The night that 1930 fizzled out and 1931 roared in, Moxie Valette stood singing in a chintzy speakeasy in Fayetteville, Nebraska, with a faraway look in her eyes that made her appear as if she was dreaming of something more. The room was thick with the haze of stale cigarette smoke as she sang “Bootlegger’s Rag” with more vim than most of the drunken spectators would have anticipated. A glass of ice and jorum of skee, Drag your heeler to the speakeasy! Bring your scratch, shake a leg. Gold digger, sugar daddy, vamp, and yegg. There’s no time to lollygag. Everybody wants to do the bootlegger’s rag! Sitting in the back of this somewhat dilapidated, unmarked establishment known to locals as Fat Philly Red’s, Cotton McCann watched the performer with considerable interest. He rested his chin in the palm of his left hand while he chewed on his cigar and contemplated her level of talent. She was blond, though not in an artificial way. Show business had far too many peroxide blondes already, he thought. No, this one had a more natural look. Like Garbo, but without that exotic quality. Like a corn-fed, fresh-faced Constance Bennett. This girl was attractive, but somehow unusual. Sexy, yet wholesome and approachable. He inhaled deeply from his cigar and motioned to the waitress with his other hand. “You need a refill, mister?” the curvy matron called to him over the music and the din of the crowd. “I’d rather talk to that singer,” he answered, straining to be heard. “What’s her name again?” “Moxie. But she don’t usually spend her time bumpin’ gums with the customers.” “And would a little jack maybe get me an introduction?” He held up two folded dollar bills between his index and middle fingers. The waitress’s eyes flashed, and she quickly snatched the money and slipped it into her ample cleavage. “I’ll see what I can do. I can’t guarantee you too much more than that. That kid’s a straight arrow. But I’ll make sure she stops by after her last number.” She winked and disappeared back into the crowd. Luckily for Cotton, very little about Fat Philly Red’s homemade gin compelled him to actually finish the one he had ordered nearly an hour earlier. He had patronized more than his share of these clip joints in the last eight months, and in that time he had never tasted liquor quite this lousy. He held the glass to his nose and sniffed it again, to remind himself exactly how noxious it was. The smell suggested that its distillers had somehow managed to blend sulphur, animal feces, and kerosene. “Holy cats,” he muttered, setting it back down on the table and pushing the glass away. He made a mental note to neither smell nor swallow the foul venom again, no matter how thirsty he became. “Leave it if you’re fond of your liver.” The singer stood by his table, her left hand propped defiantly on her hip. She looked amused. “I hear that you got something to say.” The timbre of her voice was melodic, but the tone was feisty. This girl obviously was no shrinking violet. “You must be Moxie,” he said, her name now an epiphany to him. He politely stood and gestured for her to sit, scrutinizing her again, this time from much closer. She was a striking combination of light hair and dark, smoky eyes. Her lips were full, what the flappers would call bee-stung, and her cheeks were round and pink. He reevaluated his earlier assessment. This girl didn’t look like anyone he could think of, and she was mesmeric. She eyed him appraisingly. He was clearly an out-of-towner. He absolutely radiated the city with his fancy brown suit and dark mustache. She guessed him to be around forty, and he carried the paunch that only a life of leisure could afford. Curious, she decided to see what he had to say and pulled up a chair. “But I don’t know your name.” “Cotton McCann. Can I assume from your comment that you’re not interested in me buying you a drink?” He nodded to the glass in front of him. “You can. You can also assume that I’m not a five-cent whore, if that was going to be your next question.” She spoke nonchalantly, intent on setting the boundaries clearly and early in the conversation. He frowned and took another puff of his cigar. “You’ve got me all wrong. I’m looking for talent. I’m an impresario of sorts.” “Then what the hell are you doing in this jerkwater town, in this crummy speako?” “I’m on my way from Los Angeles to New York City.” He stroked his mustache with his thumb and index finger. “My last act cut out on me just as she was on the verge of her big break.” “Cut out on you how?” “She married some mook and settled down.” He tried unsuccessfully to keep the anger out of his voice. “She could have been the next Jeanette MacDonald.” “Is that so?” The buxom waitress reappeared and set an open bottle of Dr. Pepper in front of Moxie. “Here you go, sweetie.” “Thanks, Ruby.” She eagerly took a sip and motioned for Cotton to continue as Ruby slipped back into the raucous crowd. “How old are you?” She brushed her wavy bangs out of her eyes with the back of her hand. “Twenty-two.” Cotton reached into his jacket pocket and removed a business card. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me.” She picked up the card, printed on stiff, cream-colored stock. It read: COTTON G. MCCANN PROFESSIONAL ENTERTAINMENT AGENT TWELVE YEARS EXPERIENCE “You reprint these every year?” She took another sip of Dr. Pepper. He smiled. “This is the first year I’ve had them. I didn’t think about that when I placed the order.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’m sure you’re skeptical, not knowing me from Adam. But I’m telling you that you’ve got something special, kid. Something I haven’t seen in months. And believe me, I’ve been looking.” “What exactly are you proposing?” “Tomorrow I’m taking the Burlington to Chicago, and from there, the Twentieth Century Limited the rest of the way to New York City. I’ve been hoping to find a talented singer or dancer who’d make the rest of the trip with me.” Moxie’s mind reeled at the mention of what was probably the most plush and renowned passenger train in the world, but she remained dubious. After all, men tended to lie. “Make the trip with you…and then what?” “I need a new talent to sell, and New York’s the place to make it happen. Surely you want to play bigger and better clubs than this one.” She looked around at the congested dive she’d been working in for the past four months. It was dirty and smelled, as did most of the clientele. Cotton was right about the fact that Fat Philly Red’s was a horrible job to settle for. The prospect of performing for high society—hell, for people who didn’t have dirt under their fingernails—tempted her. “You probably have a father or husband to consult first. I understand that.” “Actually, I don’t have either.” His brow furrowed. “Well, you have some family, don’t you?” “No, it’s just me these days. The decision’s all mine.” Cotton’s face took on a serious expression. “Then what do you have to lose?”
Chapter One
