Stolen Kiss With The Hollywood Starlet

Walter jumped to his feet and followed. She stopped at the bar to refill her tray, and he stepped up beside her.

“What are you doing here?” He kept his voice low to not draw attention.

“Getting more drinks.” She set drinks of rotgut on her tray.

He firmly but gently turned her to face him. “I mean, what are you doing here? Working at CB’s?”

Her eyes snapped as she stepped back. “We can’t all start at the top, but we still gotta start or we won’t get anywhere.”

“What? This isn’t a start. It’s a dead end.” He meant that literally and pulled out his pocketbook. “If you need money for the train ride, I’ll give it to you. Right now.” He held out several bills. “Take it. Go back to Nebraska.”

She glanced around as if making sure no one was looking. He hoped that meant she’d finally come to her senses.

Settling her gaze on him, she asked, “What’s in that noggin’ of yours? Nothing? I don’t want your money, and I ain’t—am not going back to Nebraska.” She pulled several bills out from beneath an ashtray on her tray and handed them to the bartender.

Walter knew how these joints worked. The girls had to pay for the drinks on their trays, and then collect the money from the customers. Any spilled drinks or unpaid ones came out of their pockets, not the owners’. “You aren’t going to make enough money here—”

“Beat it,” she whispered fiercely. “And mind your own beeswax while you’re at it!” She spun in the other direction and marched off.

With a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, the bartender leaned across the bar. “That dame’s a closed bank, forget her. We got ones that are more...friendly. For a couple of clams, I’ll send one to your table.”

“No, thanks.” Walter walked back to his table and positioned his chair so he could keep an eye on the room. On her.

“You know that doll?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you?” Walter asked instead of answering.

“Never saw her before.” Sam looked at Tony. “You?”

Tony shook his head. “No, but Mel has a longer assembly line of girls than Ford does cars.”

Which was exactly why she shouldn’t be here. She couldn’t possibly know the dangers of working here. Walter’s back teeth clamped tight. If she was working here, she was living here. Upstairs. His blood ran cold at that thought.

Sam started explaining the reason he’d called. He and Tony wanted to put on a boxing exhibition show and needed advice on the legal side of things. Walter listened, and answered their questions, and kept one eye on the woman the entire time. He didn’t even know her name, so in his mind, started calling her Blondie.

She was still working the room, serving drinks, when Sam and Tony must have had all the information they needed from him, and called it a night. He bade them goodbye and stayed at the table, still keeping an eye on Blondie. Other girls had brought their table the drinks Sam and Tony had consumed. He was still nursing the only one she’d brought him. The ice had long ago melted. He didn’t care. He wasn’t drinking it. Just using the glass as something to twirl between his fingers.

There were no laws governing speakeasies; most were open twenty-four hours, and it was up to the owners what sort of hours the workers put in. Walter glanced at his wristwatch. Almost two-thirty in the morning. He hadn’t stayed up this late in years, but would sit right here until her shift ended.

A large portion of the patrons had long ago left. Some with cigarette girls on their arms as they walked out the doors; a few left in stumbling, ossified stupors, and others, like Sam and Tony, left alone, had simply been there to enjoy the nightlife but had jobs to go to in the morning.

So did he. Had to be at the courthouse by eight.

The room was almost empty by the time she made her way toward the bar with a full tray of drinks still strapped around her neck. He knew how that would play out. That the drinks would be dumped, and she’d be out the money for them. He stood and sidestepped, cutting her off before she made it to the bar.

“I’ll buy those.” He laid a bill on her tray, one that would pay for twice that many drinks.

Exhaustion showed on her face. He could understand why. She’d not only delivered drinks all night, she’d spent a fair share of time declining offers of more. More than once he’d wanted to grab her and haul her out of the door. The only thing that had stopped him was her. She’d handled herself well. That left him in a quandary. If he did haul her out of here and she came back, she’d get the wrath of Mel, the owner. If he didn’t, there would soon be a man she couldn’t fend off. Or worse.

“No.” She nodded toward his table. “You still have a drink, and I don’t need you or anyone else doing me any favors.”

