The Winter of Her Discontent (5 page)

The last man wasn't much larger than the elf, though his lack of muscle made him seem half his size. He wore heavy, black-rimmed specs and was pale—almost sickly so—and focused all of his attention on removing some object lodged in his left eye. It was so distracting I considered volunteering to come and do it for him just to get him to sit still.

Normally we would've done our thing and left, but before we could begin, Walter Friday asked us each to introduce ourselves and explain why we wanted to be part of the show. The other six dancers did as he asked, cooing compliments about Friday's artistic vision that the man couldn't have bought unless he was lit. Which I'm pretty sure he was. He leered at each one of them, a strange half-smile lingering on his puss.

Jayne went before me, and it wouldn't have mattered what she said, since all Friday was probably thinking was
nice rack
. His oversized companion leaned into Friday, cupped his hand to his ear, and whispered something that prompted Friday to make a note on the sheet in front of him.

“And you?” said Walter Friday.

There wasn't a pandering compliment that hadn't already been said. I could repeat them all, declaring myself champion of all apple-polishers, or I could accept the fact that my act would be seen through as quickly as Jayne's leotard. “My name is Rosie Winter and…er…to be frank I'm afraid someone's made a terrible mistake.”

“And what mistake is that?” asked the fastidious fat man. He talked out of one side of his mouth like Humphrey Bogart. Or a stroke victim.

“I'm not a dancer. I can barely shuffle off to Buffalo. And to tell you the truth, I don't want to be in this show.”

The fat man froze, uncertain that he'd heard me correctly. After sufficient time had passed to make me regret saying anything, he burst into laughter that shook the table and caused the sickly little man to poke himself in the eye. “I like you,” he said. “You got more moxie than a kitten with a bag of hammers.”

I assumed that was a compliment.

When auditioning as a group, you had two contradictory goals: to make it look like you could perform well with others, and to stand out enough that you'd be remembered apart from the seven other people you were auditioning with. I accomplished only the latter. As the others whirled, I wobbled. When they flounced, I flopped, until it had to look for all the world like I was a weed in a sea of poppies.

When we finished, Friday and the large man again bowed their heads in discussion. While we couldn't make out the words, it was obvious some sort of argument was afoot. Friday seemed to be winning, until the large man leaned back in his chair and gave him the kind of stare I'd seen nuns levy at ill-behaved children. You would always win when you had the fear of hell on your side.

Friday met his gaze and shrank into his chair, defeated. He mumbled something indecipherable and then, in a voice only slightly louder, said, “Thank you. Brock Smith, Gary Tilsdale, Jayne Hamilton, Rosalind Winter—congratulations. Rehearsals start on Monday. The rest of you are dismissed.”

We froze, waiting for the punch line, but the elf was already ushering in the next group.

Jayne and I left the room and gathered our things, both of us shaking our heads in amazement.

“What's his grift?” I asked her.

“I guess Friday knows what he wants.”

“Or at least his fat friend does. Maybe Friday lost a bet and this is his punishment.”

Jayne pulled on her coat and hat and opened the stairwell door
for me. “Do you have to analyze everything, Rosie?” Her tone was the same short, exasperated one she'd used on me the night we'd visited Al in jail. “Maybe they just liked you and wanted to give you a break. It does happen, you know.”

She stomped down the stairs, her scarf flying behind her. Her back was rigid, her footfalls heavy. This wasn't just about me complaining—something else was amiss.

I rushed to catch up and finally reached her side as we pushed out the door and onto the street. “What's the matter?” I asked.

She slowed her pace and bit her lip. Her eyes left mine and found the ground. “I think I know him.”

“Him who?”

She looked behind us and took my arm. We moved away from the theater and headed toward Fifty-second Street. “The big guy that's who. He's an…associate of Tony's. His name's Vinnie “the Butcher” Garvaggio. I met him at Ali Baba's one night.”

“The Butcher?” I said. “I know I'm going to regret asking this, but why do they call him that?”

“It's a family name,” Jayne snapped. “Why do you think?”

Nicknames were dangerous things. One of Capone's men, recently deceased, had been named Bugs Blacker. I thought it was a charming nickname until I found out that he got it because of his habit of throwing bedbugs into theaters run by men who didn't pay their monthly protection money. “I didn't think any of Tony's…acquaintances were involved in theater.”

Jayne screwed up her mouth.

“Do you think he's the money?” I asked.

“What else could he be?”

I nodded at a passing taxi. “Interesting.”