June 6, 1931, 10:00 p.m. The portly emcee nimbly slicked back his thinning hair and grabbed the large microphone before him. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, a sweet little Midwestern dish who’s been bringing the house down here at the Luna Lounge for the last few weeks—Miss Moxie Valette.” The crowd cheered as Moxie appeared on the stage and the pianist began to play the introduction to Cole Porter’s “What Is This Thing Called Love?” “Hot damn!” Violet sputtered as she focused on the singer before her. “Get a load of that tomato.” Her companion Wil looked toward the stage at the front of the club as she slipped another Chesterfield into her cigarette holder. “My goodness,” she remarked wryly, looking for matches. “She is a tasty muffin. Are you falling in love for, what, the ninth time today?” “Don’t exaggerate,” Violet said. “This is only the fourth time since breakfast.” Moxie began to sing the lyrics slowly, her sultry tones quickening Violet’s pulse. While Wil’s ribbing was well deserved, Violet had to admit this blonde was affecting her more than the occasional waitress or cigarette girl that she might find attractive and flirt with. She was spellbound. “Hey, sister,” Wil said, poking her with her elbow. “You got apoplexy? Have you swallowed your tongue?” “No. I was imagining her swallowing my tongue.” She grinned. “And I have to say it was working for me.” The gorgeous blonde in the shimmering, deep blue gown seemed contradictory—while her young face conveyed purity and virtue, her deep voice exuded a carnal sensuality that made Violet’s temperature rise. “Well, as they say, the fifth time’s the charm. We’ll just have to get her over here to meet you. After all, it is your night.” “It’s your night too,” Violet countered, taking a piece of bread from the wicker basket on the table and tearing off a bite-sized piece that she offered to the small, russet-colored terrier in her lap. He sniffed it warily before devouring it. Wil laughed. “Don’t worry, I plan to get mine tonight too, doll.” She called the waiter over, flailing her arm eagerly. “Darling,” she said with a broad, insincere smile. “We need a bottle of whatever you have that’s sparkling.” “I’m sure something can be arranged,” the young man replied. The Luna Lounge was, after all, one of the most successful speakeasies in the city of New York. It catered to those with money, and for a healthy percentage of the earnings, revenuers happily looked the other way. In fact, the Luna hadn’t been raided once in the seven years it had been in business, thanks to the dependable and irrefutable efficacy of the bribery of public officials. “What’s your name, handsome?” Wil asked the waiter, her hand brushing the top of his in a way that was too casual to be inadvertent. “Fred.” He blushed slightly. “Fred, darling,” she said. “Do you think you could send the canary over our way when her set is done? We’d like to extend our compliments.” He seemed petrified of her advances, but nodded rapidly. “And bring a shot of whatever she drinks too,” Violet added. “Let her know it’s on us.” Again the waiter nodded, then slipped away into the crowd. “Look at you,” Wil joked, “buying the lady a drink. Very smooth, Vi.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Well, if I’m going to become a big star, I need to learn how to make time with all the hot numbers, right?” “Stick with me, kid. I’ll show you everything I know.” “I’ll settle just for what you can remember,” Violet said. “Got your eyes on the waiter, do you?” Wil took a drag on the delicate tip of her cigarette holder. “Fred? Oh, we’re old friends. He understands me in ways no other man can.” “You know he’s queer, right?” Wil exhaled in frustration. “Fuck, another one?” “Afraid so, sister.” “And how exactly do you know this? You’ve seen him at your local chapter meetings, have you?” Violet nodded. “Yup, he usually brings the crullers.” “Damn, it! The tight pants should have tipped me off.” “That, and maybe the way he sashayed to and from our table.” Violet turned to direct her attention back to Moxie. She was now performing an upbeat jazzy number that Violet hadn’t heard before, and Moxie’s hips swayed seductively as she sang about not being able to get enough of her man. Both the tune, as well as the way Moxie sang it, captivated Violet. “Julian!” Wil called merrily. Violet turned to see Wil’s friend arriving at their table. He was a large, rather effeminate man, wearing a brown suit about a half size too small. The buttons of his jacket seemed to strain in anguish to stay secured. His dark hair was combed straight back, and his mustache was razor thin. Cordially, he kissed Wil on the cheek, then stretched over the table to offer Violet the same salutation. “How are you, Violet?” he asked, sitting across from her. “I hear congratulations are in order.” “Thanks, Julian. It’s good to see you.” She smiled brightly. “Are you ready for a night of nonstop sin and depravity?” Wil asked him. “Why else would I have agreed to meet you, darling?” He took a piece of stale bread from the basket. Fred appeared with a bottle of champagne, two glasses, and a stainless-steel bucket for it to chill in. “Here you are, ladies.” He set the bucket down and began to open the bottle. “Will you be needing a third glass?” “Fred,” Wil said, “you’re always so considerate. That’s why I love you so.” She turned to Julian magnanimously. “What did you want to drink, darling?” “I’ll take a gin rickey, Fred.” “Very good, sir.” The waiter pushed the cork out of the bottle with his thumbs, and it finally burst out with a jubilant pop. “Music to my ears,” Wil remarked happily as Fred began to pour the champagne. “Does it remind you of your cherry?” Violet raised her newly filled glass. “I think you overestimate Wil’s memory,” Julian added. “Wasn’t that back during the Trojan War?” Fred accidentally dropped the open bottle into the bucket, nervously verified that no harm was done, and then darted away again. “Fred and I are in love,” Wil explained to Julian. “We’re going to be married.” Julian casually pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his jacket pocket. “You don’t mind that he’s queer?” “I told you,” Violet said, pointing her index finger decisively. “We plan to have one of those open marriages,” Wil said. “Provided that he never stops bringing me whatever I ask for, I can look past his preference for men.” “How progressive,” Violet commented.
After Moxie’s set ended, Fred approached her backstage and touched her shoulder lightly. “Swell show.” She smiled at the compliment as she dabbed her face with a handkerchief. “Thanks. That’s always nice to hear.” “Well, then you might like to hear this as well. Table nine would like you to stop by. They told me to bring whatever you wanted to drink too.” Moxie’s gratification quickly evaporated. “Hmm. Did the offer seem seedy?” He laughed. “It’s probably a lot of things. But I don’t think any of them are seedy.” At one time, Moxie tried to be gracious when strange men fawned over her, and certainly since she had been in New York, that type of attention had only increased. But she had recently made up her mind that she couldn’t bear such social contrivances anymore. She had been hit on by old geezers, married men, and even one fellow so inebriated that he had actually pissed himself and failed to notice it. Fortuitously for him, Moxie had been there to bring his condition to his attention. While she supposed these advances were all intended to be complimentary, it was hard to feel gratitude under the circumstances. Perhaps this admirer would signal her turning luck. After all, Cotton had been telling her that was due to happen any day. “All right, Fred. You’ve piqued my curiosity. Table nine, you said?” He nodded. “Just bring my usual drink.” “You got it.” He headed back over to the bar. Checking her face in the mirror, she ran her hands through her wavy blond hair and tossed the damp handkerchief down with the rest of her things. As she approached table nine, she was suddenly uncertain. Two glamorous-looking women, a plump man, and a small dog sat there—certainly not what she had expected. As she got closer, she observed that the woman with the dog was watching her intently. The woman’s straight black hair was cut in a bob, a bit like Louise Brooks’s, but her eyes were incredibly light, almost gray. The combination was striking. Her elegant evening gown was sea green, and her features were soft and lovely. The other woman at the table was pretty in a different way—red-haired and animated—and though Moxie could not make out what she was saying, her voice carried as if she were either a drunk or a madwoman. She was dressed like a member of high society, but clearly not born into it. Her boisterous and gregarious manners gave her away. The gentleman at the table seemed more