to stay and—what? Defend Haskel’s honor? Her presence would only complicate things. Len had the law on his side—she and Haskel didn’t. Not at all.

Emily left. She wasn’t in the mood for the hordes of teenagers that clustered around Fong Fong’s fountain clamoring for “chop suey sundaes,” so she bought a paper and went to a café on Columbus. She ordered coffee and toast and did the crossword puzzle with her fountain pen, focusing on forming each letter perfectly, so the ink wouldn’t smear, so her mind wouldn’t wander back to the studio.

Quarter after eleven, she walked over to Mona’s to get the book she’d left in the dressing room. She slipped down the alley and knocked at the stage door, the performers’ rap—three short, two long. After a minute, a rough voice said, “Yeah?”

“It’s Em—it’s Spike.”

The door opened. It was Rusty, a tough older woman who did odd jobs and repairs, and sometimes bartended. “C’mon in.”

Emily took two steps, blinking in the sudden dimness, and fanned her hand in front of her face. “Jeez-sooey! What died in here?”

“Sewer pipe broke. Believe it or not, it’s worse downstairs.” Rusty picked up a stack of the silver souvenir folders tourists got when they had their photos taken “with the stars,” and stacked them on a shelf in the open supply cupboard. “Mona says we’ll be dark tonight and tomorrow.”

“Both?”

“City says they’ll send a crew out this afternoon, but it’s gonna take at least another day to air the place out.” She held up her hands, a what-ya-gonna-do gesture. “If we served food, they’d have closed us down for a week.”

“Lucky it’s just booze.” Emily headed down the narrow hallway to the back room.

“Just a sec,” Rusty said. “Package came for you yesterday.” She opened a closet and handed her a large, flat box. “Here ya go.”

“Thanks.” Emily had moved so much it made sense to use the club as a mailing address, but in a year, she’d only gotten a couple of letters and the occasional bill. She looked at the postmark, and the coffee in her stomach rolled like a breaking tide. New Haven, Connecticut. She hadn’t heard from her family since Jilly.

She took the box back to the dressing room and laid it on the table, clearing away tins of brilliantine, tubes of pancake makeup, a stack of girlie magazines, and an empty bottle of Four Roses. The return label said E. Netterfield, with her parents’ address, as if she had shipped something to herself from the past.

“Neddy,” she said to herself. She smiled. Edward McCauley Netterfield, her younger brother. Ned, since he’d been old enough to talk. Father was Edward. Ned was the only one who hadn’t cut ties with her, but he still lived at home. They’d used a mutual friend as a “mail drop,” which sounded very Dashiell Hammett, but had allowed her to write to him a few times without their parents’ knowledge.

She unwrapped the box and lifted the lid. Inside, on top of an acre of folded tissue paper, was a note in Ned’s back-slanted hand:

Sis—

I finally hit that growth spurt Doc Wolfe promised—five inches! None of my glad rags fit, so a gift for that mad act of yours. (I told Mother I gave it to the Salvation Army.) Long letter next month when I become a Princeton man and my mailbox is my own.

Always yours,

Ned

Underneath the tissue was a swallow-tailed coat with satin lapels, white tie, starched shirt front, vest, trousers, gloves, and even a pair of spats. The label in the coat bore the name of New Haven’s finest tailor.

Emily whistled through her teeth and checked the clock on the wall. A hair past 11:30. She wanted to try it on, but there wasn’t time to get into it and out again before noon; walking back to the studio dressed to the nines would draw more attention than she cared for. Better to model it for Haskel later. Hmm. She snapped her fingers.

The drawer marked SPIKE was crammed with junk—makeup, tissues, a roll of Life Savers, a pen, some loose change—and she had to dig to come up with the small white box she sought. She tucked it and her book under the folds of tissue paper and closed the box. With the joy of a plan beginning to hatch, a surprise to tickle Haskel’s—fancy—she almost skipped toward the stage door.

“You’re in a good mood,” Rusty said. She stared at the back sink, monkey wrench in hand. “What was in the box?”

“A secret identity,” Emily said. “Good luck with the plumbing.”

“Gonna need it. At least you get the night off.”

Emily took the long way round to the studio—up Broadway to Kearny, past the narrow copper-domed flatiron building at Columbus, down that wide diagonal street of cafés, bakeries, and shoe-repair shops until she reached the northwest corner of the Monkey Block, the bulky package tight under her arm.

