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Nothing was going to change her mind about that.
She took a final look at the calling card and then tucked it beneath her pillow.
That was the good thing about dreams. No one could take them away. She’d lost everything else. Her family. Her home. But not her dream. Not her hope.
No one could take that away from her.
* * *
Shirley was at work by ten the next morning. Schlepping drinks. She figured that by working all day and night, she’d make money faster, pay off her debt and get out of Cartwright’s.
The morning and afternoon crowds were nothing like the evening and night ones, but she worked them because every penny counted. Every single cent was one step closer to getting out of here. She hadn’t felt this trapped at the Swaggerts’. She may have thought she’d waited on them hand and foot, but it hadn’t been anything like this. Here, she didn’t have any sort of a life of her own. At times, like now, when her feet were hurting and disgust rolled in her stomach, she felt her determination slipping, but that couldn’t happen. She couldn’t give up on herself. She was all she had. That had been easier to accept four years ago, because she’d had hope then. Now, she had to dig deep to find that. Partially because of the other girls—those who had been here for months. They were so downtrodden, so lifeless, as if they’d completely given up. Given in to Mel and his contracts.
She wouldn’t do that. Give in.
If she’d been on the other side of this tray, the place might be considered fun. Besides the piano player, two men played trumpets, and another pounded a huge drum, filling the room with jazz music that had women in bright-colored dresses and men wearing striped shirts and bow ties dancing, laughing and carrying on. It was a sight to see. The feathered headbands, strings of pearls and fancy hats were like the ones she’d seen in magazines back in Nebraska. Like the ones she wanted to wear. She would. Someday. Although the people appeared friendly—it was only to each other. She’d quickly learned very few wanted to know anything more than what was on her tray, and the number of them that tried to stiff her for their drinks was more than not.
She wasn’t about to take that. Not from anyone.
While things were slow during the late afternoon, she took her break, ate a bowl of chili that was sure to leave her with a good bout of heartburn and then hooked her tray over her neck and headed back into the main room of the speakeasy.
The crowd had grown in her absence, and she hurried to fill her tray with drinks and get them sold. It hadn’t taken her long to figure out who bought the more expensive drinks, and though they cost her more, too, those buying the higher priced drinks didn’t try to short her.
She was filling her tray for the third time in less than ten minutes when she saw him.
Him.
Walter Russell.
He was as pesky as a fly that kept landing on a person’s nose in the middle of the night. She purposefully didn’t stop by his table, but kept an eye on him. He may not look it, but he was slippery. Had to be up to no good. Why else would he be here? Watching her.
Was he another Roy Harrison? Or Olin Swaggert and his fast-talking lawyer? Or Mel Cartwright with his contract? Tricksters, liars and cheats. That’s what they’d been. He could be, too. Most likely was. Two other men, not the same ones from last night, were at his table. All three of them laughing.
At what? Her?
That possibility nagged at her for the next few hours, and grated at her nerves like a squeaky hinge. Not even having people fill the joint wall to wall helped. She knew he was still here. Knew exactly where he was sitting.
The room was in full swing, people dancing, laughing, buying drinks and having the times of their lives. She wasn’t. Her feet were aching from the shoes she had to wear. White, with tall heels, and at least one size too small. It would be hours before she could take them off, so she forced herself not to think about them and kept passing out drinks, all the while keeping an eye on Walter.
A pretty young woman with hair as red as her lipstick and wearing a white-and-red polka-dot dress had been talking with him a short time ago, but was nowhere in sight now.
Shirley scanned the room for the red-haired woman as she made her way toward the end of the long wooden bar to refill her tray when, suddenly, he was at her side.
Startled, she jolted sideways.
He grasped her waist and pulled her against his side. “Stay close to me.”
His aftershave was like a breath of fresh air. For weeks all she’d smelled was cigarette smoke and whiskey. He smelled so fresh and clean all she wanted to do was close her eyes and breathe. Just breathe.
She stopped herself before that happened and twisted so her cheek was no longer up against his shoulder. “My tray is empty. I—”
“Doesn’t matter.” He started walking, forcing her to walk with him. “You’re leaving.”
“Leave? I can’t—” Her words were cut short by a high-pitched siren. It was so loud she couldn’t hear what he said.
He grabbed the strap of her tray and pulled it over her head.
She was reaching to grab it when pandemonium hit. Chairs toppled and people started running, pushing and shoving others in their way.
Shocked, frozen, Shirley didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what was happening.
Walter pushed her out of the way as a table toppled in the wake of two huge men. She stumbled backward, up against the wall. Sirens still filled the air, along with screams and shouts. “What’s happening?”