“It’s not a favor.” He picked up a drink and downed it, nearly choking at the rotgut whiskey. If it hadn’t been so watered down, he wouldn’t have been able to swallow it. “I’m thirsty,” he said despite his burning throat.

“You’re...” She shook her head.

She thought he was crazy. He might be. “I’m Walter Russell,” he said. “Who are you?”

She huffed out a tired-sounding sigh. “It doesn’t matter. Take your money and leave.”

He took another drink off her tray. “Not until you tell me your name.”

She glanced around and then sidestepped to the table he’d sat at all night. There, she lifted the final four drinks off her tray and set them on the table. Tucking his bill beneath her ashtray, she nodded. “Enjoy your drinks, Mr. Russell.”

Walter grasped her arm, but the bartender, with yet another cigarette hanging out of his mouth, cleared his throat. The glare the man gave Walter said he’d be in charge of anything that happened from here on out.

That could include her leaving with him, for a price, Walter understood that. He also understood it wouldn’t be her choice. But she’d be expected to do whatever he wanted or she’d lose her job.

She, however, probably did not understand that.

Walter let that settle for a moment before he set the drink in his hand on the table and then pulled a calling card out of his suit pocket and laid it on her tray. He gave her and the bartender a nod before he turned about and left.

Every step got harder and harder to take, and by the time he was at the door, he was ripped right down the middle. She wasn’t his problem, but she had no idea what she’d gotten herself into.

He did, and would do something about it.

Chapter Three

Shirley lay on the lumpy cot in the room she shared with six other cigarette girls and stared at the calling card. It was shiny, like the pages of a magazine, but harder, stiff and small, just a few inches long and a couple inches wide. And the writing on it was gold.

Gold.

She’d never seen a calling card before, but had heard about them. The other girls had said she better not let Mel learn about it. He was the owner of CB’s and would be mad because when a man gives you a calling card, he wants to see you outside of the basement.

That wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t want to see Walter Russell again. Not inside or outside of the basement.

Under his name it said The Russell Firm. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but there was also an address and a phone number on the card. A phone was very expensive. Not even the Swaggerts could afford one. They sure as heck didn’t have calling cards, either.

One of the other girls, Alice, rolled over, and Shirley quickly tucked the card beneath the one and only cover on the bed, a scratchy wool blanket.

Alice didn’t open her eyes, but she did pull her blanket over her head to block the light shining in through the window.

It was the middle of the night, but the city, so full of lights, was never dark. The building next door had a big cigarette billboard on top of it, and the lights on the billboard lit up the room all night as brightly as the sun did all day.

Alice had been tricked into working at Cartwright’s, too; so had Rita and all the other girls sleeping on the cots.

Shirley pulled her arm out from under the blanket and stared at the calling card again. It was him. The same man who’d almost run her over. She’d felt as if he had run her over tonight when she’d recognized him sitting at the table with a man that was as skinny as a match. The second man at the table not only had hair the color of a carrot, but he looked like one, too. A big one. Wide at the top and skinny on the bottom.

Walter wasn’t skinny or fat. Just somewhere right smack in the middle. He was nicer to look at than the other two, too. Actually, he was nicer to look at than any other man in the room. Any other man she’d met since arriving in California. Mayhap in her whole life.

His eyes. There was something about them that made it hard to look away from him. It was as if they were sad or lonely. No—lost. That’s what they looked like. Like he was lost.

She felt that way herself. Lost. With nowhere to go. All the fancy talking Roy Harrison had done turned out to be nothing but baloney. He’d hoodwinked her, that’s what he’d done. It hadn’t taken long to figure that out, but it had been too late.

Oh, he’d gotten her an audition where she’d sung her heart out, and had jumped with joy when she’d been given the job. Roy had even given her a fancy dress to wear and had shown her an apartment. Not this one. That one had been a real apartment. With nice furniture and a bathroom complete with tub, right next to the kitchen with a stove and refrigerator. This one, the one she was staying in, only had two rooms, and both of those rooms had nothing but cots in them. This apartment dang near packed in as many people as the Swaggerts’ bunkhouse had during harvest time.