Church bells were sounding noon mass as she took the stairs to the third floor and walked down the long corridor to the back. She knocked, pro forma, just in case Haskel’s now-ex-husband had lingered. When there was no answer, she used her key and let herself in.

“Do I have a surprise for you,” she said as she stepped through the doorway. “My brother Ned sent me his old—” she stopped, stock-still.

Haskel sat on the floor in the center of a flurry of torn paper, facing the window, her back against a leg of the drafting table, her arms around her drawn-up knees.

Emily set the box down with a thump. “What happened?”

No answer.

“Haskel?”

A small shake of her head. The tumble of blond hair, loosed from its clip, rippled like wheat. Emily tiptoed over, not wanting to startle, knelt down, and put a hand on one trembling shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Another shake of the head, a shrug. Emily saw her grip tighten around her knees. She eased herself to the floor and sat down, stroking Haskel’s hair. A flinch, then Haskel turned to face her.

“Jesus,” Emily hissed.

One eye was swollen almost shut, the skin below it an angry red. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth.

“What—?” Emily started, but the answer was obvious. She reached up to the table, found the pack of cigarettes, and held one to the uninjured side of Haskel’s mouth, a match hovering. A hand slowly reached up, held it, and inhaled deeply.

“Thanks.” It wasn’t even a whisper, barely a croak.

Emily scooted as close as she could, a one-armed hug, saying nothing, willing her body to give silent comfort.

When the cigarette had burned almost to Haskel’s fingers, Emily took it. “Another?” A nod. Emily shook a fresh one out of the pack and lit it from the smoldering butt of the first, the way she’d seen Haskel do a dozen times. The tip glowed. Emily coughed until her eyes watered.

“Please don’t die on me today,” Haskel said. There was almost a ghost of a smile in her voice.

“I’ll do my best.” Emily handed her the cigarette, got up, and drank a glass of water. Once she could breathe again, she found the bourbon under the table’s skirt and poured a jelly glass half full. “Here,” she said, settling to the floor again. “We’re out of St. Bernard dogs and brandy.” She wrapped Haskel’s fingers around the glass.

Haskel took a long, deep swallow. After a minute, she spoke.

“Son of a mother-fucking bitch.”

“That’s a start.”

Len had come, still drunk from the night before, a twenty-four-hour bender. Yes, he’d tried to kiss her. She’d let him have a peck on the cheek. She’d offered coffee, tried to keep it civil. He sat on the couch, jittery, leg bouncing and tapping nonstop. Why had he come, after so long? A few rounds of “You’re my wife, aren’t you?” before he got to the money. She was rolling in dough, had to be. He’d seen the magazines on every sailor’s bunk. Didn’t say it was his wife drew that crap, but goddamn it, half of that was his. Only fair. She could see that, right?

Haskel drained the glass, gestured for more.

Things got ugly when she told him it was over. He was the one who always left, shouldn’t be a surprise. She brought out the court papers. Who do you think you are, Miss High and Mighty? Someone else getting what’s mine by law? She uncapped the pen, and then he was standing, yelling, calling her cunt and whore. It was the news that she didn’t need him to sign, didn’t need him for a goddamn thing anymore—she was yelling then too—that was when he’d slapped her across the face, open-hand, but hard enough to knock her off balance.

Haskel lit another cigarette. “Tell you right now, the villain on my next cover’s going to be a dark, lanky bastard.”

He’d snatched the papers, ripping them—in half, and half again, then into confetti—throwing them at her in handfuls—There’s your goddamn divorce! Not a chance!

“I raked his cheek and spit in his eye. I wanted to kill him. Might have, if a neighbor hadn’t knocked. Should he call the police? I shouted yes, and that’s when Len ran,” Haskel finished. “Hightailed it down the stairs. I told Mr. Armanino not to bother, thanked him for his concern. Then I sat down, and waited for you to come home.”

For fifteen minutes, Emily had listened. She’d held Haskel’s hand, stroked her hair. Hoped it was helping. Her own family didn’t touch, or share, or sympathize often. They weren’t cold or cruel, just proper and formal, even in private. This role was new to her. No chapter in Emily Post had dealt with the right way to comfort your bruised and trembling lover after her husband had tried to shake her down.