Walter grasped her face with both hands. His nose was inches from hers, the length of his body pressed tight against hers.
“I’ll get you out of here, Blondie, don’t worry.”
She heard him, but didn’t. Her heart was pounding too hard, echoing in her ears. The heat of his palms, the pressure of his body, his fresh, clean scent, had her mind swirling. She swallowed, tried to breathe, but couldn’t. His lips were too close to hers. So close they were breathing the same air. A heavy, tingling warmth filled her as she reached up and wrapped her fingers around his arms.
He was so handsome, so—
The haze around her shattered. The roar of the panicking crowd once again filled her ears. Someone had bumped into them and fallen. Recognizing the black curls, Shirley grabbed the arm of the cigarette girl and helped Walter lift her off the floor before she got trampled.
“The bulls are outside!” Alice shouted.
“Bulls?” Shirley asked. “Cattle? A stampede?”
“No! Police!” Alice shouted. “We have to run or be arrested!”
Shirley’s heart leaped into her throat. There were too many people to run. To get anywhere.
Alice grabbed her arm. “This way!”
Walter grabbed her other arm. “No! This way.”
“Only the customers can go out through the kitchen,” Alice said. “We have to go out through the back and get upstairs before the bulls see us.”
“No,” Walter said. “We have to go this way.”
“No! The bulls gotta arrest someone!” Alice shouted. “That will be anyone dressed like us going that way!”
Shirley felt as if she was being torn in two with the way they each tugged on her arm.
“Trust me,” Walter said. “This way.”
Shirley couldn’t say why, but she pulled her arm out of Alice’s hold and then grabbed the woman’s hand. “This way!”
“Hurry,” Walter said, pulling her forward.
“We are hurrying,” she said, pulling Alice behind her. “We just ain’t getting nowhere!”
“We will!”
She hoped he was right. For all their sakes.
The next thing she knew, they were in the men’s restroom. Others were in there, too, rushing through another door on the far wall. Walter hurried them through that door, then up a flight of stairs that led outside. To the side of the building.
“Rosie!” he shouted. “Take these two with you!”
The woman in the red-and-white polka-dot dress was climbing in a car, and waved frantically at them. “Hurry! Hurry!”
Sirens filled the air. Walter pushed her forward. “Go. Run.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Come on, Shirley! Run,” Alice said, pulling her toward the car. “Run.”
Shirley ran, and as she climbed in the car, she twisted, scanning the crowd. He was gone. Gone. She sat down, and was shutting the door, while still searching the crowd, when she noticed Rita, who was a foot taller than even some of the men, running out of the door along with others.
“Rita!” Shirley shouted out the window. “Here!”
As Rita elbowed her way through the crowd and ran toward them, Shirley told the redheaded woman, “We can’t leave her behind. Just can’t.”
Rita climbed in the back seat with her and Alice and then the redheaded woman leaped in the front seat and closed the door. The driver, another woman, shouted, “Duck down. Don’t let anyone see you. All of you!”
They all complied, bending over and putting their head between their knees. The sirens were louder and the shine of flashing red lights filled the car as they drove away.
* * *
Walter watched the car drive away. That hadn’t been part of his plan. Running into Rosie, a waitress from Julia’s café, had been pure luck, and something that had worked out perfectly.
He walked to his car and climbed in, waiting as the police barreled down on the Cartwright building. The raid wasn’t for the speakeasy; it was for the secretive opium room on the third floor. He’d heard rumors about that room, and had spent some time investigating it this morning, learning they weren’t just rumors. This afternoon, he’d contacted a city council member. One he knew disliked the drug dens as much as he did.
Busts of joints like that happened daily. Speakeasies were overlooked for the most part, unless someone got riled or annoyed, someone with power. But very few agreed with the operating of opium dens. Other than those who were operating them, and those they dragged down into the bowels of hell with them.
Anger filled him, came from nowhere, as it did sometimes. Lucy had been dragged down into that world. Where very little mattered other than the next high. It’s what had killed her in the end.
He glanced at the building again, at the police cars with red lights flashing. Whether Blondie appreciated it or not, he wasn’t going to let what happened to Lucy happen to her.
He’d investigated her, too, earlier, learned her name was Shirley, but he still thought of her as Blondie. His plan had been to be at CB’s when the raid happened and pull her aside. Show her the dangers she was in by working in the basement and then convince her to get on the next train heading east.
That would happen—he’d get her on a train—but sending her home with Rosie was better than what he’d planned. Mainly because it meant he hadn’t had to haul her out of the basement kicking and screaming. He’d have done that. Carried her out. Had considered it when the first siren went off, before they’d gotten shoved up against the wall.
