CHAPTER 7

The Jonquil Apartments looked clean, though modest, had three stories, and was nicer than Anna’s own apartment building. Above the door, carved in the stone, were the words, “The Jonquil Apartments for Professional Ladies.” The place stood on South Hill Street across from a pawn shop adjacent to a grander building, which, according to Matilda, had a café on the first floor and a bath house and massage parlor on the upper levels. This building had no sign, but Anna could see people dining through the window. Anna and Joe stepped off the trolley at one o’clock—she in her lovely hat and ugly matron’s uniform, he in a dapper suit.

“Why wouldn’t the café have a sign? Because they don’t want customers.” She answered herself. “Or they want particular customers, but not others, and rely on word of mouth. Perhaps it’s even a private dining club.”

Joe linked his arm through hers. “Let’s see if they’ll seat us. We can pretend we’re courting.”

“But I’m in uniform.”

“You look like a nurse.” He eyed her feather hat. “Sort of. And aren’t these apartments for career girls? I’m sure some of them are nurses.”

Anna unpinned her hat and held it in her hand. She smoothed her hair. “All right. Let’s try.”

They passed through oak doors into warm air laden with the enticing fragrance of dinner. The café had potted ferns, white tablecloths, and a quiet elegance. While Anna preferred loud elegance, as did most girls bred in the upper class, it was entirely presentable. The maître d’ greeted them. He did not match the décor. Though dressed in a maître d’s black tails, he was as broad as an ox and had a broken nose, like a prize fighter.

A waiter in a white jacket seated them, and when Joe looked at the menu, he said ominously, “No prices.”

In Anna’s experience, “no prices” meant the establishment catered to loaded people who didn’t care about prices. And yet, when she glanced around, the ladies dining didn’t look like they could afford “no prices.” They appeared to be career girls from the apartments next door—stenographers or shop girls—in homemade frocks or dresses off the rack. Then she remembered what Matilda had said. Matilda had eaten in the café, presumably as part of her room and board. But the restaurant was clearly open to the public as well. It was both the dining room of a boarding house and a public café.

“Very curious,” she said.

“If I tell them I’m a cop, we’ll eat for free,” said Joe.

“No. Not yet. I don’t want to blow our cover. We’ll just order something cheap, like coffee.”

“Too late in the day. It will keep me awake.”

“You’re not going to sleep anyway.” She winked badly and whispered, “You’re coming to my apartment, remember?”

“Anna, it’s all I can think about.”

The waiter reappeared.

“Two coffees,” said Anna cheerfully. “And I’d love a word with Mrs. Rosenberg, if she’s in. I’m looking for a room.”

The waiter took in Anna, top to bottom. “Mrs. Rosenberg isn’t here, but I do expect her soon. Can you wait?”

“Yes,” said Anna.

The waiter bowed off.

“Mrs. Rosenberg?” Joe asked.

“The evil proprietress.”

“I see,” he said.

As they sipped their coffee, Anna secretly touched ankles with Joe while scanning the vicinity. It was the best sort of double tasking. Though her eyes traveled the café, her mind was on the touch of Joe’s wool sock and the feel of his warm leg underneath. She wanted to tangle legs with him. Bare, hairy legs. She rebuked herself—not for wanting to make love to Joe—that was natural given his deliciousness. She imagined that every girl in the world, including nuns, would want to make love to Joe Singer, if they knew him. She rebuked herself because she wasn’t paying attention. She pulled her leg away, though it felt like moving an anchor. Joe shook his head and hooked her foot with his ankle.

Two men entered who looked to be of the “no prices” variety, with Homburg hats and cashmere coats. One wore an extravagant mustache. It sprouted three times thicker than any other mustache she knew. She wondered if other men were envious—his companion, for instance, whose stringy mustache barely warranted wax. She glanced at Joe, but he didn’t seem to envy the mustache. He was heavy-lidded, staring at her mouth.

The bushy man and stringy man gave their hats and coats to the host and slid into a booth, close enough for eavesdropping. They seemed jolly and began to talk about an architectural project down by the shore—some fancy new hotel. Shortly, four ladies swished over and joined them at the table. One looked forty and had lines sprouting from her lips as if she often pouted.