Haskel was the strong one—older, more experienced, tougher—at least from appearances. It hurt to see her like this, her hair straggly, her eyes red, face swollen, no trace of the cool, calm, collected woman she had fallen in love with.

When the second glass was empty and Haskel’s story had wound down to muttering, when there was nothing more to say for the moment, Emily led her to bed. She undid her clothes as gently as if she were a scared child, bathed her face with a cool cloth, dabbing at the dribble of blood. Iodine would sting, so that could wait. She got Haskel under the covers, pillow plumped behind her head, and undressed herself. She crawled in, spooning around Haskel’s back. Hands on her flat belly, head nestled on a broad shoulder, and when they were settled, Emily began to sing, sweet and low. Sound-kisses, lullabies and spirituals, soft and soothing.

Haskel’s breathing finally steadied into sleep. Emily lay quietly beside her all afternoon, drowsing but alert to any change, any sound from outside. By the time Haskel stirred, the room was filled with that rose-gold light. She stood and stretched, wincing as her arm brushed her face. She looked once in the mirror, grimaced, then put on her robe, made her way to the couch. She sat heavily.

“I had a cousin come back from the war,” she said. “I was seven or eight. No one said anything, but he was always jumpy, like something might explode at any moment, catch him unaware.”

“Shell shock.”

“I suppose. That’s how I feel right now.” She touched her cheek gingerly. “It was just a slap. But it opened up—”

“—a box full of all the old creepy-crawlies?”

“In spades.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“I’m all talked out.”

“Okay. I’ll clean up a bit.” Emily used the whisk broom to sweep up the shreds of paper that littered the floor. “This doesn’t—?”

“No. There are other copies. Tomorrow night, Len’s ship will be on its way to South America. By the time he gets back, he’ll be single, whether he likes it or not.” She shook her head. “Poor Len. He’s a sad, bitter man on the wrong side of forty, lost in a bottle. I almost feel sorry for him, but he’s made his own bed. Now I just want it all behind me. Us.”

“So do I.” Emily’s stomach growled as she emptied the dustpan. She rummaged on the curtained shelf and heated a can of stew on the hot plate. They ate cross-legged on the couch, with bowls and spoons, as if they were children in the nursery, having their tea, high up in the house, warm and safe and separate from all the rest of the world.

They said little. When the window and skylight darkened, Emily turned on the lamp and made cocoa. No milk; she tempered the bitterness with bourbon and sugar. It had been fully night for more than an hour when Haskel sat up with a start.

“You’re late for work,” she said.

“Oh. Didn’t tell you. We’re closed, tonight and tomorrow. Busted sewer pipe.”

“Ugh.” Haskel wrinkled her nose. She turned to put her empty mug on the table and noticed the large box by the door. “What’s that?”

“White tie and tails. My brother outgrew his.”

“Have you tried it on?”

“No, I was waiting to dazzle you.”

“I could use a little of that.”

Emily took the box into the bedroom and set up the folding paper screen across the doorway. She’d always complained about how complicated women’s clothing was—so many hooks and buttons and laces—but formal menswear was just as bad, if not worse. Stiff layers and studs, suspenders to adjust, spats to fasten, pocket square folded just so. Still, it fit perfectly. When she was nearly done, she opened the small white box and used the bureau mirror and a dab of spirit gum to affix a thin mustache to her upper lip. Its shade matched her hair. “Let’s see if this one tickles,” she said, sotto voce. She stepped around the screen into the studio.

Haskel looked up, did a double-take, and smiled for the first time since that morning. “Wowza.”

“Like it?”

“You are, without a doubt, the handsomest boy of the season.” She bit a knuckle, thinking. “I have an outfit—a gift from one of the Emporium buyers, years ago. I’ve never worn it, there hasn’t been an occasion, but—” She sighed. “Too bad. We’d be quite stunning together out on a dance floor.”

“Let’s. Tomorrow night.”

“Are you mad? Where? It’s taboo, even at Mona’s.” She made a face. “The law says that would be a—what do they call it? Ah, yes. A lewd and dissolute act. An outrage to public decency.”

“Only if it’s two women dancing.”

“Which, if you’ve noticed, we—” She stopped, her mouth open in shock and admiration. “You’re not thinking—?”

“Why not?”

“Hmm.” Haskel came closer, examining Emily from a few feet away.

