“Even if you did manage to make your way inside,” the housekeeper cautioned, “you are asking for trouble as a stray woman mingling among those types of men. They tend to be attracted to a certain… class of woman, if you know what I mean.”
“Thank you for your concern, but I assure you I’m not the type to attract sleazy men.” Or any men for that matter.
“Good luck, then. You’ll need it.”
Trouble, however, was one thing Sam was good at attracting.
Chapter 15
“No women allowed,” the Gaslight Club’s balding doorman barked at Sam while a sexy woman in heels clicked past, her sparkly red dress matching the velvet red rope that kept Sam out. The woman blew the attendant a red-lipped kiss as she disappeared into the speakeasy.
“Hey, what about her? You just let her in,” Sam shot back.
“She belongs here. Yinz don’t.”
As Sam nudged forward in line, she knew the doorman was right. She would have rather been at the DMV than the posh three-story private club exclusive to its elite male-only members with more combined wealth than most third world countries. Sharing space with the city’s finest chauvinistic bachelors wasn’t Sam’s idea of a good time, but it was the only way to get close to Thomas Cook, who she suspected was one of them.
“Haven’t you heard of the Unruh Civil Rights Act?” Sam asked.
“Huh?” The bouncer’s forehead scrunched halfway up his bare scalp.
“It’s a law that prohibits businesses from engaging in unlawful discrimination based on sex, race, color, religi—”
“Okay, okay, I get it, lady,” the bouncer growled. “What’s your point?”
In all likelihood, few people had heard of the Unruh Civil Rights Act, which only applied to California and did not, in fact, apply to private clubs such as the Gaslight. Nor was the act enforced in favor of women. But Sam hedged her bets that anyone who worked at the Gaslight Club was none the wiser and would prefer not to debate litigation when the line of antsy members waiting behind her was growing around the block.
“My point is that you’re discriminating against me as a woman, which is illegal and can be prosecuted in a court of law.”
“It’s the club’s rule, not mine. Why don’t yinz go dahntahn?” he asked, his Pittsburgh dialect coming out more with each syllable.
“I don’t want to go downtown. I want to go here. Why don’t you take me to the club’s owner and I’ll talk to him about it. Or,” Sam paused, “simply let me in and I’ll be out of your hair… what’s left of it.”
He ran his hand self-consciously over a few stray strands on the sides.
“Fine,” he mumbled under his breath as he unclipped the velvet rope to let her through, “what’s up yinz nose with a rubber hose?”
When she entered the dark lobby, Sam stopped at a poster hanging on the painted brick wall featuring upcoming events, one of which was the Maxine Sullivan—flugelhorn sensation, jazz singer, and the only woman entertainer given stage to perform at the Gaslight Club to date. A step, albeit a small one, toward progress, Sam supposed.
Meandering through a dimly lit corridor that led to the cozy speakeasy lounge, round tables dotted the room with votive candles centered on each one. Men in suits, legs casually crossed, sat laughing and boasting as scantily-dressed waitresses endured slaps on the rear in hopes of a bigger tip.
Avoiding the crowd, Sam found herself wandering up to a bare stage where a man—sweaty, ruddy-faced, and clearly plied with alcohol—stood in front of a humble audience of about twenty. His gaze locked on Sam’s face, then he sputtered something that resembled poetry, but terribly so:
“When I see your face,
It reminds me of you.
In every place,
With every cue.
If I were Shakespeare with a heart-shaped quill,
I’d write a sonnet from my heart,
And bring you a heart-shaped daffodil.
If I had Cupid’s arrow and a heart-shaped dart,
I’d pierce the sun with your golden lingerie
And tell the sun to never go away.”