The waiter returned and refilled their cups. “As you can see, Mrs. Rosenberg is back.” He glanced toward the pouty woman.

“Yes, I see. Thank you. Two sugars, please.” She sat back and let the waiter drop the cubes into her cup.

Joe helped himself to two sugars and added cream. Anna smiled at him from beneath feathered lashes.

He smoldered back.

The second lady was about Anna’s age and wore her hair long, like a bohemian. Anna quickly learned her name, Claire, and that she was wild about ice cream and taught piano. The third and fourth girls were identical twins, clearly underage. They dressed with no imagination and mumbled when they spoke. They seemed rather shy but did admit they liked Parcheesi. The well-heeled men doted on the twins, whom Anna found exceedingly boring.

She leaned close to Joe and whispered, “Why do two important men want to chitchat with dull girls about Parcheesi?”

“It’s fishy.”

Anna frowned, worried for the girls. “Can we arrest Mrs. Rosenberg?”

“We can arrest anybody on suspicion, but the question is, do we have enough for an indictment. What did Matilda say exactly and is she willing to testify?”

“Like I told you. Mrs. Rosenberg found her at the train station and brought her back to the Jonquil Apartments pretending to be a good Samaritan. You know the routine, helping a poor girl, alone in the world. She took Matilda to the café and introduced her to . . . to . . .” Anna blushed.

“What?”

“A green man from Mars.”

Joe threw his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. He made a long, slow hissing sound, like a tire losing air.

Anna lifted her chin. “He bewitched her, and she woke up with him naked and in bed.”

“We got nothin’.”

“Don’t dismiss it. Possibly Matilda is dingbatty, but possibly the man wasn’t from Mars, but just an ordinary masher who drugged her, and the shame of this has made Matilda crazy.”

“Prove it, Anna.”

Anna knew Joe had a point. Matilda’s testimony would never stand up in court. There were no Martians evident at the Jonquil Apartments. She would have to dig deeper.

Mrs. Rosenberg stood and disappeared into the back of the café just as the waiter returned with the check. Joe examined the bill and blew out a breath. “It’s triple what I normally pay for coffee.”

“That’s what no prices generally means.” Anna stood. “Mrs. Rosenberg is getting away. Let’s go after her, at least get your money’s worth.”

Joe took her hand. “Not so fast, Anna. Don’t tip her off. Not until we have some proof.”

Anna and Joe returned to the station, Anna somewhat downcast, Joe slightly exasperated. Mr. Melvin manned his post at the front desk behind the shiny brass rail, having just received the new City Directory. The book lay on the counter like a walrus. Each consecutive volume grew fatter than the one before, like the city it represented. Los Angeles was a magnet, attracting thousands, good and bad from all over the world, including young girls seeking their fortune, running away from something unspeakable, from emptiness, or toward some illusive dream. What were the girls dreaming about? Their choices were so limited. Love and the fruits of love—children? Anna didn’t care for children. Certainly no one was dreaming of being a scullery maid or a shop girl. Maybe that is what Mrs. Rosenberg lured them with. The promise of love.

In the language of flowers, Jonquils stood for a return of affection.

Mr. Melvin cleared his throat and gave Anna a meaningful look. She paused, while Joe continued to his desk. Mr. Melvin spoke in his quiet, vanishing voice. “I have a note for you, Assistant Matron Blanc.”

“Oh?” Anna’s tummy rose and fell like a swing. Was it from the whiskey man, who was not Joe Singer?

Mr. Melvin slipped her a square, once-white envelope, wilted and stained brown with liquid. “I’m sorry, Assistant Matron Blanc. Officer Snow spilled coffee on it.” He looked down.

Anna pursed her lips. Anything Officer Snow fouled was foul indeed. She pinched the note between two fingers, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and secreted the thing in her skirt pocket. It wouldn’t do to have Joe Singer see it. “Thank you, Mr. Melvin. I’m sure it wasn’t your fault. Did the . . . um the ladies’ club president deliver it herself? Did she leave her name?”

“No. It was a boy. He came an hour ago.”

“And you let him get away?”

Mr. Melvin spoke into his lap. “I promised him fifty cents if he’d wait for you across the street at the soda fountain.”