“Well?”

“Walk. Across the room.”

Emily did, her shoulders back, her hips taut, her feet in a slightly wider stance.

“That’s very convincing.”

“I told you I played all the boys’ parts on stage. I watched my brother and his friends when they weren’t paying attention.”

“You look awfully young.”

“I’ll take a leaf from Polly’s book. Posh accent. Second nature. I grew up around swells.”

“With that, you might pass.”

“I have, after Mona’s, coming home late. Not very often, but the mustache and the walk do keep the mashers away.” She laughed. “I disappointed one fancy boy something fierce. He was quite smitten.”

“I can see why. Where should we go?”

“Forbidden City? Dining, dancing, big crowds, and far enough from Mona’s we won’t run into anyone we know.”

“Except Helen.”

“She’ll get a kick out of it.”

“You know, so will I. Makeup should cover this.” She touched her cheek. It was still red and angry-looking, but the swelling had gone down. “Besides, in the outfit I have in mind, no one’s going to be looking at my face.”

“Haskel! I’m shocked.”

“Good. I think a scandalous night is just what the doctor ordered.” Haskel leaned down and kissed her.

“Does it tickle?”

“Maybe. Let’s go find out.”

* * *

With no new assignment yet, Haskel tidied the drafting table, boxing the pastel sticks into groups of reds and blues and greens, putting brushes into one jelly jar, pencils and charcoal sticks into another. She swept the colorful dust and shavings into the wastebasket, stacked sheets of paper and sketchbooks.

When she finished, they took two bags of laundry to Sung Mee, then ate at a nearby luncheonette, hamburger sandwiches and Coca-Colas. Haskel bought two packs of cigarettes at the newsstand at the corner while Emily used the pay phone to check in on the progress at Mona’s.

“Still closed,” she said when she returned. “The game’s afoot.”

They went back to the studio. Haskel smoked and sketched Emily, who lay on the couch reading the first issue of Diabolical Dr. Wu Yang, “to get into the mood for tonight.”

Around six, they went down the hall to shower. In the bedroom, Emily finger-combed her hair, which dried in minutes. Haskel wrapped hers in a towel-turban while she put on makeup. It took both foundation and powder to cover the bruise, fading to a dusky lavender at the edges. She lined her eyes with pencil, mascaraed her lashes, and did her full lips in a deep, rich red.

She unwound the turban, combing out her hair, letting it fall loose to her shoulders, a sleek tawny-gold waterfall with a slight wave.

Emily stared, startled at the transformation. Haskel was a handsome woman but now she was—striking. Stunning.

“You like?” Haskel asked, her throaty voice low. She smiled. “You do.” She tilted her head toward the studio. “Dress out there. Let me surprise you.”

“You already have. There’s more?”

“Wait and see.”

“First, I need the mirror to do my—whiskers.”

Mustache in place—looking very odd above her own striped bathrobe—Emily gathered her suit and all its various accoutrements and went into the studio. The paper screen slid across the doorway behind her. She heard the sound of the wardrobe opening, a shurring of fabrics and the clatter of wooden hangers, then a soft, “Ah, there you are.”

It was easier to get into the tails the second time. She almost left her bra off—she was flat-chested enough that it wouldn’t matter under the starched layers of shirt and vest and jacket—but remembered the three-garment rule. Bra, panties, and her low-heeled black pumps, all of them with their ladies’ shop labels worn but legible. It was a silly law, but better safe than sorry, she thought as she buttoned the spats.

She used a dab of Vaseline to slick her hair into a more masculine style—if they did this again, she’d invest in a tube of Brylcreem—and called, “Ready when you are, Millicent.”

The screen slid open and Haskel stepped out.

All Emily could do was whistle.

Haskel wore a midnight-blue jumpsuit of iridescent, shimmery satin that clung to every curve. Padded shoulders, a plunging neckline, and a silver belt at her waist. The sleeves were long and form-fitting, the pants full and flowing, giving the illusion of a skirt. She wore her pendant and two tiny pieces of lapis at her ears.

She looked like a movie star.

“C’mere.” Haskel held out a hand and led them back into the bedroom, posing them in front of the mirror inside the wardrobe door.

“You’re right,” Emily said. “No one’s going to pay me the slightest attention.”

“I’m masquerading just as much as you are.”