reserved, and he had noticed her approach by now as well. Moxie stopped at the table and cleared her throat as the loud redheaded woman was in the middle of a sentence. “…and I told him, ‘Darling, you need to get that away from my vagina’—oh, hello there,” she said, suddenly noticing her. Moxie was stunned, wondering what the beginning of that story could possibly have entailed. “Um, hello. I may have been given the wrong table number.” The other woman at the table smiled, her smoky eyes alight with something. Perhaps amusement? Despite Moxie’s natural suspicions, the brunette’s expression and demeanor put her slightly at ease. “No, this is the right table. We asked Fred to have you stop by so we could tell you how very much we enjoyed your singing.” Moxie remained wary, as she always did. For her, guarded and vigilant were a way of life. “That’s nice of you to say.” “Do have a seat. I’m Violet London, and these are my friends Wilhelmina Skoog and Julian French.” Moxie pulled up a chair and sat, feeling self-conscious around these rather stylish and wealthy people. Why had they asked to see her? They seemed so much more sophisticated than she was. Her eyes were drawn to the small, yawning reddish-brown dog sitting in Violet’s lap. “And who is this?” “Ah, this is Clitty.” Violet held up the dog’s paw to simulate a friendly wave. “That’s an unusual name.” Moxie assured herself that she had either misheard the woman or was simply the victim of her own filthy mind. The dog could not possibly be named that. Violet took a drink of champagne and nodded as she swallowed. “Yes, it’s short for Clitoris.” Apparently Moxie was not the only one with a filthy mind. “Uh…Why would you name your dog that?” “Well, it seemed appropriate,” Violet replied, scratching Clitty’s head between the ears. “I mean, he has a beard.” She playfully tugged the animal’s protracted chin hair. “And he wants to be rubbed all day long.” “But does he want to be licked?” Wil asked. “Lord, Wil,” Julian interjected, exhaling smoke from his nostrils. “I hope you’re not offering.” “Hardly, darling. It’s far too early in the evening for me to have lowered my standards that much.” She looked at her watch. “I won’t settle for less than a human for another three hours.” Fred reappeared and set a bottle of Dr. Pepper in front of Moxie. “Here you go.” “That’s what you ordered?” Violet asked. “I’m not much of a drinker.” “Well, you should have some champagne with us,” Violet said. “We’re celebrating tonight.” “Oh? What for?” “Well,” Violet said, “I’ve been cast in a movie. And I leave tomorrow on the next train to Hollywood.” Moxie was awestruck. This woman was a film star? “That’s wonderful!” Wil waved at Fred to get his attention. “Fred, please bring your lovely singer a champagne glass.” He looked surprised but nodded dutifully. Violet continued. “And that leaves my understudy here ready to step into the leading role of Scandals and Lies on Broadway.” “Ah, that’s why your name sounded familiar. You’re Violet London, the Broadway actress.” Moxie was thrilled not only to meet a successful actress, but one she had actually heard of. It was easy to see why Violet’s career was flourishing. She had an easy charisma about her—an affability that drew in others. “For the rest of tonight I am, at least.” “Wil, you really should do something about your name,” Julian said. “Wilhelmina Skoog neither rolls lightly off the tongue nor looks attractive on a marquee.” “Yes,” Violet said. “You should choose something sexy.” Wil snorted, apparently indignant that her friends would make such a suggestion. “Well, tragically, your Clitoris is taken.” “I only wish it were,” Violet replied as Fred arrived with the champagne glass. He set it in front of Moxie and filled it for her. “Thank you, darling,” Wil cooed. “You poured that like only a real man could.” Fred blushed again, replaced the bottle in the bucket, and sped away. “So, Moxie.” Violet eyed her appreciatively, filling Moxie with a combination of discomfort and warmth. “Perhaps you can convince Wil that she may not be Fred’s type.” Moxie picked up her champagne glass and took a sip. It tasted far better than she thought it would. She had tried to steer clear of indulging in anything that might impair her ever-present prudence. “Well, Fred is—” “You can go ahead and say it, dear,” Julian said with obvious sympathy. “Fred is what?” Wil asked. “A snappy dresser? A mean cribbage player? A large potato bug?” Violet laughed and patted Moxie’s hand. “You don’t have to expose him as a potato bug if you don’t want to, sweetie. After all, that’s nobody’s business but his and the farmer whose crops he destroys.” She took another sip of champagne. “But does he have an affinity for penises?” Julian blurted out. “Because crop damage or not, I think that might be a deal breaker.” Moxie gasped as she inhaled a small amount of champagne into her lungs, and she began to cough violently. Violet patted her on the back helpfully, and before Moxie knew it, Violet was rubbing it in soft circles. She was surprised both by how nice it felt and the inexplicable absence of her natural aversion to physical contact with others. “Now why did you have to go and use that word, Julian? You startled the poor girl,” Violet said. He polished off his gin rickey and set the glass on the table forcefully. “You act as though she’s some fawn in the woods. Just because ‘penis’ is your least favorite word, darling, doesn’t mean that everyone else can’t stomach it.” “Sorry.” Violet had a wry expression on her face. “When you say ‘stomach it,’ what exactly do you mean?” Wil laughed loudly, then polished off her champagne and grabbed the bottle aggressively by the neck. “Damn, doll face. I’m going to miss you,” she said as she refilled her glass. She looked up from her drink. “Oh, I suppose I’ll miss you too, Violet.” Julian gestured to Fred to bring him another round. Moxie’s coughing had abated, but she still sat agog, wondering what these people would say next. They seemed not only candid to the point of mental illness, but they were all decidedly oversexed, and therefore potentially a menace to others. She had never known anyone who bandied about genitalia as they did. Wait, that sounded much worse in her mind than she had intended. “So, what kind of a name is Moxie?” Violet propped her chin on her fist and adopted an expression that implied she was actually interested in what Moxie had to say. Thank God, Moxie thought, a normal question. “Apparently I was a rather strong-willed child.” “Your mother has a sense of humor.” “She did, yes. She passed on about ten years ago.” “I’m so sorry. She must have been a beautiful woman, because you are terribly striking.” Moxie dropped her gaze. “Thank you.” While she was used to that kind of comment from men and could readily brush it aside as so much phony flattery, coming from a woman, a famous one to boot, it somehow seemed more sincere. “Raised by your father?” Violet asked. Moxie shrugged. “Mostly raised by myself.” Violet’s eyebrows arched. “You don’t say.” “Pop passed away just two years after Mom, so then it was just me.” “Brothers or sisters? Grandparents or aunts?” Moxie shook her head, feeling ill at ease talking about her past. She took another drink of champagne. Violet’s eyes warmed. “I’m guessing your childhood wasn’t all nosegays and lollipops.” Moxie smiled in tacit agreement. “Well, I managed to stay out of the orphanage, and I learned how to fend for myself, so I really can’t complain. I had it better than a lot of others.” “Okay, I’ll bite.” Violet was clearly interested in what Moxie was telling her. “How’d you avoid the orphanage?” “I took jobs cooking, cleaning, singing—whatever I could get. I lied about my age until I didn’t need to anymore and just generally kept to myself.” Violet whistled descending notes of astonishment. “That sounds like an invitation for every bindle stiff