The Heavenly Fugitive (11 page)

“All right, Dom,” Amelia said, still shaking her head, this time in disbelief that she was actually going with the man.

She accompanied him into Louie’s, where he greeted the owner like an old friend. “Hey, Louie, give us the best you got. This is Miss Winslow. She’s a right one.”

Louie, a heavyset Italian with a broad smile, bobbed up and down. “I got justa the thing. Right this way, Mr. Costello.”

Amelia took her seat at the table, which was covered with a red-and-white-checkered cloth, and looked around. The place was very clean, and the aroma of Italian cooking touched off acute hunger pangs. “Order something good, big guy.”

Dom took over capably, and soon Louie left with the order. He returned with two cups of coffee, and as soon as Dom had dumped in four heaping spoonfuls of sugar and stirred it, he tested it and smiled. “I like a little coffee with my sugar.”

Amelia, who took hers black, smiled but said nothing. The warmth of the café was almost intoxicating, and she found her stomach rumbling at the enticing smells of garlic and oregano.

“So how’s the kid doin’?”

“He’s doing fine, Dom. He’s so
smart!
I can’t believe we’re related to each other.” Amelia loved to talk about her brother, and she elaborated on Phil’s accomplishments and how he’d never made anything but top grades all the way
through school. “Now at that college,” she said, “they’re testing him like he’s a freak or something. They throw the hardest things they’ve got at him, and he still comes out with the top grades every time. He’s going to finish in two years instead of four. I’m so proud of him.”

Dom encouraged her to talk, and finally, when a heaping plateful of spaghetti was set before each of them and a basket of wonderful-smelling garlic bread was set in the middle of the table, he said, “I guess we’d better dig in. Looks great, Louie.”

“The very best in the house, Mr. Costello. I’ll bring you a bottle of our best wine to go with it.”

As Louie turned to leave, Dom hesitated. “I guess being the preacher’s daughter, you say grace, huh?”

“I should, but I’m the black sheep of the family, Dominic. I haven’t got it in me anymore.”

“That’s too bad,” Dom said. He began winding the spaghetti with a fork and spoon and eating it expertly, all the while watching Amelia. She ate voraciously, and he knew she was hungry.

To Amelia the spaghetti was like manna from heaven, and the freshly baked Italian bread the best she had ever tasted. She savored the red wine, knowing her parents wouldn’t approve, but she enjoyed it anyway.

“That was so good, Dom,” she said, sitting back.

“You were pretty hungry, kid.”

“Yes, I was. Not very ladylike, I’m afraid.”

“What’s happening with you?”

“Nothing is happening with me.”

A touch of defensiveness in her voice alerted Dom, however, and he said, “Having it tough? The city’s that way. People come here with big hopes and dreams, and they get shot down mighty fast—down in flames sometimes.” He studied her reaction.

“I haven’t had much luck,” Amelia admitted.

“Tell me about it. I’ve eaten too much to move for a while.”

And then Amelia found herself talking to Dom in a way she would never have thought possible. She had not quite blotted out of her mind the sight of Dom beating her brother so brutally, but now in the warmth of the café and filled with good food, she was off her guard. She sat there describing her struggles, how she had lost her roommate and could not find another one, and even how she had hocked her necklace and given all of her food money to a poor woman on the street.

Amelia’s head jerked up, and her lips tightened. “I didn’t mean to dump all that on you, Dom. Nobody wants to hear about somebody else’s troubles.”

“I guess not,” Dom said. He dropped his eyes, and Amelia thought she had offended or at least bored him. She was about to get up, thank him, and make her exit when he said abruptly, “Wait here a minute, kid.”

Amelia watched as he stood up and walked across the room. He spoke to Louie and then picked up a phone and dialed a number. She saw him wait, speak briefly, then come back and take his seat. He took a card out of his pocket, wrote something on it, and said, “Go see this guy.”

Amelia took the card and read Dom’s scrawl:
Mickey Riley, the Green Dragon. Thirty-second Street.

“Who is this?”

“Riley owns a nightclub. It’s not the nicest in town, but it does a good business. I go there a lot, and he told me last time I saw him, the day before yesterday, that he needed a singer.”