The evening was warm. They decided to walk. More direct to go down Montgomery, the center of the financial district, but it was gray and shuttered after the close of business. Instead they strolled west, across Washington to Grant and into the heart of Chinatown.

“I love this city,” Emily said. From the studio she could walk for ten minutes in one direction and be in an Italian village; in another she’d be on the docks, or in a world of stockbrokers. Every ramble was an adventure.

Grant Avenue was the most colorful and exotic street in a city full of wonders. There be dragons. Lined with pagoda-topped buildings and crimson-coated doorways, every corner blazed with neon signs in English, Chinese, and the curious typographic hodgepodge of the two, spelling out CHOP SUEY, LOTUS ROOM, LI-PO, marketing its otherness.

It was as if a bit of the Orient had been transplanted halfway around the world, making the very sidewalks seem alien. But unlike the exhibits at the fair, it was a real community, a city-within-a-city, the most densely populated square mile in San Francisco.

On a Friday night, the streets were jammed with tourists, mingling with sharp-dressed modern young Chinese and elderly women in drab black. Storefronts selling cheap souvenirs stood next to acrid-smelling shops of pickled fish, dried herbs, and ancient remedies. Brightly lit windows displayed edible marvels: hanging rows of golden roasted ducks, flattened as if starched and ironed; decorated cakes with elaborate icing and elusive flavors; tubs of snails, eels, octopus. Even fruit and vegetable stands were stacked with colorful, unidentifiable delicacies.

Side streets told another story, glimpses of overcrowded tenements, small dingy shops, laundry hanging from open windows, smells of incense and garbage, garlic and ginger, hot fry-oil and urine.

At the southern end of Grant, just before the huge dragon gates that marked the boundary between this and the ordinary city, the shops were smaller, less flashy. They carried Japanese goods—kimonos, antiques, silk stockings. One store had plywood nailed over a broken window; red paint in dripping letters said NO JAP GOODS! An adjacent store had a neatly printed sign on its door: BOYCOTT SILK. BE IN STYLE, WEAR LISLE. Japan and China had been at war for a decade. The protests had appeared after the massacre at Nanking.

Emily and Haskel walked through the dragon gates, crossed Bush Street. One block farther was Sutter. They turned the corner. The two-story neon column for Forbidden City bathed the stone walls of an otherwise unremarkable commercial block in green, red, and gold light.

Sedans and taxis queued in front of the building. A uniform-clad doorman ushered well-dressed couples through bright scarlet double doors ornamented with gold medallions.

“Walter, are you sure this is safe?” asked a woman in a silver gown.

“It’s fine, dear. It’s not like we’re in Chinatown.”

The doorman gave a small bow to Emily and held the door for Haskel. They climbed the stairs, lined with silk hangings and brush-and-ink paintings, to the second-floor lobby. Its bamboo-paneled walls held more Oriental decor, interspersed with framed photos of Hollywood celebrities who had visited the nightclub. To their left was a long bar, already four deep with customers.

“We’ll never get a seat,” Haskel said.

Emily pitched her voice low for the benefit of the people around them. “Now, don’t you worry your pretty little head,” she said, patting Haskel’s arm. She stepped up to the tuxedoed maitre d’. “Fitzbottom. Table for two.”

He looked down at a list. “Very good, sir. Right this way.” He led them through the round moon-gate entrance to the club itself and pulled out a chair at one of the floor-side tables. “Madam.” Haskel sat and he returned to his station.

“How did you pull that off?” she asked, smiling.

“The call from the newsstand.”

“Will wonders never cease?”

They sat on the rim of the dance floor, facing the stage, its red velvet curtains closed. Behind them rose two horseshoe tiers of tables. The room was full, nearly three hundred people; except for the staff, everyone was white.

A waiter in a red silk uniform and tasseled cap came by with menus and took their drink orders. “Gin fizz for the lady?”

Haskel shook her head. “Bourbon on the rocks.”

The right side of the menu offered Chinese dinners—all of them variations on chop suey and egg fu yeong. The American side boasted fried chicken, steaks, and chops. Either dinner cost a dollar, including a relish tray and dessert.

“Fried chicken, the international delicacy,” Emily said. They each ordered a steak. The meals came on platters with silver domes that the waiter removed with a polished flourish.

Haskel cut into her meat. “I could get used to this.”