After all that, him showing her that apartment, giving her that dress and then the audition where she’d sung her heart out, Roy had left. She’d spent that first night in that fancy apartment, dreaming about the days to come. Believing her dream had finally come true, until morning.

That’s when she’d met Stella.

Stella took away the dress, gave her the skimpy red dress and hideous white tray, showed her this apartment and then led her downstairs to work.

Shirley wasn’t about to schlep drinks, and had said so. Also said she was here to sing, and had headed for the door.

Stella said she could leave right after paying the breach of contract amount.

Shirley’s stomach had sunk all over again. She had signed a contract, and evidently hadn’t read it closely enough because she hadn’t known about a breach of contract, nor had she known the amount of money that had been listed. That any amount had been listed. She’d had nowhere near that amount in her purse. Not then or now. Weeks later.

Her options had been to work it off or go to jail.

Jail.

So here she was, working off a debt that grew rather than shrank each day.

Some of the other girls said she had a good chance of being discovered here. Rita claimed lots of famous people came to the basement. Stars and producers, radio jockeys and singers. She took that to heart the first night, but soon thereafter figured out no one visiting the basement was looking for a singer.

The only person who had discovered her was Walter Russell.

The one person she wished hadn’t seen her. He’d been right about too many things, and she didn’t want him to be right about one more. He’d told her to go home, but she didn’t have a home to go to. Hadn’t for years.

The wage she made schlepping drinks was less than the Swaggerts had paid her. It had taken her four years to save enough to leave there, and at the rate she was going right now, it was going to take that long to pay off CB’s.

Not only did she owe for the dress and the night staying in that fancy apartment, with a real bed and sheets, she had to pay for her lodging in this room. And the meals they fed her. At first, she’d decided she just wouldn’t eat, until she was told she had to pay for the food whether she ate it or not.

The air in her lungs grew so heavy she had to push it out, but she refused to let the sting in her eyes get to her. She would not cry. Would not. She’d told Walter that not everyone could start at the top, but that they had to start. That’s what she’d told herself, too. She had managed to make it to California, and somehow, she would become a singer. Make a life for herself, one where she didn’t have to answer to anyone.

It would just take a little longer than she’d first thought.

Nothing was going to change her mind about that.

She took a final look at the calling card and then tucked it beneath her pillow.

That was the good thing about dreams. No one could take them away. She’d lost everything else. Her family. Her home. But not her dream. Not her hope.

No one could take that away from her.

* * *

Shirley was at work by ten the next morning. Schlepping drinks. She figured that by working all day and night, she’d make money faster, pay off her debt and get out of Cartwright’s.

The morning and afternoon crowds were nothing like the evening and night ones, but she worked them because every penny counted. Every single cent was one step closer to getting out of here. She hadn’t felt this trapped at the Swaggerts’. She may have thought she’d waited on them hand and foot, but it hadn’t been anything like this. Here, she didn’t have any sort of a life of her own. At times, like now, when her feet were hurting and disgust rolled in her stomach, she felt her determination slipping, but that couldn’t happen. She couldn’t give up on herself. She was all she had. That had been easier to accept four years ago, because she’d had hope then. Now, she had to dig deep to find that. Partially because of the other girls—those who had been here for months. They were so downtrodden, so lifeless, as if they’d completely given up. Given in to Mel and his contracts.

She wouldn’t do that. Give in.

If she’d been on the other side of this tray, the place might be considered fun. Besides the piano player, two men played trumpets, and another pounded a huge drum, filling the room with jazz music that had women in bright-colored dresses and men wearing striped shirts and bow ties dancing, laughing and carrying on. It was a sight to see. The feathered headbands, strings of pearls and fancy hats were like the ones she’d seen in magazines back in Nebraska. Like the ones she wanted to wear. She would. Someday. Although the people appeared friendly—it was only to each other. She’d quickly learned very few wanted to know anything more than what was on her tray, and the number of them that tried to stiff her for their drinks was more than not.

She wasn’t about to take that. Not from anyone.