and grifter in town to take you for a ride.” Moxie’s finger traced the rim of her glass. “I’m not saying they didn’t try, just that they didn’t succeed.” “Clearly you’re not from New York.” “How can you tell?” “Because your soul hasn’t been consumed yet.” Violet’s tone was lighthearted. “Well, it’s nice to know that I still have that to look forward to,” she joked, taking another sip of her drink. “You know, this is really quite good.” “I take it you haven’t seen much of the nightlife in New York unless you’ve been the entertainment?” “No, I try not to participate too much in it. I figure if the cops bust in and raid the place, they’ll let the sober people go.” Wil smiled. “Well, aren’t you just adorable? Thinking that cops let people who aren’t political officials go.” “Adorable is a very good assessment,” Violet said softly, looking into Moxie’s eyes for what felt like a prolonged period of time. Moxie panicked. Was this woman—a celebrity, no less—making advances toward her? If so, this was certainly a first. But New York seemed full of firsts for her. “My husband uses that word to describe me sometimes too,” she lied. Violet’s gaze narrowed, as though she was scrutinizing Moxie. “Well, your husband’s correct. You’re just as cute as a box of kittens.” As Fred returned to the table with another gin rickey for Julian, Violet raised her glass. “Let’s toast, everyone.” They all held their glass to the center of the table. “To continued success.” Glasses clinked together and everyone drank. “I hope you don’t have to sing any more tonight,” Wil said. “Oh, no. I only have two sets a night, so far. And that was my second.” “So you might get more?” Julian poured more champagne for all of them. Moxie was too polite to refuse. “If I start really packing them in, yes. And of course the more sets I play a night, the more money I make.” “How long have you been in New York?” Violet fed another piece of bread to Clitty. “Only six months.” She took a longer sip of bubbly. “What of the city have you really seen?” Wil asked. Feeling suddenly embarrassed, Moxie gazed at the ceiling. “Um…I’ve seen the Statue of Liberty and the Chrysler Building. And I went down to Fifth Avenue to see that brand-new skyscraper that’s even taller, the Empire State Building. It’s massive.” Violet looked disappointed. “But those are things for tourists. You live here now.” “I know. I just don’t get out much. By the time I get off work, I don’t want to do anything but crawl home and sleep.” “Wil here can give you a tour of the underside of every table in every gin joint in town,” Julian said in mock helpfulness. Wil cleared her throat indignantly. “Excuse me,” she said, “but I believe you mean the underside of only the finest tables in every gin joint in town.” He laughed. “You’re right, darling. How stupid of me.” Moxie chuckled at their teasing and enjoyed the bubbles in the champagne a little more. “Then you should see the city with us tonight,” Violet said. “Visit the places only the locals can take you.” She was hesitant. “I don’t know—” All the mental alarms in Moxie’s head were still clanging away, but somehow she was becoming increasingly acclimated to their tones of danger. Whether it was the booze or the easy laughter, what had started out as sirens now sounded more like a jazzman on the vibraphone. “Vi is right,” Wil announced. “You absolutely should come out with us. One night with us and you can stay in for the rest of the year and still feel like you’ve sowed your oats.” “I’d like to hang on to my oats, if that’s all right.” Violet looked amused. “Fair enough, doll. You keep a tight hold on your oats and just try to look the other way when Wil starts pelting strangers with hers.” Everyone howled, including Moxie. She didn’t feel threatened by this trio, she supposed, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed herself so much. She really had been meaning to see the rest of New York, though she internally vowed to keep her wits about her at all times and leave at the first sign of trouble. “Well, I guess I could join you for a bit.” “Excellent. I’ll wager you’ll see a thing or two you’ve never seen before the night is over.”
12:15 a.m. Moxie decided—after several glasses of champagne—that not only were these folks not a bad sort, but that they were absolutely hysterical. Though they were, without question, easily the oddest people she had ever met, they were also, at least to some degree, well connected in show business, not to mention astoundingly clever. Moxie personally challenged herself to keep up with all their quips and asides, though she discovered the task was particularly taxing now that she was not completely clearheaded. At midnight, the group determined that they wanted to head to Swing Street, though she had never heard of such a place, and they all gleefully jammed their bodies into a single taxi. Moxie almost couldn’t wait to get back to her apartment and tell her roommate Irene how she had spent her evening. She doubted Irene would even believe her. “Um, are you from New York originally?” Moxie asked Violet in a thinly veiled attempt to use pleasantries to mask the awkwardness of sitting on Violet’s lap. She silently marveled at how Violet seemed to so coolly take everything in stride. She didn’t appear to find the arrangement in the cab uncomfortable in the least. “Baltimore,” Violet replied, shaking her head. “How long have you lived here?” Violet’s eyes took on a wistful glint. “Six years. I came to town on my twenty-first birthday, determined to show everyone else that I really could live my life as a woman of independent means.” Wil chortled. “Darling, don’t sell yourself short. Anyone who jacks people off in back alleys can be a woman of independent means.” Julian cleared his throat. “Let us not malign back-alley jack-offs. Those have been some of my fondest times. It’s a dying art.” “You’re such a purist, Julian,” Violet said. “Well, you know the old wives’ tale,” he replied, picking up Clitty and moving him slightly to the right of his lap. “Why can’t this dog’s pointy elbows stop gouging my scrotum?” Violet scoffed. “That is a very obscure old wives’ tale. So what does it mean? A scrotum gouge means good luck is coming your way?” Julian sniffed. “It means if it continues, I will openly weep.” “Those old wives were all dirty whores,” Wil said gravely. “So it’s really an old whores’ tale,” Violet said. Wil checked her makeup in her compact. “I would think those would be slightly less reliable, darling.” “Here we are,” the taxi driver droned, pulling the car to an abrupt stop on Fifty-second Street. As Moxie was catapulted toward the front seat, Violet agilely grabbed her around the waist and stopped her forward progress. “Whew! You okay, tomato?” Violet didn’t move her hands from Moxie’s hips. Moxie, who had entered the cab somewhat disoriented, was certainly no better off now, feeling as though she had nearly been launched like a cannonball. She stared dumbly into Violet’s gray eyes. The door opened and they all spilled out into the balmy evening as Julian paid the driver. “And where are we again?” Moxie asked, surveying her surroundings for some sign or landmark. “The Twenty-one Club,” Violet answered. “Ever been before?” Moxie shook her head as they walked through the large cast-iron gates and down the steps to the front door. “I’m starting to think I haven’t ever been anywhere.” Violet laughed as Julian and Wil began to sweet-talk the doorman. Moxie felt rather eager when he finally ushered them inside. “Well, now you’re in New York, doll,” Violet assured her. “So hang on to your bloomers.” She tugged Moxie by the elbow while still carrying her terrier protectively. The inside of the 21 Club was something that Moxie could never have imagined. The glimpses she got through the haze of smoke were of leather, brass, and dark, deeply stained wood. The place was a lot bigger inside than the outside implied, and people were everywhere—seated at tables, standing at the bar, and milling back and forth between the two. They were led straight back to a table for four, though Violet stopped when she saw a woman seated a few tables away on the left. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she muttered, setting Clitty down on her chair. “Who’s that?” Moxie whispered to Julian, sensing that this was not a happy reunion. Julian eyed the petite brunette across from them. “Oh, that’s Dorothy Parker, critic for The New Yorker. Vi’s probably a little upset at the review she gave both Scandals and Lies and Vi personally. It was not flattering. I think she used the word puke. ” “Well.” Violet approached the critic’s table. Dorothy Parker was drinking alone and looked as though she wanted to remain that way. “Mrs. Parker, as I live and breathe.” Mrs. Parker looked up from what she was busily writing on a pad of paper. “Ordinarily, I’m not one to be a spoiler. But rumor has it, if you stop doing either one of those things, you tend to end badly.” She took another sip of her martini. Wil looked angry as she began to peel off her gloves. “It’s a pity you aren’t speaking from experience.” Mrs. Parker appeared both tipsy and indifferent. “I am. I learned it from most of your audience at your last matinee. Luckily, it consisted of only me, two hobos, and a party of cockroaches. So no real damage was done.” Violet raised an eyebrow. “No wonder I didn’t see you there. I must have assumed you were part of the cockroach party. Next time just tell us you’re coming beforehand, darling, and avoid the confusion. I’d hate for someone to callously step on you.” Wil jumped in to help her friend. “Yes, had we known you were there we would have had you seated more appropriately—in a urine puddle in the alley outside, maybe.” The critic rolled her eyes. “If only your play had been this witty. No, wait. Your play was supposed to be a drama, wasn’t it? I suppose your repartee wouldn’t have helped much then. Never mind.” “I hear the play’s better when you’re sober,” Violet suggested. “You should try it some time.” Mrs. Parker scoffed. “Sobriety is overrated. Much as your play is. Is the rumor that you’re walking away from the abysmal thing and heading to Hollywood true?” “It is,” Violet said. “Well, I suppose they can always use another shit-peddler out there.” The critic signaled for the waiter to bring her another drink by waving her lit cigarette at him. Violet crossed her arms defiantly. “You know, Mrs. Parker, it’s statistically impossible for you to hate everything in the world except gin. Are you saying that there isn’t the tiniest part of you, albeit deeply repressed, that might want a job in Hollywood?” “I’d rather pass a hairbrush through my colon, actually.” During the ensuing moment of silence everyone no doubt pictured the haunting image. “Well,” Wil said flatly, “as always, it’s been lovely.” She put her arm around Violet’s shoulders and led her back to their table, where they took their seats. “Damn her,” Violet whispered angrily as she moved Clitty onto her lap. “Don’t let her ruin your celebration.” Moxie felt a pang of sympathy for her. This had been the first moment since she met Violet that she was not composed and sharp-witted. “You are celebrating a role in a Hollywood film, while she’s here alone. So who really comes out on top?” “I suppose you’re right. Though it’s hard to shake the sting of someone who completely eviscerates you for sport.” The waiter arrived at the table to collect everyone’s drink order. “A gin rickey,” Julian said. “I’m ready to move on from champagne,” Wil said. “Bring me a Bronx, darling.” “What are you having?” Violet asked Moxie. “It’s on me.” “I’m actually a little tipsy. I probably shouldn’t have anything else.” “Do you like licorice?” “I suppose.” Moxie wasn’t sure what that question had to do with cocktails. “If you’re still feeling adventurous, I have an idea. You’re under no obligation other than to taste it.” Violet motioned to the waiter. “A bottle of absinthe and three glasses.” “Very good,” the waiter said, heading back to the bar. “Absinthe?” Moxie asked. Wil smiled as she lit a cigarette. “Ah, absinthe—the green fairy. I have a love-hate relationship with her.” “Which makes it just like every other relationship in your life,” Julian said. “Darling, be kind,” Wil chided. “I’m still trying to get over Fred. He broke my heart.” “What color fairy was Fred?” Violet asked. Moxie laughed loudly, covering her mouth with her hand. Wil looked amused. “Well, look at that. Mary Pickford over there is finally coming around.” Julian smirked. “You must be rubbing off on her, Violet.” “With any hope at all,” Wil muttered under her breath as she brought her cigarette holder to her lips. “You know,” Moxie said, “before I came to New York, I thought I had been around the block.” Violet’s eyes softened. “We have longer blocks here.” For a moment, Moxie sensed that something was hanging unspoken in the air. But before she could ponder that thought further, the waiter arrived with the drinks. When he set the bottle of bright green liquor in front of her, she had second thoughts. It definitely did not look safe to drink. “What the hell is that?” “Mother’s milk,” Wil answered. “If your mother happens to be a leprechaun,” Moxie said with a snicker. The waiter uncorked the bottle and set down three glasses, three ornate metal utensils, a pitcher of what looked to be water, and a bowl of sugar cubes before he disappeared back into the crowd. Violet filled one of the oddly shaped glasses with liquor, to the point where the round bottom part of the glass met the straight upper section. She picked up one of the silver utensils in one hand and a sugar cube in the other. “Watch this.” “You need a special tool to drink this? Please tell me this stuff goes in the mouth.” Violet laughed as she balanced the flat slotted spoon on top of the absinthe glass. “Well, since you’re a beginner, I guess we can make an exception this time.” She then set the sugar cube on the spoon and poured the water over the top of it until the glass was about two-thirds full. The clear, emerald liquor turned a light milky green as the water, sugar, and absinthe mysteriously coalesced. “This is called the louche.” She removed the spoon and took a sip. “Louche?” Moxie asked. “What does that mean?” Violet offered her the glass so she could assess her mixing skills. “The louche is kind of like taking something already remarkable and, by adding some other unrelated exceptional ingredient, making it beautiful in a whole new way.” The poetry of Violet’s words impressed Moxie, and she wondered if other things in life combined to create a louche—perhaps people. Regardless, Moxie decided to try the drink without reservation. She took a sip and closed her eyes as she swallowed. “Damn! That’s not bad.” “In all the time I’ve known you, when have I ever steered you wrong?” “You’re right. It’s been a very pleasant few hours.” She watched Violet fill another glass with only water and offer it to the dog in her lap, which drank happily, but sent water flying all around him. Amused, Moxie couldn’t pass up the opportunity to comment. “Your Clitoris is making a wet mess.” Violet smiled seductively. “Thanks for noticing.” “Er…Do you take him everywhere you go?” “Yes, for the most part. I found him one night as I was coming out of the theater.” The dog stopped drinking, then lay back down in her lap contentedly and closed his eyes. “He was a sad, bedraggled little mess. And once I took him home, washed and fed him, he never wanted to leave my side.” “I’ve had dates like that, darling,” Wil said, taking a long sip of her Bronx cocktail. “One time I had to pretend I was dead to get the son of a bitch to leave.” Julian laughed. “Was that before or after the sex?” “During, actually. You know men in bed.” She looked