Amelia fell silent and stared at the card for a long time. When she looked up, she saw that Dom’s eyes were cautious. He shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Singing in a nightclub ain’t much, but you can work nights and look for a real acting job during the days.” When she still did not answer, he said, “A bad idea, I guess. A preacher’s daughter wouldn’t want to go into a nightclub.”

Impulsively Amelia leaned over and put her hand over Dom’s. It was a big hand, strong and hard, with big knuckles.
“Thank you, Dom. I guess I’m past making the easy choices. I’ll go see him.”

“If you get the job,” Dom said, very much aware of her hand on his, “you don’t have to worry about guys getting funny. Riley fancies himself a ladies’ man, but I told him I’d tear his head off if he or anybody else fooled with you. There’ll be no funny stuff.”

Amelia patted the big hand and said, “I’ll go right now, and Dom . . . thanks.”

Dominic Costello rose and paid the bill. When they got outside he doffed his hat and said, “Let me hear from you. My number’s on the other side of that card. If you need anything, let me know.”

Amelia felt so much better than she had a few hours ago. She smiled at him. “It’s good to know there’s one person in this town besides my family who cares about me. I’ll call you, Dom, and let you know how it comes out.”

****

Mickey Riley was seated at a table in the Green Dragon and laid aside the newspaper he had been reading as Amelia approached him. Two men were busy sweeping out the club, and a piano player was competing with the clatter of dishes in the kitchen and two muted voices arguing about baseball. Amelia stated bluntly, “My name is Amelia Winslow. I’m a singer and I need a job.”

Riley was a beefy-faced individual with the marks of a rough life on him. He had on a garish striped shirt and a pair of hideous green suspenders, but there was a shrewd look in his slightly bloodshot eyes. “Sit down,” he said. “Dom told me to give you a try. Tell me about yourself,” he said curtly as Amelia took her seat. He listened as she told her story briefly, his greenish eyes lighting up as she mentioned that she was from Africa.

“Really from Africa? You mean where the lions and the tigers are?”

“There aren’t any tigers in Africa, Mr. Riley, but there are lots of lions. I shot one myself once.”

“No kidding! Well, I guess you can take care of yourself.” He laughed suddenly and slapped his beefy thigh. “Dom said he’d break my face if I put the moves on you. You don’t have to worry about that. Can you sing?”

The question caught Amelia slightly off guard. Indeed, she did have a very fine voice, but now she said, “I can sing, but I’ve never been in a nightclub in my life. I don’t know what kind of songs they like.”

“They like loud songs. Sometimes they like sad songs. Most of the time they’re so drunk they’re not even listening to the singer.” He turned his head. “Hey, Gus,” he hollered at the thin man with the sallow face sitting at the piano. “I want to hear this lady sing. Work out something with her, eh?”

As Amelia stood and walked toward the piano she was caught by the voice of the owner behind her. “No hymns now. Just good modern stuff.”

Her stomach was churning as she introduced herself to the piano player. “My name’s Amelia Winslow, Gus.”

“What do you want to sing?”

Amelia was baffled for a moment. She knew all the latest songs, for she had a collection of gramophone records at her apartment. She had sung along with them until she had mastered most of them. “How about ‘Yes, We Have No Bananas’?”

“Sure. Let’s try it.”

Amelia turned as Gus’s fingers flew over the keys expertly. The song was a popular hit, a novelty song that was easy enough to sing. She actually had a clear contralto voice with tremendous power when she cared to use it. But on this one she simply sang the song as she had a thousand times beside her Victrola at home.

“Hey, that’s good, kid. Now try something sad. See if you can make me cry.”

“Do you know ‘Rose of Washington Square’?” she asked.

Gus did not answer but played the opening notes and then whispered, “There it is in your key.”

“Rose of Washington Square” had also been a recent hit song. Amelia had Fanny Brice’s recording of it and had imitated her and then had come up with a style of her own. One of her friends had told her once, “Every time you sing those sad songs, I want to bust out crying.” Now she went through it, and when she ended and Gus’s fingers were still on the keys, she heard Riley say, “Come over here, lady.” She moved quickly and stood beside the table. Riley did not get to his feet. “Bring a list of songs you know tonight. Gus knows ’em all and he knows what the customers like. Come back about eight. I’ll give you a tryout. If they like you, we’ll talk turkey. Okay?”

“Thanks, Mr. Riley.”

