The Detroit Electric Scheme (31 page)

I stood at the corner waiting for the trolley, wondering what Detective Riordan was doing tonight. Maybe spending some time with his “kiddies.” I felt a sharp pang of regret. Had I not been such an idiot, that could have been me.

A streetcar came in. I shoved my way on and hopped off downtown, walking the last four blocks to Sapphira's house on the modest neighborhood's wooden boardwalk. The outside of her two-story home was well kept though nondescript, red brick and white wood, part of a long row of similar houses. Almost every parlor window in the neighborhood except Sapphira's showed off Christmas trees festooned with popcorn strings, tinsel, and ornaments. Before going up the walk, I took a drink from the flask.

Sapphira answered the door almost immediately. “Hi, Will,” she said with a big smile, like I'd made her day by showing up. She wore an emerald silk dress with a rounded décolleté neckline and a simple strand of pearls. A matching wide-brimmed hat with a green silk ribbon sat atop her upswept dark hair.

She was even more attractive than I remembered. “Good evening, Sapphira. You look beautiful tonight.” I brought out the roses from behind my back. “In fact, you put this bouquet to shame.”

“Why, thank you,” she said, taking the flowers from me. “Won't you come in?”

I expected the house to smell of moussaka or shish kebabs or something, but instead it was infused with a gentle scent of jasmine. She excused herself and went into the kitchen to put the flowers in a vase. I peeked into the parlor. Walnut end tables topped by Tiffany lamps flanked a green silk sofa and matching chairs—everything atop a richly patterned Oriental rug. I was impressed. These were very expensive furnishings for an immigrant family. Mr. Xanakis was likely a formidable
man. I glanced down the hallway, wondering why he was waiting so long to grill me.

Sapphira soon returned wearing a stylish black overcoat and black kid gloves. “I'm sorry that you will not be able to meet my parents this evening. My father was called away, and my mother's not well.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Should we do this another time?” I couldn't believe the words came out of my mouth.

“That is so gallant. But no. My parents trust me.” A warm smile lit up her face. “And I believe I can trust you, Will Anderson.”

My dreams had never been this wonderful.

We had dinner at Flanagan's Chop House. It was dark, and we sat at a booth with red satin upholstery and a single candle. I couldn't take my eyes off Sapphira. In the flicker of the candle, her eyes were dark stars, her smile the light from the sun. No one but Elizabeth had ever affected me this way. Sapphira told me of her life in Greece, the journey to America with her parents, and her job as a cigar roller at the San Telmo factory. Her father owned a restaurant, and her family had worked its way up to become part of the emerging middle class. She was very proud of that.

I had a couple of bourbons before we ate, and Sapphira joined me in drinking a bottle of wine with dinner. She sipped the wine and picked at her food, spending more time talking than eating or drinking. I told her I was in the automobile business, but little else, constantly turning the conversation back to her. While she talked I could stare at her, and anyway, I didn't want her to know anything about me until I had her hooked.

We took a streetcar to the theater. After we checked our coats in the cloakroom, I steered her downstairs to the saloon for a drink before the show. It was a dark room, with green wallpaper and a long, polished walnut bar. A cloud of cigar smoke obscured the ceiling. I elbowed my way through the crowd, predominantly men, all getting good and soused for the evening's entertainment. I was nervous leaving Sapphira unaccompanied and kept looking back at her while I waited to be served. She gave me reassuring looks whenever she wasn't being chatted up by other men.

I ordered an Old Tub and a glass of red wine, and was waiting for them when a pair of familiar laughs boomed out from down the bar. I put a hand up to the side of my face and turned just enough toward the sound to see them.

John and Horace Dodge stood against the bar ten feet away from me.

 

I turned back quickly, keeping my face averted from the Dodges. When the bartender returned with the drinks, I set a dollar on the bar and hurried back to Sapphira. “Maybe we should find our seats,” I said, and took a step toward the door.

“But . . .” She pointed to the glasses in my hands.