“You’ll have to paint faster, then. This one’s my treat—Ned left a tenner in the suit pocket—but my piggy bank doesn’t rattle much.”

“Your Ned is a sweet boy.”

“He is indeed.”

They’d finished their supper and ordered a second round of drinks when the curtains parted and a short, dapper Chinese man stepped out.

“Welcome to the Forbidden City,” he said into the microphone. “I am your Celestial host, Charlie Low. Tonight you’ll enjoy a new slant in entertainment.” He beamed and waited for the chuckles to subside. “We have singers, dancers, every kind of show you want. I don’t know about you, but a couple of Wong numbers sound right to me!” More laughter. “So please, welcome to the stage, the Chinese Ethel Merman, Miss Dorothy Chow!”

A well-built young woman came out in a sequined gown. The band struck up a tune, and she began to belt out “I Got Rhythm.” Her voice was strong and sure and would have reached to the back tier of seats even without a mike.

“Nice vibrato,” Emily whispered. From behind them, she heard a woman say, shrill and inconsiderately loud, “Harry! She sings just like a white girl!”

Haskel made a face. “And tomorrow, they’ll go to the aquarium to see the trained seals.”

The next act was a magician, demonstrating the Mysterious Secrets of the Far East, the Chinese Harry Houdini. Following him were “those Oriental Rug-cutters, the Chinese Fred and Ginger—Eddie and Helen Young!”

Helen wore a flowing pale green gown with a full skirt that billowed when she twirled around her partner in his sleek black tuxedo. They did a slow rumba to “Begin the Beguine,” moving elegantly, effortlessly to the Cole Porter tune until the band began an up-tempo rhythm. In one fluid motion, Helen tore away her skirt to reveal a pair of green satin shorts, her shapely legs clad in fishnet stockings.

She and Eddie began to tap-dance, their feet a syncopated accompaniment to the music. The dance grew more and more physical as Eddie did a backflip and Helen leapt over him, landing in a full splits, all in rhythm, never missing a beat. The audience’s applause was long and loud.

The emcee stepped up again. “Now, we have an act you won’t see anywhere else. You know what they say about Chinese girls—down there?” He leered genially at the audience.

A soldier to Emily’s left said, “Hey, Ralphie, what’s he mean?”

His buddy replied in a loud whisper, “Don’ you know nothin’, Pat? They got slanted pussies, too. Goes from side to side, not front to back.”

“That so?”

“Yep. Like eatin’ corn on the cob.”

The emcee had continued his introduction throughout the crude soldier’s explanation, and announced, “The Chinese Sally Rand!” The lights dimmed and a diffused pink spot highlighted a beautiful young girl, naked except for silver high heels. She held a translucent balloon a yard in diameter, walking and turning so that there was never more than a partial glimpse of her body.

Half the men in the room were on their feet, clapping and shouting. The dancer lifted the bubble over her head for a brief second before the stage went dark and the curtain closed. As the applause died down, the band began playing “Dancing Cheek to Cheek,” and couples got up from their tables and headed to the dance floor.

“May I have this number?” Emily stood and held out her hand, a grin playing at the corner of her mouth.

“Let me check my dance card,” Haskel replied. “Ah, I have an open spot. Do you know how to lead?”

“Fifteen years of girls’ schools? I can manage.” She took Haskel’s arm and led her onto the floor, put a hand at the small of her back, and twirled her expertly. For the next ten minutes, the world fell away. There was nothing but the music, satin on skin, warm breath on a cheek. They danced, holding each other close, even kissing once, as if they were an ordinary couple. No one stared. No one paid the slightest attention. Emily had never felt so happy. She tilted her head up and was about to be kissed again when a nearby voice said softly, “Haskel?”

Emily’s grip tightened. She turned them slowly and let out a sigh of relief when she saw it was Helen, wearing a tight cheongsam, deep green with gold embroidery, a long slit up the side. She wore heavy makeup that emphasized the shape of her eyes.

“Who’s your fella—?” Helen’s mouth opened in surprise. “Well, butter my butt and call me popcorn!” She shook a scolding finger at them. “It’s not what I think, huh?”

“It wasn’t—then,” Emily replied. “Come back to our table. Don’t you showgirls let the fellows buy you drinks?”

“That’s the idea. We’re supposed to dance with them, too, but—”

“That’s okay. I’ll pass.” They all sat down.