at Violet and paused. “Oh, well…” She turned to Julian. “ You know men in bed. They’re happy if you participate, but it’s not really necessary for them. It’s like the difference between a four-course meal and a five-course meal. They’re happy to get dessert, but if need be, they’ll just double up on dinner rolls.” Violet began to mix a glass of absinthe for herself. “Well, hopefully the poor man didn’t think his lovemaking had killed you.” “I was more likely to perish from the boredom than from anything else.” Julian traced the path of his mustache with his index finger. “Well, if he ever buys tickets to Scandals and Lies, he’ll get the shock of his life. Our deceased Miss Skoog will be there illuminated by the footlights.” “I thought I was changing my name,” Wil reminded them, taking a long drag of her Chesterfield. “Let’s hear some suggestions.” They mulled for a moment. “Urethra Dejeuner,” Julian offered. “Darling,” Wil said. “As delightfully French as that sounds, I don’t know that I want to be known as Pee-hole Lunch, but I suppose it’s a start.” Violet set down her spoon as she pondered further. “How about Veneria Dungbottom? You could be V.D. for short.” Wil frowned. “Sounds a little too folksy for me.” “Play off the red hair,” Julian suggested. “Go with something blatantly Irish, like Jiggles McTavish.” “Too ethnic,” was all Wil replied. “Genitalia Finkelstein,” Moxie said, starting to settle into the rapid-fire discourse enough to add her two cents. Violet seemed pleasantly surprised at her participation. “No, I knew a Genitalia Finkelstein in high school. She might sue.” “Pity,” Moxie replied in amusement, sipping her absinthe. “It’s such a pretty name.” “Yes, and she was a lovely girl. But she was far too sensitive.” Everyone laughed loudly. Moxie let the fast-paced, witty mood wash over her, flush with the revelation that the banter was even more enjoyable when you were a direct participant. “So what is this movie you’re off to make?” “It’s called Manhattan Rhapsody, ” Violet replied. “It’s a Pinnacle picture.” Moxie giggled. “You’re going all the way to California to make a film about New York?” “Apparently most of Manhattan can be reproduced on the back lot. They just rub it with a little filth and, presto—instant New York.” Wil set down her now-empty cocktail glass. “Well, darling, do let them know that I’m available anytime to be rubbed with filth.” Julian smirked. “That’s common knowledge, dear.” “Pinnacle Pictures?” Moxie was even more in awe. “That’s T. Z. Walter’s studio, isn’t it?” Violet nodded. “So what’s it about?” Violet’s face lit up as she started to talk about her project. “Well, a wealthy socialite—” “You,” Moxie interjected. “—loses everything in the stock-market crash.” “So it’s a comedy,” Julian remarked dryly. Violet continued. “She has to learn how to do everything for herself, for the first time. So the audience gets the joy of watching her struggle.” “And in the end?” Moxie asked. “I think she meets a rich man and marries him and her problems are solved…or some shit like that.” She took a drink. “I suppose that is the proverbial happy ending,” Moxie argued weakly. “What I’m hoping I can do, before the picture wraps, is to talk them into a better ending. One where a rich man offers to take her away from her poverty, and she gives him the finger and tells him, ‘No thanks, Bub. I’d rather work for a living.’” Julian took another drag on his cigarette. “So I was wrong. It’s not a comedy. It’s a fantasy.” “We’re not all just aspiring to be bought and paid for,” Violet countered. “Some of us are more than happy to be given a chance to succeed all on our own.” “Hear! Hear!” Wil said. “Though you might feel differently if you enjoyed sex with men.” “I can be kept just as easily by a rich woman as I can by a rich man,” she explained. “So I don’t know if I buy that argument.” “Ha!” Wil dismissed that assertion with a wave of her cigarette holder. Everything was now clicking into place for Moxie. The long admiring looks from Violet, her compliments, the wry comments from the others. Perhaps everything she had heard about theater people was actually true—eccentric, hedonistic, sexually capricious devil worshippers. And while none of them had mentioned Satan all night, he could certainly still come up. Violet was still trying to make her point. “Why is it acceptable for only a man to have ambition that doesn’t include living off someone else’s fortune?” Julian scoffed. “And why should marrying well be a goal that only extends to women? Darling, find me a rich man and I’ll settle down in a second.” “Whatever happened to true love?” Violet asked. “And what happened to integrity?” She turned to Moxie, who was unsuccessfully trying to look as though she weren’t surprised at the disclosure that Violet was attracted to women. “Didn’t you marry your husband for love?” “Who? Oh, him! The husband. My husband. Yes, we’re madly in love.” Violet cocked an eyebrow. “What’s his name?” Her voice was tinged with suspicion. Moxie searched her mind for an answer. “Filbert,” she finally answered. “Your husband is named after a nut?” Wil asked. “Ha,” she said awkwardly. “I suppose so.” As Violet studied her, Moxie was alert enough to realize she was clearly intoxicated and making an abominable attempt to perpetuate her earlier lie. Violet glanced at Moxie’s left ring finger, which sported no wedding band. What could Violet be thinking about her? Would she jump to the conclusion that Moxie was deluded? Or would she simply write her off as a filthy liar? “Darlings,” Wil said. “I’m feeling a little restless. You know what I need?” “Satan?” Moxie asked timidly. Wil stared at her for several seconds. “Well, no. But if he pays his own way I guess you can bring him along. What I need is a touch of the white lady.” “I’ll second that,” Julian replied. “Who?” Moxie whispered to Violet. “It’s more of a what, actually. And it means heading to Harlem—to a buffet flat.” “A buffet flat?” “Come on along,” she said. “If you think what you’ve seen so far is amazing, you won’t believe this place.”
1:50 a.m. “Where the hell are we?” Moxie asked as they made their way through a small crowd and into what was undoubtedly someone’s West Harlem home. “Who lives here?” “Two-finger Flossie.” Violet placed her hand on Moxie’s back and gently guided her through the house. “She’s only got two fingers?” Violet leaned in close to her ear. “Flossie’s famous for ‘two fingers of gin and two fingers within.’” She waggled her first two fingers in unison as though to elucidate. Moxie’s brain wasn’t working to full capacity. “She puts her fingers in the gin?” “Under the circumstances, I sure as hell hope not.” Before Moxie could ponder Violet’s meaning further, they arrived in the crowded parlor and stopped to observe the crowd. In the corner, someone was playing ragtime on the piano. The room was filled with people of all races dancing, drinking, and smoking. Two men sat on a plush love seat locked in a tight embrace and kissing deeply. A naked woman was balancing a half-full bottle of gin on her forehead, while several men crouched on the floor throwing dice for cash. Moxie blinked several times, trying to take it all in. “Why are we here again?” “We all have our reasons, sister,” Wil answered as she pushed past them and disappeared into the crowd with Julian. “What does that mean?” Violet set her terrier on the floor. “Well, Julian’s here to find himself a man,” she explained. “Preferably one of his famous back-alley frolics. Wil’s here to make a different type of connection.” “Oh?” Violet looked somewhat sheepish. “She’s here to get some cocaine—the ‘white lady’ she referred to. As you can see, you can get anything in a buffet flat.” “So why are you here? What’s your vice?” “Baked Alaska,” she said, one corner of her mouth rising infinitesimally. Moxie had lost the physical ability to hide her disapproval. Did these