He’s lucky God’s gone and blessed him with good looks. Otherwise, Blanche would’ve whacked him on the kisser for calling her that. Not that baby is derogatory, but it’s something ya call a girlfriend, and Blanche Caldwell doesn’t belong to no one.
She bats her lashes. I avoid eye contact, not certain this character is a good one to talk to.
“Depends what type of work you’re offering,” Blanche says, her voice a purr.
“I may know of something for the right lass, or lassies,” he says, his regard jumping to me at the end.
I frantically shake my head, wanting zero parts of a conversation with a fella who looks like he rubs elbows with the likes of Al Capone.
“Go on,” Blanche says, not sharing the same conviction.
He gets up, slips into my booth. I scoot away, distancing myself.
Lowering his voice, he says, “A new juice joint opened ’cross town, ya know? Been getting busy and the owner is looking for more dolls to serve drinks and entertain.”
“A juice joint?” I ask.
Blanche’s eyes go wide. “Shh.” She returns her focus to this unseemly fella. “Bonnelyn here lives under a rock. Rather, cement.”
He moves closer, his breath warming my face. “A speakeasy.”
I gasp, from the fact those places are illegal, from the slickness of his voice, but Blanche rolls her eyes. “Bonnelyn here also has the morality of a saint.”
“Well,” the boy says, scribbling onto a napkin, “if you and Saint Bonnelyn are interested, I’ll be at this address tomorrow night. Come at 6:23, sharp. Ask for Buck.”
“That your name?” Blanche asks.
“No.” He stands, throws a handful of money onto his table. I can’t help gawking at how much he overpays for an egg salad sandwich. “But,” he continues, “it’s what my friends call me.”
With that, Buck walks away, each step confident, as he tosses his pocket watch into the air, snatching it again.
Blanche’s hand shoots out, grabs the napkin. She kisses it. “That boy has just solved my problems, unlike you.”
“You can’t be serious,” I say.
She looks up from ogling the address. “Jeepers creepers, I ain’t joking. Why wouldn’t I go?”
I can’t believe she’s even asking. The nation’s ban on alcohol is in full effect, has been for years. I answer, despite the ridiculousness of her question. “You get caught and you get pinched. Then your daddy will be bailing you out of jail.”
“He could get me off with his lawyer-y ways if he wanted to.” She slides the napkin under her brassiere strap and claps once. “Oh, Bonn, this is like from a film, or that book you read by that Fitzherald man.”
“Fitzgerald,” I correct.
She waves me off. “It’s ’bout time Dallas caught up to all the excitement of the big cities. We’ll be flappers.” Her eyes grow bigger. “We’ll be vixens.”
“No, we won’t,” I say. “’Cause, we ain’t going.”
“Six o’clock works, yeah? To pick you up?”
My ears must’ve quit working. I ignore her, the same way she ignored me. “Your five minutes are up.” I start to stand from the booth.
She grabs my hands, holding me in place. “Bonnelyn, everything will be copacetic. Blanche promises.”
“I ain’t going. What part of ‘illegal, underground establishment’ do you reckon sounds like something I’d do?”
She’s quiet a moment, and I wait for her to agree, to admit this is crazy. “How ’bout this?” A wicked smile spreads ’cross her face—the kind that makes my lungs ache for air. “I’m coming to your house tomorrow night. If you’re there, great. If not, I may just see if Buster Boy wants to take a quick spin.”
I rip my arm from her grasp. “You stay away from my brother. You hear? He ain’t a toy.”
She pats my cheek. “That spitfire can take care of himself. He finds fun well enough on his own. But it’s ’bout time we found it together.”
And she’s right. I know Buster would happily be her plaything.
“Out,” I say, pointing demonstratively to the door.
She backpedals. “Fine. But I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Bonn. You can count on that.”
Blanche slips through the door, but not before blowing me a kiss.
3
With Blanche’s threat looming over my head, today’s been one of those days where everything goes wrong. I caught Ma pouring water into the milk jugs to make ’em last longer; it was Roy’s turn to work a double at the cement plant, so I didn’t get to see him; Mr. Banks sent me home early from work; and then, when all I wanted to do was read a gossip magazine I borrowed from Blanche, Billie’s hound was barking incessantly, wanting to get out of the heat. I hollered at old Duke to be quiet; then, not even ten minutes later, I found the mutt in the bathtub, with my sister pouring cold water over him.
Now Ma finally rushes into the house, frenzied, her cheeks almost as red as her Ruby Lipstick lips, grumbling under her breath how the factory kept her late with no overtime pay and how the bus was running behind. I’m ’bout to offer to help her with supper, but she pins me with a Why aren’t you working? look. So I sit right back down and pick up my magazine. Go figure, the ink is smeared from the dog shaking off excess water all ’round the house.
For once, Buster is home, not scheduled ’til tonight at the plant so he can get the extra midnight-shift money. Him and Billie are playing Checkered Game of Life, looking carefree. Not me. My foot is tapping a mile a minute while I stare at the front door—waiting for the dreadful sound of Big Bertha’s engine, of Blanche’s car. Blanche showing up is inevitable, but I ain’t going inside that place with her. Not going to happen. Those places are illegal. I shiver. Hotbeds for raids.
Ma calls into the room for us to get washed up for supper. Not long after I shove a spoonful of lukewarm Van Camp’s pork and beans in my mouth, Billie goes off, proclaiming how excited she is for Roy and me. She keeps doing that and, each time, she makes me smile. Billie has an infectious way ’bout her.
“Your daddy would like how that boy turned out,” Ma says, much more pleasant than earlier.
Daddy’s chair sits empty next to me. Always five seats ’round the table, never four.
“Is Roy a lot like Daddy was?” I ask her.
Ma smiles, a distant look in her tired eyes, as if she’s remembering. “Your daddy had a lot of spunk. Always after bigger and better.”
Billie giggles, and I can’t help thinkin’ that sounds a bit like me. “Daddy was a hooligan?” my sister asks.
“Now, I didn’t say that.” But Ma has a grin on her face, like she doesn’t mind his once rebellious ways. I’m grinning too, liking that Daddy pushed the limits now and again, keeping Ma on her toes. “Your father was a good Christian man after he got the rest out of his system. The gentlest man who’s ever gone and held a shotgun.”
“When am I going to learn to hold one?” Billie whines, and not for the first time.
“Soon,” Buster says.
“Daddy taught you when you were younger than me,” she counters.
“I didn’t learn ’til ’round your age, Billie,” I say, smiling at Buster.