The Impersonator (27 page)

He smiled at the recollection. I smiled at his smile. “Everyone called him Black Jack. I came to love that old man. When he got sick, I did my best for him. He left me his ranch.”

“But you sold it.”

“I hated to do that, but it couldn’t be helped. Ma was ill and she couldn’t come out to Montana and live in the middle of nowhere.”

“So you came back to Portland. Was it very much changed?”

“It’s a different city than it was ten years ago, I can vouch for that. Not many people I grew up with are still around. I wanted Ma to move someplace fancier, and I had the money to pay for it, but she wouldn’t budge from her friends and her store. I’m going to sell the store. Ma can’t work anymore, and that’s not my line.”

“What is your line?” It occurred to me that I had asked Henry that question on my first night at Cliff House, and received no reply. It was about to happen again.

“Not sure, yet. For the time being, I’ve got to see to Ma and the store, so I just take odd jobs when I can find them.”

“Like your work for Henry?”

He turned scarlet. “Yep. Politics isn’t my line either, but when Henry asked me to help with his campaign, I couldn’t say no to a cousin. Especially when I’d just found I had one.”

“Lucky you,” I said sarcastically.

“He couldn’t be expected to welcome you home, Jessie. In a way, it’s your own doing. If you’d written, if you’d let them know you were still alive, he’d never have come to believe he’d inherit the Carr money in the first place.”

“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” I asked archly. He gave me a sheepish grin that made me burst out laughing. No one could stay mad at David when he turned on that wide-eyed innocence.

The train was slowing down for the terminal and I cast about for some way to prolong our time together. “David,” I began, “would your mother mind if I came by and paid my respects?”

“No, of course not. Excuse me, but I am surprised you—that is, most people wouldn’t care to meet their father’s—”

“Where does she live?”

“I’ll come to the Benson Hotel and get you. Four o’clock?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

He was prompt. We rode a streetcar most of the way and walked the last bit into a shabby part of town near the Carroll Market off Yamhill. Some people would prepare a visitor in advance for the surroundings and apologize for their humble home, but David never said a word. I liked that about him.

In truth, the Murray place was much like the rented rooms I had grown up in. I felt quite at home among the faded curtains, threadbare Axminsters, and flag-bottom chairs. There was only one bedroom and I saw no evidence of David’s belongings anywhere. He took my arm as we entered his mother’s room. In a voice so tender it brought tears to my eyes, he said, “Ma? I’ve brought Jessie to see you, just like I said.”

“Hello, Mrs. Murray,” I said, taking her thin hand in mine very gently so the bones wouldn’t snap in two. She brought to mind a dead leaf clinging to the tip of a twig, waiting for the next wind to blow it away into the sky. Her cheeks were hollow, her brown eyes dull, and the wisps of her gray hair had been tucked into a hairnet by a pair of large male hands. She looked twice her age.

“Hello, darling Jessie. Come sit by me so I can see you.” David dragged over a chair and I sat. “You don’t look like him, do you?”

“They say I take after my mother’s side of the family.”

“I’m sorry he died like that. And your mother too. Poor things. Well, well”—she coughed a little laugh—“whatever his flaws, he managed to father two fine children, didn’t he? Perhaps that’s enough for any man.”

“I brought you some treats, Mrs. Murray. David said you hadn’t much appetite, so I thought something special might tempt you to eat.” I had fitted a basket full of small jars of preserves, potted meats, some fresh fruit, and soft rolls from a bakery down the street, but she wasn’t interested in food. Her eyes never left my face.

“You want to see what David looked like as a child?” she asked, fumbling under her nightgown for a chain. Shaky fingers pulled up a gold locket the size of a quarter but could not open the clasp. I reached over, taking the warm locket in my hands and pressing the pinhead clasp with a fingernail.

“Oh, how sweet,” I cooed. “What a beautiful little boy!” It was a double locket, and opposite the photograph of a three-year-old cherub was one of a pretty young woman.

“That’s me on the other side, taken the same day.”

“You look so happy.” I closed the locket and handed it back.

“I’ve always been happy. I’ve had a happy life because of my wonderful son. And I’m so grateful you and David have met. I hate to leave him all alone in the world, and now he has a sister.”