“What on god’s green earth are you two doing?” Helen asked after the waiter had taken drink orders and the cigarette girl had come and gone.

Haskel smiled. “Seeing how the other half lives.” She pointed to the stage. “Some of that must be pretty hard to take.”

“The slant-eye crap?” Helen shrugged. “It’s what the tourists come for. You learn to roll with the punches.” She saw the doubt on her friend’s face. “Look, it’s Hollywood and your magazines that sell all that Yellow Peril, Fu Manchu stuff. These folks have bought into it hook, line, and sinker. They come here to be titillated and terrified, expecting the depraved Dragon Lady in her opium den. Instead they get show tunes and some pretty good dancing.”

“Pretty good? You and Eddie were outstanding.”

“Thanks. So maybe a couple of rubes go home believing a girl like me can do more than cook noodles and washee-washee laundry.” She made a face. “Are Charlie’s jokes funny? No. But I get paid to dance and Dottie gets to sing. Unless it was some bullshit ching-chong sing-song, dressed up like little fragile dolls, no place else would hire us.”

“Like Jack at Mona’s,” Emily said.

“Pretty much. All of us are fantasies to them. Sexy and exotic.” She laughed. “Hah. Exotic Coos Bay. That why I speekee pretty good English, you bet!” She drained her drink. “What the hell, it pays the bills.” The house lights blinked on and off. “Time for act two. I need to go change.”

Emily looked around. “Where’s the dressing room? We didn’t see any performers on the way in.”

“You wouldn’t. It’s up the stairs from the alley, out back.” She stood, waved to another girl, and disappeared down a hallway behind the bandstand.

The second show was similar, but not identical, to the first. Acrobats replaced the magician, Charlie made different “yellow” jokes, and the Chinese Ethel Merman belted out “Anything Goes.” Helen and Eddie jitterbugged to Benny Goodman’s “Stompin’ at the Savoy,” and nearly brought down the house.

Haskel and Emily danced during the next interval. “How ’bout we stay here forever, just like this?” Emily murmured into Haskel’s neck.

“I’d rather go home and find out what’s under that starched shirt of yours.”

“Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“I’d like to see it again. Besides, you don’t need anything more to drink.”

“’Tis true.” When the song ended, she took Haskel’s hand. “Let us weave our way homeward.”

Out in the lobby, a line of people waited to get in for the late show. They squeezed by and went downstairs.

“Did you have a pleasant evening, sir?” the doorman asked.

“Extremely.” Emily tipped a finger to her temple in what she hoped was a posh salute.

A dozen people stood on the sidewalk, waiting for their rides or trying to flag a taxi on the busy one-way street. “Friday night, Grant’s going to be a circus,” Haskel said. “Let’s go up Stockton and walk through the tunnel.”

They’d gone about thirty feet when, out of the shadows of a shuttered storefront, stepped a man in sailor’s blues, his round cap low on his forehead, his left cheek striped with three raised welts.

“I knew there was another guy,” he shouted. “You lyin’ bitch!”

“Len!” Haskel’s voice cracked in surprise. “What are—?”

“Followed from your place. But the Chink in the monkey suit wouldn’t let me in the damn door.” He took a swig from the neck of a bottle protruding from a paper bag wadded in his fist. His voice was loud enough that two people in front of the nightclub turned to see what the commotion was.

Emily took Haskel’s arm. “Let’s go back. We’ll get a cab.”

“No you don’. You’re not going anywhere with my wife.” He reached for Haskel’s other arm.

She pulled away toward the building behind her.

Without thinking, Emily stepped between them. She lowered the timbre of her voice and growled, “Stay away from her.”

“Yeah? You gonna make me, rich boy?” Len put his fists in the air, pistoning them back and forth like a cartoon boxer.

Emily raised her own hands. She didn’t want to fight, but she’d scrapped with boys before and knew how to defend herself. At least she used to.

Len swung, a big roundhouse that barely grazed her sleeve. He spun halfway around with the momentum, and dropped the paper bag. It hit the cement with a wet pop!

“Now see whad’ya made me do!” he yelled. He turned, his eyes wild, and swung again. Emily pivoted, taking most of the weak blow on her shoulder, and caught his wrist. She thrust him away using his arm as leverage.