“Oh, I’ll pay you thirty bucks for tonight.”

At that instant an odd sensation came over Amelia. The face of the poor woman to whom she had given the money flashed in her mind. She saw the tears, and she heard her say,
“May the Lord repay you a thousandfold.”
Somehow she knew that meeting up with Dominic Costello had not been an accident.
Is this God’s doing?
she wondered.

“What should I wear, Mr. Riley?”

“Something sexy.”

****

For just a moment Amelia hesitated. The streets were dark now except for the streetlights, but a noisy crowd was filing into the Green Dragon. Taxis continually stopped and let people out, then pulled away. All afternoon Amelia had struggled with herself.
Singing in a nightclub—that’s not show business. Singing for a bunch of drunks? That can’t be for me. Surely it’s not what God wants!
But despite her uncertainties, she knew she was going to do it. She had chosen her outfit carefully. It was her one fancy dress she had picked up on sale at Macy’s. It was a close-fitting taffeta evening gown. A
décolletage was formed by wide crossed-over ribbon lapels, finishing at the waist in the front. She didn’t know if it fit Riley’s definition of sexy, but she had no interest in dressing provocatively. She just wanted to look her best while she sang—that was all.

She entered the nightclub with a knot in her stomach at the thought of what she was doing. A hard-faced man stopped her. “Can I help you, miss?”

“I’m the new singer. Mr. Riley told me to be here. My name’s Amelia Winslow.”

“Sure, Amelia, go on back. Cut to your left over there, and you’ll find the dressing room. Got a good crowd tonight. Belt ’em out, eh?”

Her heart was beating rapidly as she moved through the crowd. Seeing Gus already at the piano, she went over to him and said, “Hello, Gus. I’ve got a list of songs for you.”

Gus looked up, and his bloodhound face seemed fairly cheerful, much more so than when she had seen him earlier. He looked over the list and nodded. “These’ll do. We got a little combo here—a drummer, a guitar picker, and a fellow that calls himself a horn tooter. They’ll follow me, and I’ll follow you.”

“Thanks, Gus.”

Amelia made her way to the back, where she took off her overcoat and hat. She saw a door labeled Dressing Room and knocked on it. When no one answered she stepped inside and turned the light on. It was barely large enough to turn around in, but there was a small dressing table with a mirror. A single bulb dangled from a cord overhead. She sat down and began nervously arranging her hair. Thankfully it had a natural curl and was not easily mussed up.

She was startled when a voice said, “Well, you
did
come back.” She turned to find Riley grinning at her. He was wearing a tuxedo, and he said, “Stand up and let me take a look at you.”

Obediently Amelia stood up and turned around
self-consciously but was gratified when the owner said, “You look great. Some of those clowns out there may give you a hard time, but Dom’s out front. He said he’d break anybody’s neck if they got funny with you. I guess he’d do it too. Good luck, kid.”

Amelia had always believed in plunging right in. She remembered the time she had tried to get up the nerve to jump off a high diving platform when she was thirteen. The only way she had achieved it was by quickly climbing the ladder to the platform, then running and flinging herself off into space. She did the same thing now.

She left the dressing room and went out into the main room. A small platform, no more than six inches high, served as the stage, and when Gus saw her, he motioned. She went over to him.

“Okay. You ready, Winslow? That your name?” Gus said.

“Just Amelia is fine.”

“Okay, Amelia. We’ll start out with ‘Way Down Yonder in New Orleans.’ That’s a nice peppy thing.”

Amelia moved over to the microphone, and out of the darkness of the room a light hit her right in the face. She blinked but was thankful she could not see the customers too well. She could hear them, though, and she relaxed a little at hearing Dom’s voice shouting out encouragement from the front table. Suddenly Riley was there, pulling the microphone over. “Folks, we got a brand-new songbird tonight. A fine-looking lady from Africa. Her name’s Amelia Winslow. Let’s hear it for Amelia!”

Amelia heard the applause and instantly the music started. She had always liked the song “Way Down Yonder in New Orleans” for its snappy meter, and she forced herself to smile and sing it with all the gusto she could. Despite her bravado, she was actually trembling inside, and her knees felt weak. As she finished she was not sure whether or not the crowd would boo her. But she was relieved to hear loud applause
and a few raucous voices calling, “That’s great, sweetheart, do it again!”