The tuxedo-clad man led them through a bustling kitchen hot with steam and down a spiral staircase to an underground tunnel. “Connects to the next building,” Henry whispered to Evie and Mabel. “That way, if there’s a raid in the club, most of the booze is safe somewhere in this building.”
The tuxedoed man opened another door and ushered them into a room decorated like a sultan’s palace. Enormous ferns spilled over the golden rims of giant pots. Panels of champagne-colored silk draped the ceiling, and the walls had been painted a deep crimson. White damask cloths covered tables topped by small amber lanterns. On the stage, the orchestra played a jazzy number that had the flappers shimmying on the dance floor while the men shouted, “Go, go, GO!” and “Get hot!” Well-heeled patrons, cocktails in hand, hopped from table to table, waving down the cigarette girls who made their rounds offering Lucky Strikes, Camels, Chesterfields, and Old Golds from enameled trays. A huge sign promised a special Solomon’s Comet–watching party, and Evie tried not to think about the comet’s more sinister meaning for a madman.
“This is the cat’s meow,” Evie said, taking it all in. This was what she had been waiting for. Clubs like this didn’t exist anywhere outside Manhattan. “And the orchestra is the berries.”
Henry nodded. “They’re the best. I heard ’em play at the Cotton Club once. But I don’t like to go there because they’ve got a color line.” Seeing Evie’s confusion, Henry explained. “Down at the Cotton Club, the orchestra could perform for the white folks just fine. But they couldn’t sit at the tables out front and order a drink or mingle. Papa Charles King runs this joint. He serves everybody.”
In the corner, a white woman sat talking with a black man. It never would’ve happened in Ohio, and Evie wondered what her parents would have to say about it. Nothing complimentary, she was pretty sure.
Theta elbowed Henry. “There’s Jimmy D’Angelo. Go sweet-talk him into letting you sit in.”
Henry excused himself and sauntered toward a table near the stage area where a man in a top hat and monocle sat smoking a cigar, a bright green parrot perched on his tuxedoed shoulder.
“Henry’s a big talent, but Flo—Mr. Ziegfeld—doesn’t see it,” Theta said. “Henry’s sold a few songs to Tin Pan Alley—enough to keep him in socks, and not much more. They’re okay ditties, but his good songs nobody gets. Poor kiddo.”
“I’d love to hear them,” Mabel said.
“I hope you’ll get to. Kid just needs his lucky break is all.” Theta held her wrap on one shoulder. “Showtime, dolls. Give the place a look like you’re too good for the dump. Just follow me.”
Theta sauntered past the tables, not deigning to look at anyone. Heads turned as Theta, Evie, and Mabel followed the host through the crowded tables. They were Shebas in their flapper finery, and they drew appreciative gazes. A few people recognized Theta from the Follies.
“Must be the duck’s quack to be famous,” Evie said.
Theta shrugged. “They think they know me, but they don’t.”
The host seated them at a table in a corner and handed them menus printed on heavy cream-colored paper. Mabel’s eyes widened. “I can’t believe these prices!”
“Believe it,” Theta said. “Make sure you like whatever you order, ’cause you’ll be nursing it all night long.”
“My mother would cast a kitten over the excess,” Mabel said guiltily.
“Your mother isn’t here.”
“Thank heavens for that,” Evie muttered.
A waiter appeared with a bottle of champagne and a silver bucket of ice. “Sorry, pal. We didn’t order bubbly,” Theta said.
“For the ladies. From an appreciative gentleman,” the waiter said.
“Which one?” Evie said, craning her neck.
“Mr. Samson at table fifteen,” the waiter said, indicating delicately with a nod.
“Oh, brother,” Theta said.
“What is it?” Evie couldn’t see too well in the dark.
“See that fella across the way? Don’t be obvious about it.”
The girls peeked over the tops of their menus. Four tables over sat a heavyset man with a very full mustache and the smug air of Wall Street success. “The one who looks like a walrus without a zoo?” Evie asked.
“The same. He’s one of those chumps who wants to feel like he’s young and exciting. Probably got a wife and three brats up in Bedford and thinks we’ll show him a good time. Oh, he’s looking at us. Smile, girls.”
Evie flashed her teeth, and the older man raised his glass. The girls raised theirs in reply. The man blew a kiss and motioned for them to join him.
“What now?” Evie asked through still-smiling teeth.
“Now it’s really showtime.” Theta knocked back her champagne and let loose an enormous belch that drew disgusted stares from people nearby. “Nothing like a good glass of giggle water to help a girl’s insides!” Theta said loudly and patted her stomach.