“Now, Ma, no talk of leaving yet, please. Listen here, Jessie’s been in vaudeville for years. Remember how we used to go to the shows? Tell her about those days, Jessie.”

So I spent a bittersweet half hour relating lighthearted stories of the stage until her eyelids became so heavy they would not stay open. Finally, footsteps on the stairs turned our heads. A short young woman with a trim figure and raven hair entered the room with the authority of someone who belonged there.

“Company, David?” she asked. “I saw you come home a bit ago.”

“You’ve been watching out the window, haven’t you?” David teased, and she blushed prettily. “Jessie, this is Gloreen Whittaker. She lives across the way with her father and brothers and takes great care of Ma when I’m not here. Gloreen, this is Jessie Carr, my half sister.”

Her hand flew up to her mouth. “Half sister? I had no idea.” Her puzzled frown told me she also had no idea how David, whose father had supposedly died before he was born, could possibly have a younger half sister. It wasn’t my problem. “Very pleased to meet you, Miss Carr.”

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. How kind you are to help with Mrs. Murray.”

She gave David an adoring smile. “David insists on paying me, but I’d do it without payment, out of affection. She’s been like a mother to me for the past few years, always helping when I needed it.”

I felt like an intruder. “I’d best be going. I’ve got to get to the theater district and buy some costumes for our little theatrical before those vendors close. No, don’t come with me, David, I can make my way to the corner and catch the next streetcar.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “I’m going with you.”

At that, Mrs. Murray lifted her eyelids. “David, did you say you were leaving?”

“Just down the street to put Jessie on a streetcar. I’ll be right back.”

“You’re not going down to
that
part of town again, are you?”

Quietly he said, “Not now, Ma, later.” He didn’t glance at me and it wasn’t my place to ask what she meant.

“I don’t like you going down there,” she persisted. “It’s not respectable.”

“I have to go, Ma, to finish a little business. Gloreen will stay with you. I won’t be late.”

David saw me to the streetcar. After a few blocks I transferred to the theater district for some purchases before making my way through the darkening streets to the Benson Hotel.

36

I had been Jessie Carr for so long that it was a bit of a wrench to wrap myself around a different role. But at ten o’clock sharp, Rosie Waters sashayed through the hotel lobby, oblivious to the night manager’s disapproving glare. Rosie sent a saucy smile to the bellman and whistled for her own hack. She wore a purple sequined dress cut low where it could have been high and high where it could have been low, a cheap rabbit stole, and red pointy-toed shoes, and she carried a fake ivory cigarette holder between two fingers of her left hand. If the bellman had looked closely, he might have suspected that the dark curly hair was a wig, but he was too busy eyeing the side slit in her dress, hoping for a flash of flesh. Since her stockings were rolled to an inch above her hemline, he got one as she climbed into the backseat of the hack. Rosie Waters was a girl who worked both sides of the street, vaudeville and burlesque. No one would confuse this modern flapper with wholesome Jessie Carr.

The hack deposited me on Union Street near the Egyptian. I paid him and stepped out of the way of the next fare. Gusts of wind swirled through the crowd, lifting crumpled playbills and causing the women to hug themselves inside their wraps. The rabbit stole didn’t offer much comfort, but I wasn’t going to be outside long. I headed across the street and into the burlesque theater where I had seen Henry and David the week before.

“Evening, fella.” I smiled at the young doorman.

“Show’s already started.”

“I’m looking for a man, not a show.”

“I’m a man,” he said with a leer.

I laughed. “Sorry, Jack. I’m looking for a Mr. Henry Carr. Do you know him? They say he’s a regular here.”

The boy shook his head and let me step into the empty lobby. I could hear the audience roar with laughter behind the padded doors. “Hey, Marv!” he called to the bartender. “Lady wants to know do we know Henry Carr?” Marv and another man looked up from behind the bar where they were wiping glasses, preparing for intermission.

“You must know Mr. Carr. A regular. Tall, good-looking, swell dresser, likes Seagram’s VO.” I nodded toward the bottles of Seagram’s behind them. “About twenty-five and a little … uh…” I patted my belly and they chuckled.

“Yeah, I mighta seen him,” the barman said cautiously. The way he said it told me what I wanted to know. I passed him five clams and he remembered. “Not tonight though. A lot of the regulars hang out at Trudell’s, a little gin mill around the corner. You might try there.”

