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