people have no scruples whatsoever? “Baked Alaska, the dessert? Or is that code for something too? Like having flaming heroin blown into your ass with a straw?” “No, it’s the dessert.” She paused conspiratorially. “But I like to eat it off a dead hooker.” “And cheesecake just won’t do?” “It’s too heavy. Makes me feel bloated.” “Well, that’s no good,” Moxie said, laughter betraying her words. “You don’t want to feel that way every time you come across a dead hooker.” “Exactly. That’s a waste of a perfectly good naked carcass.” A tall, dark-skinned man dressed in women’s clothes and dolled up to the nines approached them, his long false eyelashes fluttering like blossoms in a breeze. “Did I hear the word naked ?” Violet’s face lit up and she kissed him briefly on the mouth. “Sweetie, you look fabulous!” she told him. “As do you, sister.” He traced her cheek lightly with his slender index finger. “How are things?” “You know me. Everything’s jake. Moxie, meet Lady Dulce La Boeuf. Lady Dulce, this is Moxie Valette.” He seemed to study her for a moment as he took her gently by the wrists. “Honey, I could just eat cobbler straight out of your ass with a spoon.” She froze at both his words and his appearance in a mixture of shock and confusion. “Is that a good thing?” “Absolutely,” he assured her. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Violet said with a wink. “So, what have we missed tonight?” “You missed my singing, you silly bitch. But I suppose I’ll forgive you.” Violet chuckled. “Moxie here is a singer too.” He tilted his head curiously. “Is that so? I like you already, doll face.” Despite her initial misgivings, Moxie felt a bit more at ease upon hearing his words. Well, his words coupled with the fact that she was crazy about the beaded ivory dress he was wearing. “You know who’s upstairs?” “Who’s that?” Violet asked. “I was just heading up to see Smokey Bender.” Violet seemed interested and clapped once. “Let’s go up and see him.” They started toward the staircase and Moxie leaned forward so Violet could hear her. “Who is Smokey Bender?” “He’s…a performer.” “Hmm, why did you hesitate?” “Because he’s an acquired taste, so I didn’t want to call him an entertainer. You may not find him entertaining.” They reached a room at the top of the staircase filled with people, and the three of them crowded just inside the doorway. “There he is. This will be a treat.” “Why is he taking off his pants?” Moxie asked in concern. A small, wiry man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties pulled his trousers down and stepped out of them, then folded them neatly and handed them to a woman to his left. “You’ll see,” Lady Dulce murmured. “Is this some genitalia puppet show?” Moxie was aghast as the man then did the same with his underwear, turned so he was facing away from everyone, and bent at the waist. He reached out again to the woman holding his clothing, and she handed him a lit cigar. The crowd seemed pleased, and some onlookers clapped and offered words of encouragement. He inserted the cigar into his rectum and, to Moxie’s amazement, began to draw and expel smoke. The applause grew louder. Lady Dulce whispered conspiratorially, “How about that?” “That is one unbelievable asshole,” she answered. “Wait until he blows the smoke rings,” Violet added. Moxie’s current inebriated state, coupled with the parade of the bizarre before her, left her unable to distinguish sarcasm from the laws of physics. “Really?” She laughed softly. “No, not really. But he will extinguish a candle in a minute or two in what will appear to be a very uncomfortable manner.” “Christ almighty,” she whispered, watching him ignite a fart with a cigarette lighter. Wil and Julian appeared in the doorway then, and Violet signaled them over. “Lady Dulce, you remember my wonderful friends Urethra Dejeuner and her fiancé Red Nobgobbler, man-about-town.” Lady Dulce was clearly amused. “How could I forget?” Wil suddenly ducked and tried to hide behind Julian. “What is it?” he asked, scanning the crowd. “It’s D.B.,” she answered softly, pressing her back up against his. Moxie looked at Violet. “Who’s D.B.?” “An old conquest of our gal here. Apparently it didn’t end well and, really, when has it ever? Ah, there he is, by the window.” Moxie, Lady Dulce, and Julian immediately looked at him in interest, and when the gentleman saw that he was being stared at by not one, but a group of people, his expression changed to one of grave concern. He looked down suspiciously at his fly. “I thought that man’s name was Floyd,” Lady Dulce said. “D.B. is a special nickname Wil gave him,” Violet explained, her voice breaking with a hint of laughter. Wil cleared her throat. “It stands for douchebag, because sex with him felt a lot like being flushed out with a bag of lukewarm Lysol.” “Ouch,” Lady Dulce whispered. “I’m sure somehow he remembers your evening together more pleasantly,” Julian said before taking a sip of his drink. “It would be hard for him not to, I’m thinking,” Moxie said with a wince. She looked at her new friend in drag. “‘Dulce La Boeuf’? Is that Italian and French?” “Si and oui. Loosely, it means sweet meat.” “Or sweetly, does it mean loose meat?” Moxie asked, drunkenly cackling at her pun. Lady Dulce laughed too and brushed Moxie’s elbow in a familiar way. “You want a drink, doll?” “Only if it means I don’t have to see Mr. Cavity here put anything else in his anus.” “You have a deal. Come on.” He took her by the hand and pulled her out of the room and back downstairs. Julian raised an eyebrow. “Are you just going to let your date leave with the first woman with a penis she meets?” Wil was still hiding behind Julian. “Now, now, Jules. Not everyone can have the same appreciation of the anal arts that you do.” She peeked around him to see what Smokey Bender was doing now. “Holy Christ, is that a weasel he’s putting in there?” “It’s someone’s mink stole,” Violet explained flatly. Julian grimaced. “Does Smokey reimburse for the cleaning bills?” Violet wasn’t paying much attention anymore. “So what do you both think of Moxie?” “She’s charming.” Wil stole a look to ensure that D.B. had not spied her from across the room. “I’m sure her husband thinks so too,” Julian said. “Oh, darling,” Wil said. “You can’t possibly think that girl is married.” “No?” “Absolutely not. She just wanted to make sure Vi here didn’t cop a feel.” “That’s what I was thinking too,” Violet said. “Her husband is awfully convenient.” Julian raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe you just don’t want to believe it.” She sighed in frustration as she idly watched Smokey Bender launch a cocktail wiener across the room and the crowd rapidly part to avoid it. “I don’t know, Jules. There’s something about her that fascinates me.” “Her jugs, perhaps?” he asked. “After all, what can be more fascinating than a pair of perfect jugs?” “No,” Wil said. “It’s her ass, isn’t it? Wait, no. Her gams. I vote for the gams.” “Besides all that,” Violet explained, “I feel drawn to her.” “And her jugs, ass, and gams,” Julian added glibly. “Understood.” “Well, sister,” Wil said. “You only have tonight to make it happen. So why are you standing here watching some fella push hors d’oeuvres out his fanny? Go find her.”