Jayne didn't like the way I said that, as though Garvaggio's association with Tony made him strictly section eight. She may not have liked Tony much at the moment, but she could be surprisingly protective of him. The way she saw it, most of the people he associated with were bad news, but they weren't bad news
because
he associated with
them. “He's not the only one, you know,” she said. “Tony says lots of guys back shows. It's an easy way to make money.”

And to lose it. Broadway wasn't doing so well these days. As the Great White Way's lights had been extinguished as part of the war-mandated dim-out, so had its ticket sales and revenues. It was understandable. The war had taken our audience. Those who weren't fighting overseas were fighting gas and rubber rationing and the despair of living in a war culture. Who wanted to go to the theater when there was all of that to contend with?

Of course, getting people in to see the shows wasn't the only problem. The year before, the Drama Critics' Circle voted not to give a prize for best American play because they didn't feel there were any plays worth endorsing. Brooks Atkinson blamed this collective writers' block on the war for consuming the normal ebb and flow of life and drama, but even he thought this was a weak excuse. After all, while American theater was floundering, the Brits, despite enduring bombings and their own blackouts, were doing booming business and bringing forth new smash hits like
Blithe Spirit
.

“I'm surprised Garvaggio's being so obvious about it,” I told Jayne. “Aren't these guys usually silent partners?”

“Maybe he likes a little more control than that. Or maybe he wanted the chance to ogle the dancers.”

Or maybe he was brought in to keep the peace after Al allegedly knocked off one of Walter Friday's lead actresses.

I
LET
J
AYNE DO THE
honors of telling Ruby we'd all be working together. I didn't stick around to see her reaction, though from what Jayne said there was much eye-rolling and pitiful cooing on our behalf. “I'm just thinking of your careers,” Ruby told her. “This is such a step down for both of you.”

I tried not to think about it myself. My mood had rapidly disintegrated since getting cast in the chorus. I hated feeling like I'd been given something I didn't deserve by virtue of the right person being part of the decision making. And I hated knowing I was doomed to stink at it. I could take being in bad parts in bad shows, but being a bad performer—that was going to be hard to swallow.

Of course, my ego wasn't enough of a reason to turn down the job. I was dying to get back into that theater and find out whatever I could about Paulette Monroe, especially in light of the mob's involvement in the show. From what Ruby told Jayne, the main cast had been signed several weeks before Paulette's death. Friday—or perhaps Garvaggio—had known whom he wanted in his show and made sure to secure them from the get-go.

The weekend before rehearsal started was agonizingly slow. I spent Saturday morning and most of the afternoon lying on my bed, trying not to think about Jack lost and Al locked up. How strange it was that a man I couldn't find I finally thought I understood and a man who had no way of leaving had become a total mystery to me. To distract myself, I alternated my focus between the newspaper and the radio. Secretary Wickard of the Department of Agriculture
had commandeered the airways to discuss his proposal to stop the meat market from becoming the black market. I didn't get the gist of everything he said, but I gathered he wanted to license everything, from raising cattle to killing and selling them, to ensure that only authorized individuals had a stake in our steak. The Office of Price Administration didn't seem to appreciate these suggestions, if only because they didn't cover the only facet they cared about: price. The OPA and the USDA did agree on one thing: changes needed to be made and they needed to be in place by April 1.

Clearly we were going to have to become vegetarian. Or Canadian.

“You're awfully glum.” Jayne lowered the volume on Secretary Wickard and set aside the copy of
True Detective Stories
she'd been pretending to read.

“What carnivore wouldn't be?” I shifted my attention to the newspaper. The Nazis had had a busy week. Always the humanitarians, they'd gassed 360 Polish prisoners held at Myslowice to “prevent the spread of typhus.” They were also dropping a new bomb over London, one that weighed less and exploded much more easily. And they had warships poised to invade Norway.

Jayne picked up Churchill and put him in her lap, cooing the whole time about what a good, smart kitty he was. Fortunately for her, cats don't understand sarcasm. “What are you thinking about?”

“You know: stuff.” Five truckers had been arrested in the city with seven thousand pounds of illegal meat. The army had increased their list of men who were missing in action by 111. I wondered when the navy would bother to do the same. Jack's name hadn't been in the papers yet, and I couldn't decide if this was a cruel oversight or proof that Corporal Harrington had gotten it all wrong. The very thought turned my heart into a timpani. If Jack were dead, would I feel it the way some couples claimed they could sense each other in jeopardy? If I didn't, what did that mean about how we felt about each other?