“I don’t have that kind of money,” said Anna.

Mr. Melvin slid two quarters across the counter to Anna without looking up.

She pressed his hand. “Thank you. I’ll pay you back.”

He blushed.

Anna didn’t examine the envelope until she was outside on the sidewalk. She lifted it to her wrinkled nose. It smelled of narcissus and coffee. The flap no longer stuck, and a little tear near the edge told Anna the note had been previously opened and probably read.

With two fingers, she pried the letter from the wet envelope. The elegant card swirled with embossed vines, gold leaf, and dragonflies. A soggy Johnny jump-up was pressed inside—velvet violet and yellow, severed from the stem. Johnny jump-ups stood for nothing in the language of flowers. But, Johnny jump-ups were her favorite flower. How could he know?

Anna squinted at the note. The ink was pale, smeared, and mostly unreadable, thanks to Officer Snow’s coffee. Following the rather intimate salutation, “Dear Anna,” she read, “meet me,” and half-way down the page, “jewelry.”

At the word “ jewelry,” Anna’s heart began to pound. She knew now that the whiskey must stop, no matter how much she liked the brand. She could read between the runny lines. This man was obsessed with her, asking for a rendezvous and threatening to give her jewelry. It would be wrong to encourage him when she was already in love with Joe Singer.

She would have to meet him. It was the only way to stop the gifts. Notes certainly hadn’t worked, and she didn’t think he was dangerous. He looked perfectly respectable when she’d seen him that day on the streets. In fact, he looked rich and exceptionally handsome.

But how? She couldn’t rendezvous without the details.

Anna jogged across the street to the soda fountain, hoping the boy courier still awaited his fifty cents. It was after four; school had only just gotten out. The boy must have skipped class, suggesting he was lawless and might be bribed.

Wrought iron ice cream chairs and a few little tables kept company on the sidewalk. Anna swished under the striped awning and through the door. There were potted palms, a black and white tiled floor, and a copper ceiling on which fans twirled. The brass soda fountain gleamed as shiny as a golden mirror.

Anna scanned the long, crowded counter. She noted six boys in knee pants and tall socks, who could possibly be the courier, and three ladies who might meet Anna’s own description, depending on whether Mr. Melvin had said “pretty” or “gorgeous.” The courier boy might be hesitant to approach given those odds. She could stand on a chair, call the room to order, and ask, but that would be rude. She saved rudeness for emergencies. She must simply deduce her way to the courier.

Two of the boys sported school uniforms, which meant parents who could pay tuition. One of the women watched them. These boys would not likely relay messages for a strange man, not while supervised. A deceptively adorable, but scruffy blond child made loud slurping sounds as he sipped his sarsaparilla—a possibility. Another boy’s knee pants were two inches too short, suggesting want, but he was showing off an expensive-looking sailboat to two other boys who ate ice creams. Anna considered the candidates, peering at each in turn, and settled on the boy with the exposed knees. And because she read dime novels, she slipped beside him and said mysteriously, “Fifty cents if you are the right man.”

“Miss Blanc? How did you know it was me?”

“Your patron is generous—I should know—and that sailboat is the nicest I’ve seen.”

“Yes. He saw me eyeing it in a shop window and bought it for me. Just like that.”

If she ever met the man, she would tell him to buy the child pants as well.

Anna whipped the soggy, smeared note out of her pocket. “Regrettably, there’s been a mishap. The note’s totally illegible. I need you to tell me who he is and where I was supposed to meet him?”

“I um . . .”

“You read the note, which was very naughty. I already know. And it was intended for me.”

“It wasn’t as interesting as I expected. But that information will cost you extra.”

“Fine. If that’s how it’s going to be.” Anna pocketed the fifty cents and turned to go.

“I don’t remember his name. La Placita Church at eight o’clock tonight.”

She gave the boy a brilliant smile and proffered his money. The urchin palmed the coins and ran off with his boat.

Anna checked her watch. She needed to leave the station early if she wanted to beat the whiskey man to their assignation. She would rebuff him in no uncertain terms, run home to bathe, change into her most beguiling nightgown, and wait for Joe Singer to come and take it off.