I thanked the men prettily.

Trudell’s didn’t usually get going until after the evening shows were over, and only a dozen or so people were downstairs when I walked in. My dress talked me past the doorman, and I repeated my description of Henry to the bartender. He knew Henry Carr. Hadn’t seen him in a few days, but for five dollars, thought I might find him at Dakota’s or Markie’s. Henry was not at Dakota’s, and I was about to head to Markie’s when a woman with jet-black hair and a face made up like an American flag crooked a finger at me.

“Hey, hon. Who’s looking for Henry Carr?” she asked as she turned away and blew a chest full of smoke into the air.

“My name’s Rosie Waters,” I said, returning the smoke.

“What do you want with that two-faced sap, a nice girl like you?”

“He owes me.”

“A favor?”

“Money.”

“Take my advice, hon. Write it off before it comes back to bite you.”

“Sounds like the voice of experience.”

“Damned right. Don’t let them fancy manners fool you. They rub off quick, like silver on a cheap brass ring. And Mr. Big Shot gets a big kick out of using those big fists.”

“He beat you up?”

At first she shrugged, as if it mattered not at all, as if she were strong enough to handle rough customers, but then she scanned the room and lowered her voice in a way that proclaimed her fear louder than words. “Wasn’t nothing compared to what he did to another girl I know.”

“What did he do?”

One question too many. Her breezy manner turned to suspicion, and she clamped her lips together so tight they nearly disappeared.

“Never mind; I understand. And thanks. But I have to find him.”

Tossing back the last of her drink, she turned toward the bar. “Don’t say you weren’t warned. You’ll probably find him at Markie’s later tonight. There or Trudell’s.”

I was running out of fives. “Thanks. Next one’s on me.”

It was Friday night and Markie’s was filling up fast, but I found a good vantage point at a small table against the wall. The room was dark. Candles glowed on each table, and dim electric bulbs gave the bartender just enough light so that he didn’t pour the real stuff when rotgut would do. Three colored men with loosened neckties played gentle jazz in the corner. As speakeasies go, it was middling—a dozen tables with tablecloths and a floor swept pretty regularly. I ordered a gin and tonic from the bar—real gin, and yes, I’d pay extra—and noticed the Seagram’s VO bottles on the shelves behind the bartender. There had been some at Dakota’s too. At the end of the bar, stacked on the floor, were six or eight cases of the stuff. Someone had marked numbers on each box with green chalk, just like the boxes at Cliff House.

No need to wonder any longer what Henry Carr did for a living. Stamping out my cigarette I stood to leave, only to sit down again as Himself came through the door.

He swanned in with six rough-looking men and David Murray in his wake. That gave me a sharp pang of regret. I didn’t like being lied to—this from the girl whose very existence was a lie!—and I didn’t like seeing David mixed up with Henry’s sordid affairs. Campaign work, my foot. David was helping Henry with his bootlegging.

Henry scanned the room, his eyes passing over me without a flicker of recognition, and when he saw that none of the larger tables was empty, he approached the center one and emptied it with a scram motion of his thumb. Henry and his associates called to the bartender for drinks. The guy knew what to bring without being told. Ah, the advantages of regular patronage.

They were loud, but not loud enough for me to make out more than the stray word or two. Curious, I nursed my drink and watched from the wings. Henry sat facing me from the far side of the table, tipping back on his chair legs, smoking one cigarette after another as he tossed off snide remarks that were received with raucous laughter by his minions. David was the only one not laughing. I had a profile view of him as he leaned forward from the edge of his seat, his hands clasped around a mug of ale, staring glumly at the foam.

As I watched, he said something to Henry, who frowned, took out his wallet, and handed him several bills. David pocketed the money and stood up, made a curt farewell, and disappeared up the stairs.

Which, now that I’d gotten what I came for, was exactly what I needed to do. I motioned to the bartender that I was leaving, and fished through my purse for a dollar. Suddenly there was a tough standing over me.

Markie’s was obviously not the first bar he’d seen this evening. He swayed a little, and his words were slurred, but he was not yet blotto. I realized with dismay that he was one of Henry’s party.