Read Online Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book) by Alice Duncan - Free Book Online Page A

parents could, I suppose, but they wouldn’t do it, because they were “old school,” and they’d shun such ostentation.
          No. This way of life had been spawned by the so-called movies, and it was being perpetrated by those who made and lived by them. Maybe Ned wasn’t such a sap. Maybe there was something to his ambition, although hiding in a closet all day didn’t seem like the most effective way to achieve his aim of being discovered and turning into a moving-picture star.
          But what did I know? According to my sister, not a blessed thing. And I guess she was right, if this was the way she lived. And I guess it was, since I was wearing her clothes, and she had more where these came from. I began to look forward to Saturday. It would be fun to update my wardrobe!
          My enthusiasm dwindled as Mr. Easthope drove farther into the shabby part of the city. From the glories of Bunker Hill, we drove downhill and through Chinatown, which looked kind of seedy at night, and down some small, dark streets until we got to a place where several large, expensive cars were parked. They looked out of place there on the dingy street.
          A big galoot stepped out from the shadows, saw Mr. Easthope and his Duesenberg, and gestured for us to follow him down another dark, narrow street.
          “Who’s he?” I whispered, although I’m not sure why. Nobody could hear us.
          “The parking guard. The speaks hire them so that the neighborhood kids don’t steal people’s tires.”
          “Oh.” Those speakeasy people were sure organized. Imagine that. They had a man to direct people where to park and to make sure the cars were safe. I wondered if the police knew about this racket. Recalling the conversation at dinner, I supposed they did.
          So Mr. Easthope parked his wonderful car, the galoot watching all the time, then he got out, opened the door for me, and I got out, and the galoot said, “Youse guys come with me.”
          I hadn’t realized people actually talked like that. Another new experience! Mr. Easthope took my arm and we followed the galoot down a dark alley to a dark doorway, where the galoot banged on the door with a fist that looked rather like a roasted leg of lamb.
          We heard a scratching noise, an eyehole appeared in the door, and an eye appeared at the eyehole. The galoot said, “Guests,” and stepped aside, I presume to assist more illegal customers to safe parking places.
          Someone—it sounded like another galoot—said, “Yeah?”
          Mr. Easthope whispered, “Oh, you kid.” That must have been the password. He’d told me about passwords on the way to the speakeasy. I didn’t quibble that, in this case, entrance was granted by the speaking of an entire phrase rather than one word, because that would have been so utterly Boston, even I could recognize it as such.
          The eye disappeared, and the door opened.
          Golly, what a difference between outdoors and indoors! Of course, I’d had no idea what to expect, since I hadn’t habituated speakeasies in Boston, but this one surprised me. It looked like a bordello designed by a color-blind seventeenth-century French courtesan.
          Red-and-black flocked paper covered the walls. Plush red carpeting had been laid upon the floor beneath our feet. The decor was undoubtedly meant to impart the impression of opulence, but it gave me a queasy feeling in my tummy, perhaps because the red clashed with my orange sash. Crystal chandeliers with dangly ornaments were supposed to shed light on all below, but cigar and cigarette smoke was so thick, everything looked merely fuzzy. A jazz band blared away in the main room, which lay straight ahead of us and sported a polished wooden floor suitable for dancing. It was being used, too. A row of dancing girls was executing intricate tap steps and kicks to the evident joy of the