I wanted to tell all this to Jayne, but I couldn't. There was something humiliating about going months wondering if someone cared
for you, only to find out he did, which made you wonder if he cared
enough
.

“I think sitting around here is a bad idea,” said Jayne.

“I'll take that under advisement.” I bumped the radio volume back up. Secretary Wickard had been replaced by Dorothy Sells of the Office of Defense Transportation, who had a bee in her bonnet about female defense workers who thought sex appeal and glamour belonged in the workplace. Tight sweaters and Veronica Lake locks were apparently inappropriate, no matter how many Office of War Information recruiting posters suggested the exact opposite.

“We haven't celebrated getting work,” said Jayne. “That's a big deal.”

“For you, sure. When you've been grossly miscast, I believe etiquette instructs us that the less said, the better.”

She tossed a pillow at me. “Let's go to a picture.”

“There's nothing I want to see.”

“How about ice skating at the Garden?”

“No thanks.”

“Why don't we see if they need ushers at the Henry Miller? I'm dying to see
Harriet
. I hear Helen Hayes got her voice back.” The stage diva had been laid up with laryngitis and so had her production. Helen Hayes was too good for an understudy.

“Why? So we can be reminded of the parts we didn't get?”

Jayne lifted her chin heavenward while Churchill mimicked her stance. “I'm sorry Jack is missing, Rosie. I'm sorry you got cast in a show you weren't intending to audition for in the first place. I'm sorry Al killed someone and ended up in the bing. But you need to snap out of this. Moping never got anyone anything.”

“No one's making you stay.”

She closed her eyes for a beat, then sat up, removed Churchill to the floor, and looked at me. “You're right. I'm going to go have some fun.”

She left and my moping developed into misery. I waited for her to return with a kind word and a full bottle, but after an hour passed I
accepted that I'd scared her away. Churchill retreated into the space beneath the dresser, and I found myself dying to unleash my misery on someone. When no one volunteered for the job, I escaped to the lobby in hopes that I could find an unsuspecting victim to join me in my foul mood.

Minnie sat on the parlor sofa, flipping through the previous month's issue of
Picturegoer
. As Joan Crawford's head grinned from the cover, I plopped onto the wingback across from Minnie and tapped my hands in time to the Benny Goodman tune blaring from the radio. She momentarily left her page and acknowledged me with a tight smile that managed to simultaneously greet me and urge me to still my noisy mitts. Her message communicated, she returned to the slick, lifting its spine so that the pages protected her from any further attempt I might make at conversation.

Benny Goodman became the Andrews Sisters. My feet joined my hands in a riveting version of “Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen.”

Minnie abandoned the magazine with a sigh. “I hear your boyfriend's missing.”

I was so taken aback I jumped. “Um…yes. I mean, he's not really my…” My voice faded. I hated that my emotional turmoil was out there for everyone to watch and analyze. And I hated that I was embarrassed about it. Wanting my privacy was one thing, but resenting everyone else's curiosity when I would've been just as interested in their personal tragedies seemed unfair. Maybe that was the point: I didn't want to be their entertainment, and I was ashamed that at one point I'd allowed them to be mine.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “That must be hard.”

I acknowledged the understatement of the year with a nod. Perhaps this girl was worth talking to. She could give me the coddling Jayne was unwilling to provide.

I smiled and eased forward in the chair. “It's a stage name, right?”

“What?”

“Minnie Moore.”

My question surprised her. “Not according to my birth certificate.”

“Then it looks like I've lost a bet.” I was one of the few girls I knew who didn't use a stage name. I never understood the allure of changing something that distinguished you into something bland and simple. But then I liked my name. “It's nice to know I'm not the only one who held on to my moniker.”

“Believe me—I've thought about changing it. I used to hate my name. It's not so bad now that I'm away from home.”

“What made it so awful there?”

“They named my twin brother Mickey.”

I let out a low whistle. “Mickey and Minnie Moore? Ouch. So someone in your family must love…”

She cut me off. She didn't make jokes and she wasn't about to allow someone else to. “It was a coincidence. That's all.”

“Minnie Moore's a good name though,” I said. “Very strong.” She returned to the magazine with a nod. “How are you getting on?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know—living here, being in your first big show. It's a lot to take in at once.”

“Oh, it's fine, I guess.” She pushed a lank piece of hair out of her face. She was a plain girl and her habit of not wearing makeup wasn't doing her any favors.

