Read The Girls at the Kingfisher Club for Free Online Page B

get home,” Jo said.
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    In the cab, Lou said, “We’re not going back, are we.”
    She sounded sadder than Jo expected, and Jo was kind when she answered, “No.”
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    Pete’s: at the seaport, where a man got rough with Ella when she wouldn’t dance with him.
    Hattie and Mattie appeared as if by magic.
    â€œNot sure what port you’re from,” said Hattie, and Mattie said, “But when a lady says no, stop asking.”
    He frowned, spat out, “You girls have a pretty high opinion of yourselves,” and dropped Ella’s wrist with a flourish.
    â€œLet’s go home,” Hattie said when he was gone.
    Jo said, “That’s up to Ella.”
    Ella looked around the room (which was slim pickings, and a lot of guys who looked like trouble), but then she squared her shoulders and said, “I want to dance.”
    Jo was pleasantly surprised. “Then we dance,” she said, and cast a look around the room that dared anyone to make something of it.
    And dance they did, all night, to spite the devil.
    Still, that was the last time they ever saw Pete’s.
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    The next time they drove past the palace (the Vanderbilt house, she had a name for it now; people knew the oddest things), all the lights were out, the rows of windows like empty eyes shrinking back from the life on the street.
    It’s not a sign, she told herself, and hoped it was true.
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    Fine Imports: a basement off Fulton Street, with shipping crates stacked to one side and a subbasement from which gin magically appeared. It felt, somehow, like dancing in an old tomb.
    Not that there was anything wrong with old tombs, until you tried to dance in one.
    â€œIf this place gets any more cramped,” Doris said, “I’ll have to dance on my knees to keep from knocking my hair off.”
    They didn’t last long at Fine Imports.
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    The Baltimore: half a block away from a print shop in Chelsea, just far enough west that the Flatiron Building blocked the moon.
    The machines shook the sidewalks for three blocks in every direction.
    â€œYou’re joking,” said Jo, before the cab even stopped.
    Doris laughed so hard it nearly drowned out the presses.
    They never set foot in the Baltimore.
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    The Swan: a supper and music club nestled three blocks from the Waldorf-Astoria, with a double-door entryway, and a stream of businessmen and their respectable mistresses going past the doorman in his smart coat.
    This time, Jo saw the photographer.
    The cabs didn’t even slow down.
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    By then, Araminta was starting to hover at the mirrors, watching them with big, hungry eyes.
    She never asked—Araminta wasn’t reckless enough to ask Jo for favors—but Jo knew what was fair.
    Araminta had earned the right; there had to be a place for her to dance.
    Two weeks after the raid, Jo told Ella, “Tell Araminta to bring up a dress and some half-decent shoes.”
    A minute later Araminta appeared, clutching a catalog dress and a pair of thick-strap shoes, smiling so broadly Jo hardly recognized her.
    Araminta powdered up in the crowd alongside Rebecca, applying rouge with shaking hands until Rebecca took pity and did it for her.
    â€œYou’re such a ninny,” Rebecca said, “it’s a wonder they’re letting you out. Hold still.”
    Araminta said, “No need to be a wet blanket, Rebecca, it doesn’t become you any more than your dress does.”
    â€œDon’t be mean to the girl who’s doing your makeup,” said Mattie, and Hattie said, “You’ll end up looking more like a clown than Mattie, even—ow!”
    â€œWhere are we going?” Lou asked.
    Lou had probably guessed, Jo thought; for girls who had to wait as long as they did, who had to strike so suddenly