“Oh, right.” I stopped and gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

I led her to a table in a dark corner of the saloon. We made small talk while we finished our drinks, but I couldn't concentrate. I expected one of the Dodge brothers to see me and make a scene. At best, Sapphira would learn I had been accused of murder. At worst, well, I didn't want to think about it. When we finished our drinks and walked past the bar, I kept my face turned toward the doorway.

Our seats were in the front row on the left side of the stage. On the way down the far left aisle, I scanned the theater for exits. Alarmed fire doors were placed near the stage on both sides. Other than them, it appeared the only exit was through the lobby. I was going to have to be extremely careful. We would be exiting through the same doors as the Dodges.

As we sat, I looked around us. The theater was good-sized, with perhaps a thousand plush burgundy seats, almost every one already filled. Though I saw a number of women, most of the people here were men,
florid-faced and bleary-eyed from drink. Vaudeville crowds tended to lean toward men, though much less significantly than this one. I felt a tug of apprehension, wondering what kind of performance this Mademoiselle de Leon put on. This could be embarrassing, but there was nothing to do for it now. On the positive side, the Dodge brothers were nowhere in sight.

I pulled my cigarette case from my pocket and offered one to Sapphira before taking one myself. To my surprise, she accepted and leaned in for me to light it. I saw just a hint of cleavage as her jasmine scent wafted over me.

The lights dimmed, and the band began to play. The first act was a singer, followed by a contortionist and a comedian. I paid little attention. Sapphira sat close to me, really enjoying herself, belly laughing at the contortionist and grimacing at the comedian's dismal jokes. She was refreshing, less inhibited than any woman I'd ever dated, though still just within the bounds of propriety.

When the lights came up, I suggested we stay in our seats during the intermission. Not only did I want to avoid the Dodges, I realized I was already quite drunk. She agreed without hesitation.

After another singer and a gymnastics act, the burgundy velvet curtain raised on Blatz the Human Fish. A huge water tank, filled to the brim, had been placed in the middle of the stage. Sitting at a table inside was a fleshy man with thinning hair, a newspaper in his hands. He wore a dark suit with a red tie patterned with yellow fleur-de-lis. When he finished a page he dropped it, and the paper undulated like seaweed to the floor of the tank. It was an odd act, to say the least, but the longer he sat there the more interesting it became. I couldn't see an air tube, and he certainly appeared to be submerged. I had no idea how he did it.

A few minutes later, he set down the paper and began eating a steak and a baked potato. He sawed off huge chunks of meat and shoveled them into his mouth in a manner reminiscent of President Taft, whose eating habits were regularly displayed at the motion picture houses. The baked potato looked soggy, but that didn't deter Blatz in his eating enjoyment. After each bite, he daintily wiped his face with a napkin and
took a sip of wine. Finished with his dinner, he belched (clearly audible from the audience) and picked up a trombone from the bottom of the tank. He'd been underwater for a good ten minutes by now.

He lifted the trombone to his mouth, took a deep breath, and began to blow. A muted Sousa march filtered out of the tank and washed over our heads toward the mezzanine. The capacity crowd hooted and cheered. Sapphira and I hollered right along with them. It wasn't that he was a good trombonist. He had probably taken the name Blatz from the wretched sounds coming from his instrument. But, after all, the man was playing trombone underwater.

When he finished, the lights came up again. Even though I was having a wonderful time, I couldn't help but think about the Dodges. They were certain to be at the bar at every intermission, if, indeed, they left it at all.

I leaned toward Sapphira, again taking in her delicate fragrance. “Would you like to get a drink somewhere we could talk?” I was moving too fast, but this might be a good time to escape without a confrontation with the Dodges.

She playfully hit me on the arm. “No, silly. We haven't seen Mademoiselle DeLeon yet. But a drink might be nice.”

I had no choice. We walked up the aisle together, her arm in mine. I kept my head down until we were on the stairway. As soon as I entered the saloon I spotted the Dodge brothers. They stood where they had earlier, toward the end of the bar. I brought Sapphira to the same dark corner, hurried to the other side of the bar, and squeezed up to the front. Keeping my face out of the Dodges' sight, I raised my hand to get the bartender's attention. I was playing with fire but decided I'd rather risk a beating than look like a fool in front of this woman. With a bourbon and a glass of wine in hand, I rejoined Sapphira. My luck held. We managed to finish our drinks and get back to our seats without incident.