“Ruby treating you well?”

“She's very nice.” Plain
and
stupid.

“You must be high as a kite over getting cast as Myra. It's a great part.”

She examined a hand full of broken and bitten nails. I resisted the urge to recommend a good manicurist. “It is. I was cast weeks ago, though, so the excitement's died down.”

“Oh.” I tried to remember if Ruby had told me that. “So you were cast at the same time as the…other woman. The one who died?”

She nodded solemnly.

“Were you close to her?”

“Paulette? Not really. I met her at the read-through a few weeks ago. She seemed nice enough, but she and her friends kept to themselves.”

“Her friends?”

“The other leads: Olive, Zelda, and Izzie. Those four were thick as thieves.”

I made a mental note to seek them out. “What was Paulette like?”

Minnie ran her hand over the cover of
Picturegoer
. “Like any other starlet, I guess.”

I had no idea what that meant. “Was she good?”

Minnie didn't answer right away. She seemed to be fighting a quiet battle between dismissing Paulette as a pretty bit of fluff or giving her her due. I wasn't the only one who'd viewed her through the veneer of admiration and jealousy. “She could be. She committed, you know?” I nodded. Commitment was one of those rare skills in an actor—the ability to completely throw yourself into whatever you were doing. Most people held back a little, particularly when a role asked them to do or say something they wouldn't be comfortable doing or saying in real life. Commitment would've been crucial in a show as poorly cobbled together as
Goin' South
.

“It must have been such a shock, her being murdered.”

Her face finally came to life. “Oh it was, it really was. I thought they might shut us down when they started questioning everyone.”

“Did you know the guy they arrested?”

“Nope, never saw him before.”

“But he was her boyfriend, right?”

“If he was,” said Minnie, “he was one of many.”

 

“So what did you end up doing?” I asked Jayne as she slinked back into the room. It was just after one a.m., and I was seconds from giving up on her and nodding off to sleep.

“Had supper with Tony, then we caught a picture at Radio City.” She dumped her purse on her dresser and shrugged off her coat.

“So I take it you're not giving him the cold shoulder anymore?”

“I called a truce for tonight. It didn't seem right that I stop speak
ing to both of you.” She sat on the end of my bed. “I'm sorry about before.”

“It's all right.”

She shook her head so hard her earrings tinkled. “No it's not. You're going through a lot, and instead of being a friend, I acted like you were choosing to be miserable.”

“I think I am in some ways.”

She put her hand on mine. “Even if you are, you're allowed to at a time like this. Next time I don't recognize that, give me a swift kick, okay?” She was tearing up a little, which made me do the same. “I have presents.” She pulled a sack from inside her pocketbook and tossed it my way.

I dumped the contents onto the bed. “Chocolate bar. Nice. Stockings—even nicer. All legally obtained, of course.”

Jayne winked. “Of course.”

“And what's this?” I unwrapped a small rectangle that had been carefully shrouded in waxed paper. “Butter!” I held the stick to my nose and inhaled the sweet creamy scent of forbidden fats. “Would it be terrible if I bit off a hunk of this and ate it plain?”

“I won't tell if you won't.”

I left my gifts on the bed and nudged a too curious Churchill away from my prizes. “You should avoid Tony more often.” I rummaged through a bureau drawer and uncovered a box of saltines.

“So what did you do tonight?” asked Jayne.

“Made myself good and miserable. When that got boring, I decided to spread the joy and get to know our new housemate.”

“Minnie?”

I nodded.

“What's the verdict?”

I located a knife and wiped it clean. “Nice, I guess. But it would require surgery to uncover her sense of humor.” I slathered the butter on two crackers and passed one to Jayne. “None of that matters right now—Al does.” I gave her the rundown on what I'd learned from Minnie.

“Paulette was seeing someone else?”

“At least one someone else, though Minnie thought it might've been more than that. I guess Paulette had a thing for military men, and Minnie's not too good at telling one man in uniform from another. Interesting, no?”

“Very.” Jayne left the bed and retreated to her bureau. She plucked her baubles from her lobes and froze before returning them to the cigar box serving time as her jewelry box. “But it doesn't mean Al's off the hook.”

I'd been afraid she'd say that. “Can't we pretend it does?”

The rhinestones landed with a ping in the Cuesta-Rey box. “It's still a motive, Rosie. If the woman you loved was seeing someone else on the side, murder seems like an excellent way to punish her.”