Walter took a deep breath, a struggle because his chest was growing tight again, like it had when he’d been pressed up against her. He hadn’t been that close to a woman in a long time, hadn’t wanted to kiss—
He spun around, gave his head a clearing, cleansing shake.
The crowd had dispersed; the customers who’d been at CB’s had driven or walked away without so much as a glance from any of the officers. The police cars were still there, lights flashing. He doubted the real people behind the opium den on the third floor would be arrested. Those there, smoking, hooked on the euphoric effects that made them forget their real lives, would have their wrists slapped, and by this time next week, they’d have already found another place. He’d seen it often enough and wished it was different. Wished he could have done something, anything, that might have saved Lucy.
She hadn’t wanted to be saved, just like she hadn’t wanted him in her life. Blondie didn’t, either, but this time he was going to fight harder. Maybe, just maybe, if he could save her, the demons of regret that lived inside him would go find someone else to haunt.
Demons. He had enough of them. Not only from Lucy, but from Theodore. There, too, he hadn’t done enough. Hadn’t acted quickly enough.
That wasn’t going to happen this time.
He started his car and pulled into the street, wondering if he should drive out to Julia’s Diner, make sure that was where Blondie was at, but instantly knew that would be a bad idea. He’d be better off going there tomorrow morning, after she’d had a chance to get to know a couple of good people. So far, she’d only met the bad Los Angeles had to offer. There were good folks here, too. Julia Shaw was one of them. She’d taken in plenty of women who had arrived in town with nothing more than the clothes on their backs and stars in their eyes. She’d fed them, clothed them, given them a job and a place to live, and then, once they’d gotten their heads on straight, she’d let them go back out into the world. No longer wearing rose-colored glasses.
Years ago, Julia had come to him, asked him to look into how the Broadbent brothers had paid little more than pennies on the dollar for her family’s property. The transaction hadn’t been illegal, so all he’d been able to do was secure the last twenty acres for her.
Julia had understood, and held on to her small chunk of land with an iron fist. She was making it pay off for her. Her café was one of the most popular places to eat in the north end of the city.
He drove home, and after parking the car in the garage and closing the door, he walked into the dark and quiet house.
Mrs. McCaffrey had long ago gone to bed.
Once again, his long-lost dream of having a family fill the house weighed heavy on his shoulders.
He was in the hallway when the phone rang. He picked up the pace, hurried into his office and answered it on the fourth ring. He hoped not, but there was a chance one of his clients had been at CB’s and needed his services.
“Walter here,” he said into the speaker while still lifting the earpiece to the side of his head.
“It’s Dean Smith.”
Walter sat down, ready to listen to whatever the city council member had to say.
“Mel Cartwright just called me,” Dean said. “He wants me to investigate who called in the raid on his joint tonight.”
Not surprised, Walter asked, “What did you tell him?”
“That I didn’t know anything about a raid on his place, but that I’d look into it tomorrow morning. Mel claims he didn’t know anything about a dope den upstairs, that he doesn’t regulate his renters. He’s also claiming that some waitress from Julia’s Diner was seen making a phone call and he’s pretty convinced she’s the one who called in the bulls.”
Walter’s heart rate increased. The moment he’d recognized Rosie, he’d pulled her aside and told her that she didn’t want to be at the basement tonight and to leave. Smart, Rosie had kept her nose clean since coming to town, knowing if she didn’t, she’d never get ahead. He made a point to breathe normally while speaking into the phone, “Really?”
“Yes,” Dean said. “Mel’s also looking for three of his cigarette girls. The rest are accounted for. He’s mad about those girls missing. He’s already reopened the doors and needs them on the floor.”
Walter’s mind went down another route. “Where does Mel recruit those girls from?” His clients were of a more elite level than those Mel recruited so he truly had no idea how women got trapped into working at CB’s.
“Scouts. He has men who watch for those new to town and offers them jobs, a place to live, clothes, all the things they need. There’s nothing illegal about it.”
Walter’s hackles raised. “Other than they are being scammed. The wages Mel pays them isn’t enough to pay the rent he charges for them to live there.”
“I know, but if we start chasing down every cheat in the city, we won’t have time to take care of any real business.” Dean let out a sigh. “Would you mind following up on that waitress for me? Under the table?”
Nearly everything in Hollywood was under the table, and Walter wondered if he was digging himself a hole by getting involved in all this. He had gotten himself involved—he’d actually initiated it, so he didn’t have much choice. “Sure. I’ll check into it. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“You might want to check into it tonight,” Dean said. “Mel asked me to call the precinct and send a car over to the café where that gal works. I’ll try to hold that off until morning, but will have to send cars over then for sure.”
