Dollface: A Novel of the Roaring Twenties (26 page)

“I spent the past three months working my tail off on this and now they’re taking it away from me. And why? Because they’re
afraid
of letting this
element
into the council.”

“They’re afraid?” Basha fired back, grounding out her cigarette. “We’ll give ’em something to be afraid of, won’t we?”

At ten past noon on Saturday, September 25, 1926, Evelyn and I threw open the French doors of the Palmer House ballroom and walked into the Jewish Women’s Council’s luncheon followed by our
shiksa
girlfriends, Dora, Basha and Cecelia. It was gun molls on parade. We made some entrance in our short beaded dresses, our even shorter bobbed hair, cloche hats, feather headdresses and our biggest, flashiest jewelry.

I quickly scanned the room. Barbara Perl nearly dropped her fork when she saw me and Esther’s mouth hung open as she elbowed the woman next to her. Another woman gasped, knocking her teacup off the table. The sound of china shattering echoed through the room. Within a matter of seconds, the eighty or so members all looked up from their chicken salads and watercress. Their ladylike prattle and the clatter of their silverware came to a halt. All was quiet except for the sound of our high heels clicking against the marble floor and the clanking of our bracelets.

It had taken a bit of convincing on the part of Basha and Dora before I agreed to any of this. But they were right: I had nothing to lose. I would never be allowed back into the JWC. I was the wife of a gangster and now everyone knew it.

Adele Markey excused herself from the head table and rushed up to me. “Vera—I thought I made it perfectly clear when we spoke on the telephone.”

“Oh, you did. You made it
perfectly
clear, but you forgot one thing. I planned this event so we could raise money for a good cause, and that’s exactly what we’re here to do.” I turned to my posse. “Ladies?”

And with that, my girls dispersed around the room, pulling up chairs at the various tables. The women’s faces turned the color of their chinaware and they were all on
shpilkes
, pins and needles. Barbara’s hands were trembling as she dabbed her napkin to her mouth.

“Well,” I said to Adele, “what are we waiting for? Let’s start the auction.”

“You heard her,” said Cecelia. “Let’s go. Chop-chop!”

The entire room gasped for the umpteenth time since we’d arrived, and Adele, always the picture of grace and dignity, looked as though she’d soiled herself.

When everyone calmed down, the auctioneer took the podium and presented the first item, the jade hatpin from Benny Alberts. “Ladies,” she began with a tentative bang of her gavel, “can we start the bidding at two dollars? Do I hear two?”

Cecelia turned to Janice Kaufman, seated to her right. “You want that hatpin, don’t you?”

Janice looked at her, bewildered.

“Toots, this is no time to be shy.”

“But I don’t want a hatpin,” said Janice.

“I guess I didn’t make myself clear.” Cecelia smiled. “I don’t really think what
you want
matters.”

“But I—”

Cecelia grabbed Janice’s hand and raised it high in the air. “This woman right here bids twenty-five dollars!”

After this latest round of gasps hushed down, Basha turned to Esther Bloomberg, who was seated next to her. “You’re not gonna let her have that hatpin for twenty-five bucks, are you?”

“What?” Esther lifted her coffee cup with both hands.

“I’d say it’s worth at least thirty, wouldn’t you?”

“But I can’t . . .” Esther set her cup back down, nearly missing the saucer. “My husband would never let me spend that much for a hatpin—”

“You think I give a crap about your husband? C’mon, now. Don’t make me ask again.”

Esther’s voice was cracking as she raised her hand and said, “Thirty dollars.”

Dora turned to Barbara Perl. “That’s a crime to let it go for only thirty bucks.”

“Just . . . just, ah, just tell me what you want me to do.” Barbara’s voice was quavering as lines of worry etched across her brow.

“Hmmm . . .” Dora drummed her red nails along the tablecloth. “Bump it up to forty-five bucks.”

And so she did.

Evelyn was next, and she was all over Adele. “What do you say we spend some of your money?”

“I refuse to be intimidated by you.”

“Aw, c’mon now, you’re the president of this group. You can’t let your members down. All it takes is fifty bucks, Adele. Fifty and we leave you alone.”

Adele cleared her throat and raised her hand.

