Read Online Dollface: A Novel of the Roaring Twenties by Renée Rosen - Free Book Online
Authors: Renée Rosen
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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night Barbara brought me some soup from the luncheonette around the corner but I couldn’t bring myself to eat it.
Shep called two more times that night. The next day I still wouldn’t take his calls, and that’s when the flowers started. Bouquets of long-stemmed roses from Schofield’s showed up at the rooming house. More turned up at my job, and each arrangement was more lavish than the one before. I would have bet good money that it was the first time two dozen American Beauties had ever been delivered to the insurance offices of Schlemmer Weiss & Unger. Mr. Schlemmer himself told me to put them in the back—they were obstructing his view of the typewriter pool.
I couldn’t concentrate at my desk and instead shuffled through the cards that had arrived with each delivery: I miss you, Dollface. I need to see you, Dollface. Each one tugged a little harder at my heart.
In spite of how I felt about him being a gangster, I couldn’t deny how much I missed him. And I was touched. Nobody had ever pursued me like this before. Shep Green almost had me believing I was worth the chase.
• • •
A bout a week later, having ignored several more of Shep’s telephone calls, I found myself alone again on a Saturday night. Evelyn was on another date with Izzy. The other girls on the floor had gotten dolled up in their best outfits and had stopped by our room to have their makeup done before they disappeared for the evening. After everyone had left I called into the switchboard office, hoping they needed me to fill in. I would rather have gone into work than sit home alone. But instead I listened to The Eveready Hour on the radio. The Waldorf-Astoria Dance Orchestra was playing, and it made me wish I were dancing with Shep.
“...Tonight’s program was brought to you by the National Carbon Company. This is your host, Wendell Hall, signing off from WEAF radio, broadcasting from New York. . . .”
I turned off the radio and looked out the window, watching a couple rush arm in arm down the sidewalk before disappearing around the corner. I took a deep breath, feeling the walls closing in on me. I knew if I stayed in that room, I’d start crying again.
I ended up killing almost an hour at the luncheonette around the corner, sitting in a booth with a plate of hash and eggs and free coffee refills. Someone before me had left a newspaper behind, so it kept me company. After I read the style section and the society page, a short article grabbed my attention:
Female Bootleggers Outrun Police Again
Fanny Klem, aged twenty-four, and an unidentified female companion outran the police for the second time in two weeks. The two were last seen coming over the Indiana state line in a black Harvester truck believed to be carrying more than five hundred cases of liquor from Cincinnati. Previously arrested for bank robbery, the female bootleggers are now wanted in three states and are believed to be armed and dangerous. . . .
They showed a picture of a woman, and I had to check the caption to make sure it was her, Fanny Klem. She had a blond bob, beautiful sparkly eyes and a sweet, seemingly innocent smile. She sure didn’t look like a bootlegger. But underneath that pretty exterior had to be one tough cookie, wise and cunning and not afraid to get her hands dirty. All I could think was, She’s the type of girl Shep belongs with, not me.
After leaving the luncheonette, I wandered down along State Street to look in the store windows. That always seemed to lift my spirits and make me forget my problems, and that night was no exception. The dresses that season were dazzling and I loved how they draped off the mannequins, the hems barely reaching the middle of their calves.
It was a cold night and I stuffed my hands deep inside my pockets, my breath forming vapor clouds in front of me as I walked along. As I neared Carson Pirie Scott at State and Madison, a man walking by called to me, “Is that you? It is, isn’t
Shep called two more times that night. The next day I still wouldn’t take his calls, and that’s when the flowers started. Bouquets of long-stemmed roses from Schofield’s showed up at the rooming house. More turned up at my job, and each arrangement was more lavish than the one before. I would have bet good money that it was the first time two dozen American Beauties had ever been delivered to the insurance offices of Schlemmer Weiss & Unger. Mr. Schlemmer himself told me to put them in the back—they were obstructing his view of the typewriter pool.
I couldn’t concentrate at my desk and instead shuffled through the cards that had arrived with each delivery: I miss you, Dollface. I need to see you, Dollface. Each one tugged a little harder at my heart.
In spite of how I felt about him being a gangster, I couldn’t deny how much I missed him. And I was touched. Nobody had ever pursued me like this before. Shep Green almost had me believing I was worth the chase.
• • •
A bout a week later, having ignored several more of Shep’s telephone calls, I found myself alone again on a Saturday night. Evelyn was on another date with Izzy. The other girls on the floor had gotten dolled up in their best outfits and had stopped by our room to have their makeup done before they disappeared for the evening. After everyone had left I called into the switchboard office, hoping they needed me to fill in. I would rather have gone into work than sit home alone. But instead I listened to The Eveready Hour on the radio. The Waldorf-Astoria Dance Orchestra was playing, and it made me wish I were dancing with Shep.
“...Tonight’s program was brought to you by the National Carbon Company. This is your host, Wendell Hall, signing off from WEAF radio, broadcasting from New York. . . .”
I turned off the radio and looked out the window, watching a couple rush arm in arm down the sidewalk before disappearing around the corner. I took a deep breath, feeling the walls closing in on me. I knew if I stayed in that room, I’d start crying again.
I ended up killing almost an hour at the luncheonette around the corner, sitting in a booth with a plate of hash and eggs and free coffee refills. Someone before me had left a newspaper behind, so it kept me company. After I read the style section and the society page, a short article grabbed my attention:
Female Bootleggers Outrun Police Again
Fanny Klem, aged twenty-four, and an unidentified female companion outran the police for the second time in two weeks. The two were last seen coming over the Indiana state line in a black Harvester truck believed to be carrying more than five hundred cases of liquor from Cincinnati. Previously arrested for bank robbery, the female bootleggers are now wanted in three states and are believed to be armed and dangerous. . . .
They showed a picture of a woman, and I had to check the caption to make sure it was her, Fanny Klem. She had a blond bob, beautiful sparkly eyes and a sweet, seemingly innocent smile. She sure didn’t look like a bootlegger. But underneath that pretty exterior had to be one tough cookie, wise and cunning and not afraid to get her hands dirty. All I could think was, She’s the type of girl Shep belongs with, not me.
After leaving the luncheonette, I wandered down along State Street to look in the store windows. That always seemed to lift my spirits and make me forget my problems, and that night was no exception. The dresses that season were dazzling and I loved how they draped off the mannequins, the hems barely reaching the middle of their calves.
It was a cold night and I stuffed my hands deep inside my pockets, my breath forming vapor clouds in front of me as I walked along. As I neared Carson Pirie Scott at State and Madison, a man walking by called to me, “Is that you? It is, isn’t
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