While things were slow during the late afternoon, she took her break, ate a bowl of chili that was sure to leave her with a good bout of heartburn and then hooked her tray over her neck and headed back into the main room of the speakeasy.

The crowd had grown in her absence, and she hurried to fill her tray with drinks and get them sold. It hadn’t taken her long to figure out who bought the more expensive drinks, and though they cost her more, too, those buying the higher priced drinks didn’t try to short her.

She was filling her tray for the third time in less than ten minutes when she saw him.

Him.

Walter Russell.

He was as pesky as a fly that kept landing on a person’s nose in the middle of the night. She purposefully didn’t stop by his table, but kept an eye on him. He may not look it, but he was slippery. Had to be up to no good. Why else would he be here? Watching her.

Was he another Roy Harrison? Or Olin Swaggert and his fast-talking lawyer? Or Mel Cartwright with his contract? Tricksters, liars and cheats. That’s what they’d been. He could be, too. Most likely was. Two other men, not the same ones from last night, were at his table. All three of them laughing.

At what? Her?

That possibility nagged at her for the next few hours, and grated at her nerves like a squeaky hinge. Not even having people fill the joint wall to wall helped. She knew he was still here. Knew exactly where he was sitting.

The room was in full swing, people dancing, laughing, buying drinks and having the times of their lives. She wasn’t. Her feet were aching from the shoes she had to wear. White, with tall heels, and at least one size too small. It would be hours before she could take them off, so she forced herself not to think about them and kept passing out drinks, all the while keeping an eye on Walter.

A pretty young woman with hair as red as her lipstick and wearing a white-and-red polka-dot dress had been talking with him a short time ago, but was nowhere in sight now.

Shirley scanned the room for the red-haired woman as she made her way toward the end of the long wooden bar to refill her tray when, suddenly, he was at her side.

Startled, she jolted sideways.

He grasped her waist and pulled her against his side. “Stay close to me.”

His aftershave was like a breath of fresh air. For weeks all she’d smelled was cigarette smoke and whiskey. He smelled so fresh and clean all she wanted to do was close her eyes and breathe. Just breathe.

She stopped herself before that happened and twisted so her cheek was no longer up against his shoulder. “My tray is empty. I—”

“Doesn’t matter.” He started walking, forcing her to walk with him. “You’re leaving.”

“Leave? I can’t—” Her words were cut short by a high-pitched siren. It was so loud she couldn’t hear what he said.

He grabbed the strap of her tray and pulled it over her head.

She was reaching to grab it when pandemonium hit. Chairs toppled and people started running, pushing and shoving others in their way.

Shocked, frozen, Shirley didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what was happening.

Walter pushed her out of the way as a table toppled in the wake of two huge men. She stumbled backward, up against the wall. Sirens still filled the air, along with screams and shouts. “What’s happening?”

Walter grasped her face with both hands. His nose was inches from hers, the length of his body pressed tight against hers.

“I’ll get you out of here, Blondie, don’t worry.”

She heard him, but didn’t. Her heart was pounding too hard, echoing in her ears. The heat of his palms, the pressure of his body, his fresh, clean scent, had her mind swirling. She swallowed, tried to breathe, but couldn’t. His lips were too close to hers. So close they were breathing the same air. A heavy, tingling warmth filled her as she reached up and wrapped her fingers around his arms.

He was so handsome, so—

The haze around her shattered. The roar of the panicking crowd once again filled her ears. Someone had bumped into them and fallen. Recognizing the black curls, Shirley grabbed the arm of the cigarette girl and helped Walter lift her off the floor before she got trampled.

“The bulls are outside!” Alice shouted.

“Bulls?” Shirley asked. “Cattle? A stampede?”

“No! Police!” Alice shouted. “We have to run or be arrested!”

Shirley’s heart leaped into her throat. There were too many people to run. To get anywhere.

Alice grabbed her arm. “This way!”

Walter grabbed her other arm. “No! This way.”

“Only the customers can go out through the kitchen,” Alice said. “We have to go out through the back and get upstairs before the bulls see us.”

“No,” Walter said. “We have to go this way.”