It went back and forth like that, item by item, as my girls used the force of their presence to drive up every bid. At the end of the luncheon, we had exceeded our overall goal of raising one thousand dollars by a good measure and ended up raising five thousand dollars.

All in the name of charity.

•   •   •

A
s we walked out of the Palmer House we were laughing, our arms slung around one another’s shoulders. I’d climbed up the social ladder and tumbled down the other side in one fell swoop. I looked at Cecelia, Basha, Dora, and even Evelyn. I was one of them now. There was no turning back.

As we walked five abreast down the sidewalk, I threw my head back and let the autumn sun wash over my face. I felt like I owned the streets. Yes, my husband may have been on trial, but he was going to beat the charges. I was Mrs. Shep Green, and I was a force to be reckoned with. From now on, nobody was going to mess with me.

This gaiety followed us back to the house. We were still toasting with a round of bourbons when Hymie and Drucci came to the door, letting a gust of wind blow dead leaves into the foyer as they stepped inside.

I knew it. Even before they said a word, I knew it. My legs grew shaky as Hymie removed his hat and Drucci lowered his head.

“The jury reached a verdict,” said Drucci, clenching and unclenching his fists.

I sank into a chair and dropped my head to my hands. “Just tell me.”

Hymie delivered the blow. “Guilty. On five counts. The judge sentenced him to eighteen months.”

I kept my head low, didn’t say a word. Someone asked if I was okay but I didn’t respond. All that power I’d felt just moments before had vaporized. I was deflated and lost. Everything inside me grew still and quiet. The tears were immediate, running down my cheeks and leaving dark marks as they landed on the front of my dress. I didn’t know what this meant for me and for Hannah, only I knew that our world had been turned upside down.

FINDING OUT WHAT YOU’RE MADE OF

T
here was a cold, dank smell that clung to everything, like limestone after a rainstorm. In some ways I found that odor harder to take than the stench from the stockyards. It bothered me that this hellhole was attached to the courthouse with its majestic marble walls and floors, its intricately carved wooden seats and golden inlays.

Peering through the cast-iron bars running floor to ceiling, I couldn’t bring myself to look at Shep. Instead, I stared at the concrete floor, the cinder-block walls, the metal bench hinged to the wall along with a cot. The mattress wasn’t more than an inch thick, and it was covered with yellow, brown and gray stains. My eyes landed on a bucket in the corner and, next to that, a couple of flies hovering over something dark and runny on the floor that I realized was a pile of shit.

I drew a deep breath and dared to look at him. Within minutes, I broke my promise to myself and began to cry. Shep Green, the most meticulous man I knew, was unshaven, dressed in work overalls, his hair a tousled mess. He’d no sooner sleep on that filthy mattress than he would have lain in a sewer.

“C’mon now, Dollface,” he said. “I’ve been in worse places.” He laughed, trying to reassure me by drawing comparisons to his childhood in Little Hell. When he saw it wasn’t helping, he changed his tone. “Listen to me, everything’s going to be okay. I met with my lawyer and we’re going to appeal. I’ll be back home before you know it.”

I just nodded. There were no words.

“And in the meantime, if you need anything, you just tell Hymie. He’ll take care of you and Hannah. You don’t have to worry about anything. You understand?”

“I brought you some books,” I said, sniffling. “But they wouldn’t let me give them to you. I brought you
Babbitt
. We only made it to page fifty-seven. I thought you’d want to finish it. And you said you’d never read
Frankenstein
, so I brought you that, too, but they’re with the guard. Maybe they’ll let you have them after I leave. Make sure you ask them about the books, okay?”

He nodded. “Listen, I want you to do something for me.”

“Anything.” I don’t know why, but I thought he was going to ask me to visit his mother’s grave.

“I don’t want you coming here again. Okay?”

“But . . . ” My chin began to tremble.

“I don’t want you seeing me like this.”

“But, Shep—”

“I mean it. This isn’t good for you and it’s not good for me. I’m going to be home soon anyway.”

I squeezed the bars tighter and closed my eyes.

“You just take care of yourself and Hannah and I’ll be home before you know it.” He reached through the bar for my hand. His fingers were covered in black ink from where they’d taken his prints.

•   •   •

O
ne week later, when I was feeding Hannah, trying to get her to use her spoon, Bugs and Hymie stopped by to tell me Shep had been moved to Chicago’s House of Corrections on Twenty-sixth Street and California.

