Lair of Dreams
“Well, then, guess I’d better make this look good now.” Sam kissed the back of Evie’s hand. The table of flappers let out a collective, swooning Ohhhh. The kiss tingled up Evie’s arm and gave her insides a soft buzz. Stop that, she thought. She’d have to discuss this with her insides later and let them know the score.
The waiter appeared at their table once more. “The meal is on the house, Miss O’Neill, Mr. Lloyd. Thank you for dining with us at the Algonquin today. We do hope you’ll come again.”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “I could get used to this.” He snugged his fisherman’s cap down onto his head.
“Mr. Phillips has arranged an interview for us at WGI today. Four o’clock. We’re telling the story of our love. Don’t be late.”
“Nifty. I’ll steal something swell to wear. Whaddaya think—pantaloons?”
He was toying with her. This was the trouble with trusting a fella like Sam Lloyd.
“Sam. Don’t make me kill you on a full stomach. I might get a cramp.”
Sam smirked. “Nice doing business with you, too, Baby Vamp.”
Evie batted her lashes. “Go now before I change my mind.”
“From now on, Sheba, you won’t be able to shake me.”
Theta and Henry raced down the crowded sidewalk of Forty-second Street, late, as usual, for rehearsal. They squeezed past a preacher and his small flock of parishioners holding a prayer vigil. “This sleeping sickness is God’s judgment! Repent!” the preacher thundered, a Bible held high in one hand. “Turn away from loose morals; from those dens of iniquity, the speakeasy; from the Devil’s music, jazz; and from the untold evils of the bootlegger’s liquor!”
“Gee, if I do that, I won’t have any hobbies left,” Henry quipped.
“If we don’t hurry, we’re not gonna have any jobs left,” Theta said.
A corner newsboy waved a newspaper at Theta. “Paper, Miss?”
“Sorry, kid.”
He shrugged and shouted out the day’s headlines. “Extra! Sleeping Sickness Spreads, Docs Fear New Plague! Anarchist Bombers Take Out Factory! The Sweetheart Seer Engaged! Extra!”
“What?” Theta stopped short. “Kid, here,” she said, tossing over a nickel and practically snatching the Daily News from him. “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”
“I don’t know what game Evil’s playing now, but you can bet I’ll find out,” Theta said, shoving the crumpled paper into her pocketbook. “If she’s marrying Sam Lloyd, I’ll eat my hat.”
“Gee, that’s too bad,” Henry said, opening the theater door. “It’s an awfully nice hat.”
The sharp report of tap shoes competed with the melodic rise and fall of chorines singing scales, announcing that rehearsal was already under way at the New Amsterdam. Wally, the show’s long-suffering stage manager, glowered at Henry and Theta as they sauntered down the aisle together, arm in arm. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the Tardy Twins. Congratulations. You’re only”—he made a point of checking his watch—“ten minutes late today.”
Theta patted Wally’s cheek and pursed her lips. “Now, Wally, don’t let your ulcer flare up—Hen’s got a new song for you. Quiet, everybody!”
“Hey, that’s my line,” Wally griped. Not to be outdone, he barked, “Quiet, everybody!”
“Go on, Hen,” Theta coaxed.
Henry perched at the piano and took a deep breath. “It’s a bit rough, mind you. But it goes something like this.”
Henry played a lilting melody, singing along in his raspy falsetto:
You appeared, like morning dew
My heart leaped up, no longer blue
But only here in Slumberland.…
The moon sank low in the morning sky
Why, oh why, must we say good-bye?
I’ll see you again, sweet by and by
But only here in Slumberland.
They say that dreams come true, dear,