“No! The bulls gotta arrest someone!” Alice shouted. “That will be anyone dressed like us going that way!”

Shirley felt as if she was being torn in two with the way they each tugged on her arm.

“Trust me,” Walter said. “This way.”

Shirley couldn’t say why, but she pulled her arm out of Alice’s hold and then grabbed the woman’s hand. “This way!”

“Hurry,” Walter said, pulling her forward.

“We are hurrying,” she said, pulling Alice behind her. “We just ain’t getting nowhere!”

“We will!”

She hoped he was right. For all their sakes.

The next thing she knew, they were in the men’s restroom. Others were in there, too, rushing through another door on the far wall. Walter hurried them through that door, then up a flight of stairs that led outside. To the side of the building.

“Rosie!” he shouted. “Take these two with you!”

The woman in the red-and-white polka-dot dress was climbing in a car, and waved frantically at them. “Hurry! Hurry!”

Sirens filled the air. Walter pushed her forward. “Go. Run.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Come on, Shirley! Run,” Alice said, pulling her toward the car. “Run.”

Shirley ran, and as she climbed in the car, she twisted, scanning the crowd. He was gone. Gone. She sat down, and was shutting the door, while still searching the crowd, when she noticed Rita, who was a foot taller than even some of the men, running out of the door along with others.

“Rita!” Shirley shouted out the window. “Here!”

As Rita elbowed her way through the crowd and ran toward them, Shirley told the redheaded woman, “We can’t leave her behind. Just can’t.”

Rita climbed in the back seat with her and Alice and then the redheaded woman leaped in the front seat and closed the door. The driver, another woman, shouted, “Duck down. Don’t let anyone see you. All of you!”

They all complied, bending over and putting their head between their knees. The sirens were louder and the shine of flashing red lights filled the car as they drove away.

* * *

Walter watched the car drive away. That hadn’t been part of his plan. Running into Rosie, a waitress from Julia’s café, had been pure luck, and something that had worked out perfectly.

He walked to his car and climbed in, waiting as the police barreled down on the Cartwright building. The raid wasn’t for the speakeasy; it was for the secretive opium room on the third floor. He’d heard rumors about that room, and had spent some time investigating it this morning, learning they weren’t just rumors. This afternoon, he’d contacted a city council member. One he knew disliked the drug dens as much as he did.

Busts of joints like that happened daily. Speakeasies were overlooked for the most part, unless someone got riled or annoyed, someone with power. But very few agreed with the operating of opium dens. Other than those who were operating them, and those they dragged down into the bowels of hell with them.

Anger filled him, came from nowhere, as it did sometimes. Lucy had been dragged down into that world. Where very little mattered other than the next high. It’s what had killed her in the end.

He glanced at the building again, at the police cars with red lights flashing. Whether Blondie appreciated it or not, he wasn’t going to let what happened to Lucy happen to her.

He’d investigated her, too, earlier, learned her name was Shirley, but he still thought of her as Blondie. His plan had been to be at CB’s when the raid happened and pull her aside. Show her the dangers she was in by working in the basement and then convince her to get on the next train heading east.

That would happen—he’d get her on a train—but sending her home with Rosie was better than what he’d planned. Mainly because it meant he hadn’t had to haul her out of the basement kicking and screaming. He’d have done that. Carried her out. Had considered it when the first siren went off, before they’d gotten shoved up against the wall.

Walter took a deep breath, a struggle because his chest was growing tight again, like it had when he’d been pressed up against her. He hadn’t been that close to a woman in a long time, hadn’t wanted to kiss—

He spun around, gave his head a clearing, cleansing shake.

The crowd had dispersed; the customers who’d been at CB’s had driven or walked away without so much as a glance from any of the officers. The police cars were still there, lights flashing. He doubted the real people behind the opium den on the third floor would be arrested. Those there, smoking, hooked on the euphoric effects that made them forget their real lives, would have their wrists slapped, and by this time next week, they’d have already found another place. He’d seen it often enough and wished it was different. Wished he could have done something, anything, that might have saved Lucy.