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

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          I’d never seen girls in public in so few clothes. Even at the seashore, women covered up more than those girls did. I tried not to exhibit my state of shock, since I didn’t want Chloe to be ashamed of me, but I found the spectacle embarrassing to watch, especially when the girls grabbed the tails hanging from the backs of their skimpy costumes and twirled them. I guess they were supposed to be cats or something.
          The noise was ghastly. While I waited for my ears to adjust, I stared around me in fascination. A long bar had been built against the right wall, behind which stood what looked like a battalion of bartenders mixing and shaking and handing out drinks, all of which I presumed contained alcohol. A huge mirror backed the bartenders, reflecting the revelry going forward in the main room. More girls in skimpy outfits, net stockings, and shingled hair walked here and there with trays loaded with cigarettes and cigars and matchboxes strapped to their shoulders.
          Approximately three million people swarmed around the place, dancing to the music, laughing, chattering, and screaming. I think they were screaming because it was the only way they could make themselves heard over the band, which was playing “Baby Face.”
          Almost everyone who wasn’t actively dancing held both a drink and a cigarette or a cigar. Most of the ladies (I use the word loosely) had holders for their cigarettes. I guess that was supposed to be sophisticated. I knew for a sinking certainty that Chloe’s beautiful dress was going to smell like an ashcan when I got home.
          The atmosphere was supposed to be festive, but it appeared only sordid to me. Maybe that’s my Boston upbringing talking, but I don’t think so. I doubted that any of those people were truly happy. Then again, maybe I was wrong. Wouldn’t have been the first time.
          Whatever the mood of the “guests,” you should have seen their clothes. I’ve never beheld so many beads in my entire life. Or so many knees, most of which were rouged. And everybody who wasn’t drinking was dancing the Charleston with an air of devil-may-care bravado.
          All the band members were dark-skinned. They also appeared a good deal happier than the people dancing and drinking, although that impression, too, might have been colored by my proper Boston upbringing.
          “Would you care to dance?” Mr. Easthope yelled politely.
          “Um, sure.” I needed to question people about Mrs. Houser, but I felt a little uneasy and decided to try to get comfortable first. “I need to put my handbag down somewhere.”
          “Of course. I’ll find us a table.” Holding onto my arm, thank God, he maneuvered us through the throng to a table against a wall as far away from the band as he could get, bless his heart.
    * * * * *
          We danced for what seemed like hours, and I still didn’t feel comfortable enough to begin questioning the scantily clad maidens walking around the place hawking cigarettes. Poor Mr. Easthope was perspiring like a lumberjack in August (for that matter, so was I), but he never complained once. I swear, the man’s a saint. At any rate, we sat at our table to rest for a while, and I discovered that in my partner, I had a heretofore unrecognized-by-me resource.
          Of course, I’d noticed all the ladies sneaking glances at Mr. Easthope. What red-blooded American woman wouldn’t want to feast her eyes on such a delectable bit of masculinity? But as soon as we sat down, all the cigarette girls in the room seemed to make a beeline straight at him. In other words, it hadn’t been necessary to wear us both out dancing. We could have sat at our table and been comfortable (more or less) and let the women swarm to us. Live and learn.
          The first woman who appeared before us looked as if she were a trifle past her prime, and I wondered if it embarrassed