Len stumbled backward. His foot hit the edge of the curb and twisted under him. Arms flailing, unable to regain his balance, he fell into the street. A Yellow Cab, its light off, barreled west down Sutter. Brakes squealed, too late. It clipped Len in mid-tumble.

He flew over the taxi’s hood and landed on the asphalt. He lay sprawled, still. A red stain began to spread across his white cap.

Time stopped.

Emily and Haskel stood on the sidewalk in shock.

Two buildings over, the crowd began to react.

A woman screamed.

“That young guy hit him. Knocked him right into the street,” said a man.

The doorman blew his whistle, three sharp bursts.

“Len.” Haskel stared, her hand to her mouth.

“I didn’t—” Emily started.

“I know.” Haskel’s face was pale. She looked into the street, closed her eyes. Then she took a deep breath. “Go find Helen. Change back into a girl, fast.”

“I can’t just leave you—”

“I’m his wife. The cops will find me. It’s better if I wait here.” Haskel pointed in the direction of Stockton Street, away from the nightclub entrance. “Go. Now. Before the cops get here.”

“I’ve got three garments on.”

“It won’t be vice that’s coming, Em. If they get a hold of you—” She shuddered. “You know how they treated Big Jack.”

“Yes. Okay.” Emily began to walk. She looked back over her shoulder. “Where do I—?”

“Franny’s. I’ll come when I can. Just go.”

Peeling off the mustache, Emily continued to the corner. She moved slowly, as naturally as she could. She wanted to break into a run. She wanted to go back and put her arms around Haskel and never let go. She wanted to turn the clock back a hour, so none of this ever happened. Instead she strolled to the mouth of the alley. It was dark except for a pool of light spilling down from an open door on the second floor, where a young Chinese man lounged in his trousers and undershirt, smoking.

Emily climbed the stairs. “Helen Young? It’s an emergency.”

He looked her up and down, then stepped aside to let her in. “She’s dressing,” he said. “I’ll get her.”

Helen appeared a minute later in a thin robe. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything. Haskel’s—” Emily trembled as she gave her the short version. “The cops will be looking for a man in tails. I need to ditch this suit and borrow other clothes.”

“Come with me.” Helen took her back to the women’s dressing room, raising a few eyebrows from the chorus girls who were changing for their last number. “Auditions at Mona’s,” Helen explained. That got two nods, a smile, and a wink.

Helen’s clothes were too small; a taller girl named Patsy loaned her a dress. “I’ll walk home in my costume,” she said. “It’s only four blocks.”

Ten minutes later, Emily stood in front of the mirror, goggling at herself. She wore a green dress with a pleated skirt, a beige cardigan, and a string of pearls. Helen had used makeup to age her a few years, applied lipstick in a subtle shade of red, and toweled the Vaseline out of her hair, fluffing it to give her a soft halo of curls. She added a brown hat with a pale gold feather. “There. You could walk into a tea room in Pacific Heights and no one would look twice. No one will recognize you.”

“Including me,” Emily said. Only the shoes were her own.

She looked nothing like the young man who had fought with Len.

She looked nothing like Spike.

What was unsettling was that she didn’t look like Emily, either.

A girl who dressed as a boy, disguised as a woman.

“Breathe,” Helen said. “I’ll hang up your suit with the men’s costumes.” She patted Emily’s shoulder. “I’m done for the night. I’ll put on my street clothes and go wait with Haskel. If it’s as bad as you think, this could take all night, and it wouldn’t hurt for her lawyer to be present.”

“Thanks,” Emily said. Her voice was barely audible. She was numb, as if this was all a bad dream. Nothing felt real.

“Eddie’ll walk you over to the St. Francis. There’ll be people around, and you can catch the Powell-Hyde cable car. Get off at Green. It’s only a couple of blocks to Franny’s. I’ll phone from here, let them know you’re coming.”

“Glad someone can still think,” Emily stood and hugged Helen. “Thank you.”

“People like us, we help each other.” She walked her to the back stairs.

Eddie took her arm as if she were his date, and escorted her down the alley. They took Post Street over to Union Square, and stood across from the elegant entrance to the St. Francis Hotel until the cable car arrived. Emily got on, paid her fare, and watched behind her as the car climbed slowly up the steep grade of Nob Hill, its bell clanging, and the rest of the world disappeared into the fog.