2:40 a.m. “Where the hell did she go?” Violet asked herself in frustration. She and Clitty had been through every room in the house at least once and didn’t see Moxie anywhere. Based on how many people were milling about, however, she wasn’t close to panicking. It would have been easy to miss her in the crowd. Wil approached her in a room where people were gathering to watch a couple have sex on the floor. “Hey, Jules seems to have found himself a human almond frappe—all nuts and foam.” “Is that so? Is he somewhere shamefully lying about how much money he makes?” Wil propped her hands on her hips. “Well, I’m fairly certain he can’t be saying too much, what with that fella’s dick in his mouth and all.” “I suppose that’s a good way to avoid awkward conversation.” “And I found your gal while I was at it,” Wil said. “Tell me she isn’t trapped under a cluster of fornicators.” “Even better than that,” she replied blithely. “She’s downstairs singing a duet with Lady Dulce La Boeuf.” Violet stared at her in disbelief, searching for some sign that she was putting her on. “Seriously?” “I wouldn’t miss it, if I were trying to seduce her.” “Point taken.” She snapped her fingers to call Clitty, who—along with Wil—fell in step behind her, and headed downstairs. As they rounded the corner at the foot of the stairs, first she heard Moxie, and then she actually saw her. She and Lady Dulce were standing near the pianist, who was playing a song that Violet had never heard before. Their harmony was impressive, even if the lyrics weren’t. Don’t dare call me a flapper. Fitzgerald’s not my man. I’m wallowing in the crapper, because my stocks are in the can. Now I want to survive, though I don’t mean to be crass. It looks like to stay alive I’ll have to peddle my ass! Can’t bear to stand in a breadline. Hoover’s just not my guy. I’m living off of moonshine, How else will I ever get by? Now I want to survive, and don’t think that I don’t have class. But it looks like to stay alive I’ll have to peddle it— Don’t belittle it. Won’t you diddle it? That should settle it— Have to peddle my ass! On the final note, both Moxie and Lady Dulce spanked themselves, and the rowdy audience applauded enthusiastically. Violet walked toward Moxie, clapping and nodding her approval. “Well, that was quite a tearjerker.” Moxie’s cheeks were flushed, and Violet had no doubt that she’d had more to drink since she’d last seen her. “I love ballads,” she replied, her brown eyes sparkling. They stood mutely for several moments, until Lady Dulce gave Moxie’s back a playful push, sending her only inches from colliding with Violet. “Take a break, doll,” he said, nodding to the pianist. “I’ve got this number.” The dulcet tones on the piano began, and he started singing Irving Berlin’s “What’ll I Do?” “Dance, sailor?” Violet asked. “You…and me?” Moxie looked self-conscious. Violet took a step closer so their chests were nearly touching. “You and me.” She held her hands out, offering to lead. Moxie looked around at the crowd nervously. “If you think you’re going to get stared at here, sister, you’re sadly mistaken. You could sodomize a monkey right in this room, and all you’d get from these folks would be pointers.” Moxie laughed and shrugged off her discomfort. After all, having seen a man do magic tricks with his rectum, dancing with another woman not only seemed innocuous, it felt as respectable as holy sacrament. She placed her right hand in Violet’s outstretched left one, and when Violet grasped her waist and pulled her closer, her breath caught. At some point, Moxie realized that her feet were moving and that she was, in fact, dancing. But she was so tipsy her head seemed filled with a thick fog. “Out of courtesy, I’d recommend that you stay away from the cocktail wieners,” Violet suggested. Moxie was confused by the unusual advice. “I’ll do that. You know, you’re not too bad at this.” “I do have other talents besides acting.” “I’ve noticed.” “Is that so? Do tell.” Moxie felt herself blush slightly as her body swayed against Violet’s. “Well, you’re quick-witted and intelligent.” “A clever ruse—nothing more.” “And you can certainly put away the booze.” “Now that’s a talent to speak of. But please note that you have had much more to drink this evening than I have.” Violet’s right hand moved on Moxie’s hip ever so slightly, but the light caress both startled and excited her. “I—I have?” “Yes,” she whispered provocatively near her ear. The sensation gave Moxie chills. “Anything else you want to give me credit for?” “Isn’t it my turn yet?” “I suppose so. You have a beautiful voice,” Violet said, her mouth so close to Moxie’s neck that she could feel her warm breath. “Oh.” “And you have got to be one of the sexiest women—who doesn’t realize she’s sexy—that I’ve ever met.” “Can I add what a smoothie you are to your list?” Moxie’s voice sounded deeper and throatier than she would have liked. “Me?” “Oh, most definitely you. You have more lines than a telephone operator.” Violet pulled back to look into her eyes. “While that may be, you really are beautiful.” “Thanks.” It was a moment before Moxie realized that Lady Dulce was no longer singing and the song had changed to something upbeat and jazzy. Her head was spinning. “Are you all right?” “I think I need to sit down.” Violet led her back to where Lady Dulce and Wil had perched on a plush leather sofa, preparing even more drinks. Moxie sat next to them, feeling self-conscious that she had just been so intimately entwined with Violet. She slouched into the cushions uneasily. Violet sank into an armchair and snapped her fingers for Clitty, who trotted over and curled into a ball at her feet. “So, that was nice,” Wil said, her voice thick with innuendo. She offered Moxie a glass of an alluring amber liquid. “And so is this.” “What is it?” “A sidecar,” she explained. “You’ll love it.” Violet looked cautious. “You know, it may be a good idea to stop drinking.” “This is good,” she exclaimed, drinking some more of the tart cocktail. Violet sighed. “And you said you’re not a drinker,” Wil said, tapping glasses with her. “Even I’m impressed, kid.” Lady Dulce chimed in. “That says a lot. I’ve seen her drink for over twenty-four hours straight.” Wil chuckled. “Remember that time the coppers gave us the buzz?” As Wil began her tale of bold, drunken debauchery, Moxie’s attention kept drifting elsewhere. Her eyes settled on Violet, who had a rather nice profile, she decided. She really did look like a beautiful movie star. Her face was so striking and expressive, and her light eyes mesmerized Moxie. What was going on? How did this woman, a stranger, really, draw her in this way? Why was she having to force herself not to stare? Why had she enjoyed that dance more than her last dozen dates? Well, she really hadn’t had much of a sexual history, she mused. It wasn’t like she was able to properly compare the sensations that Violet elicited to the ones her old beaus evoked. Hell, it had been well over a year since she had even gone on a date. Most of the time the fellas were so dull she didn’t even bother to accept their invitations. The ones she had gotten involved with seemed attracted to her initially, but somehow the relationships always culminated with them pulling out their dick, usually in the most inconvenient locations. Sometimes it took a few weeks for it to happen, sometimes just a few minutes. Every man she had known seemed like a large jack-in-the-box. If you decided to play, at some point it would come flying out at you. And even though you knew what to expect, it somehow always startled you and, in her case, left her wondering what to do with it. She gazed again at Violet. Was she so different from those palookas Moxie had dated? Violet seemed just as intent on making time with her as all the others had, though she was a slightly better dancer than most. Good Lord, was she actually considering Violet as a prospective lover? Had the drink, coupled with her abysmal love life, somehow skewed her perspective? When she got up this morning, she knew two things—she was not cheap, and she was not a lesbian. What odd turn of events would make those two certainties blur from fact into ambivalence in the span of a day? Julian reappeared and took a seat across from Violet. He now looked somehow rumpled, and Moxie wondered if he had found what he came here for. She glanced back to Violet and watched her index finger ever so lightly trace her lower lip as she seemed to take in Wil’s anecdote with interest. Somehow the thought of the touch of that h