“But why?” I asked, looking up just as Hannah plastered a handful of creamed corn into her hair. I blew out a sigh so deep it fluttered my bangs. “If he’s supposed to be coming home, why are they taking him farther away?”

“This is routine,” said Hymie. “It happens whenever someone
goes away
.”

That was how they referred to it.
Going away.
No one ever spoke about anyone being in jail, as if the word were taboo. Instead they all just
went away
.

“They only keep you in the Hubbard County Jail for a couple days—a week at the most,” said Bugs.

“Why didn’t someone explain that to me?” I wiped the paste from Hannah’s hair and took the bowl of creamed corn away, which only made her fuss more, running her fingers through the slop on her high chair tray. “I want to talk with his lawyer.” I stood up and wiped my hands on the front of my apron.

“That’s not gonna do any good,” said Bugs. “Shep doesn’t want you getting caught up in all that. We’re talking to the lawyer every day and as soon as we hear anything, we’ll come and tell you.”

“In the meantime,” said Hymie, reaching into his breast pocket for an envelope, “here.”

“What’s this?” I looked inside.

“Two hundred,” Hymie said before I’d had a chance to count it. “That should hold you.”

“For how long?”

He shrugged. “If you need more, you come see me.”

I wasn’t even aware that I was pacing until Bugs grabbed hold of my shoulders. “It’s gonna be okay, Vera. We’re making good progress on the appeal and we’re gonna lean on the judge. Don’t you worry about them moving him. Shep’s gonna be out of there any day now.”

I nodded. Couldn’t speak.

Hymie and Bugs let themselves out and I called to the housekeeper, told her I was going out and to watch Hannah until I got back.

As I was walking out the door, Hannah cried out, “Da-da! Da-da!”

•   •   •

T
wenty minutes later I arrived at the law office of Henry C. Brice, Esquire. His secretary tried to stop me, saying he was on a telephone call but I barged into his office anyway. Brice looked up from his desk and, as if we’d had an appointment all along, he stood up, crossed the room and welcomed me in.

“Come sit down. Can I get you some tea? Coffee? Water?”

I shook my head. “I just want to know what’s going on with Shep’s case. Why did they move him? Why is this appeal taking so long?”

“Just come sit down and I’ll explain everything.”

He tossed out a lot of phrases like
petition the court, plaintiff in error, the appellee’s plea, the series of injunctions. 
. . .
He said the courts were overloaded and we were on a waitlist for Shep’s case, but it was solid. We had nothing to worry about
.

When I got home that afternoon, I fixed myself a drink, lit a cigarette and resumed my pacing—right in the same spot where I’d paced earlier that day. Back and forth I went until the housekeeper came and stood in the doorway.

“Mrs. Green?” She hesitated when I looked up. “It’s Friday and . . .”

“And?”

She cleared her throat. “This is the day Mr. Green pays me.”

“Oh, I see.” I went over to my pocketbook, propped my cigarette between my lips and squinted to keep the smoke from my eyes. I took out a five. The housekeeper looked at the bill in her hand and then looked up at me. I had no idea what Shep paid her each week but clearly it was more than that. I went back to my pocketbook and gave her another five. She thanked me and went upstairs to give Hannah her bath.

I stayed in the living room, watching the shadows grow longer as the sunlight slipped away from the windows. Finally I went into Shep’s office and poured myself another drink. When I’d worked up the nerve, I began to shuffle through the bills for the electric, the water, the telephone, the mortgage and car payments. There were bills from Marshall Field’s, Carson Pirie Scott, my dressmaker, Shep’s tailor and Hannah’s doctor. I made a list of all the other household expenses and finished off my drink. I had no idea how much coal we needed every month or what arrangements Shep had worked out with the iceman and the milkman. What did he pay the gardener each week?

Whenever I needed money for groceries or anything else, Shep gave me plenty with more to spare. We lived well—very well—I knew that much, but until Shep
went away
, I had no idea what it cost to be us.

I collected the bills and stuffed them in the top drawer, unwilling to look at them anymore. My neck was stiff with tension and from leaning over the desk all afternoon. When I couldn’t sit there any longer, I went and checked on Hannah. She was fast asleep, without a care or worry and I wanted to keep it that way.