We sat through a family of acrobats and a horse that solved mathematical equations before the band began playing an oriental tune, serpentine and undulating. A shout came from the crowd. A bare leg emerged from behind the curtain, a rounded knee leading to a supple
milky-white calf that tapered to the most delicate ankle I had ever seen. A shiny blue high-heeled shoe dangled at the end of that beautiful leg, and, with a swell from the orchestra, the toe arched upward.

I was just sober enough to realize this might get awkward. I shot a glance toward Sapphira. She smiled at me, no jealousy or anger on her face.

The leg drew back, and Millie DeLeon peeked around the curtain, her lustrous brunette hair in ringlets around her face. She was beautiful. Her high cheekbones and full, pouting lips gave her a mysterious Asian look. Now she stepped out, her filmy blue dress rippling in her wake. She moved slowly, sinuously, across the stage, her body moving in time to the alluring music. A diaphanous garment slipped to the floor. And another. And yet another. I stared in raptured silence while the rest of the men's shouts drowned out the orchestra.

Now she wore only her shoes, garters, and stockings, and a tight piece of blue nothing that revealed every curve of her body. Mouth open in wonder, I gawped at her long legs and rounded hips, wasp waist and generous breasts. Her stomach began to roll, up and down, up and down, in a hypnotic motion.

The audience silenced.

She shivered and shook, breathing faster and heavier. Moans, deep and throaty, poured from her lips, and then yelps, her eyes rolling, body contorting in an orgasmic frenzy.

I was entranced. Thought of anything other than the woman on the stage had long ago left my mind. I shifted in my seat, not too drunk to be physically aroused.

When her shuddering finally abated, Mademoiselle DeLeon stood still for a long moment with her eyes closed, seeming to gather herself, before reaching down and unsnapping the inside garter on her right leg. The stocking sagged against the smooth surface of her thigh. She walked to the front of the stage, stretching the garter, aiming at this man and that one, teasing us all. Finally she let it go. The garter flew over my head and landed in the fifth row, where a scrum broke out. Millie stepped out of her shoes and unsnapped the other garter on her right leg. The stocking slipped down to the floor. She repeated the
tease, finally shooting the garter to the right side of the audience. The next garter went to the center. The band appeared to be playing, but was entirely inaudible beneath the primal roar of the crowd.

She unsnapped the final garter, and her left leg was bare. She sashayed in our direction, hips rocking side to side, and beckoned me forward with a curl of her index finger.

I stared at her, surprised beyond action. She repeated the gesture. I raised a finger to my chest and mouthed, “Me?”

Millie nodded.

I glanced at Sapphira. She smiled. “Go. It's fine.”

Elizabeth would not have been so understanding—had she still cared in the least what I did.

I stood, egged on by the roars from the other men in the audience, all of them, no doubt, wishing they could trade places with me. Millie took a step back, her finger still summoning me, and another step, and I was onstage, mesmerized. She held the garter up to the audience and then slid it across my lips, back and forth, back and forth, gazing into my eyes. I could barely stand. She took my hand and placed the garter in it, and leaned in to kiss me. Her perfume, a blend of ginger and cinnamon and a thousand other spices, settled over me like a fine mist.

The roar of the crowd enveloped us in a cocoon. As she kissed me, she ran her hands up and down my back in a pantomime of passion. After a moment, Millie put her hands on either side of my face and pulled back. Turning to the audience, she gave a delicate curtsy while holding my hand. When the applause died down, Millie kissed me on the cheek and gently pushed me forward. I looked back and blew her a kiss as the curtain dropped, and then turned and hopped off the stage, ready to apologize to Sapphira, however insincerely, for my crude display.

Sapphira, however, was laughing so hard her whole body was shaking. After she stopped convulsing she took my arm, and we began walking down the row of seats to the aisle. It was only then the realization that I'd made myself a target for the Dodge brothers cut through my drunken haze. Unless they had stayed in the saloon for Millie's performance, which I doubted, they had surely seen me onstage.