Chapter One
Los Angeles, January, 1924
Lewis
The club was downtown under a Venice Beach grocery store, and a very far cry from the harem-like decadence of the Cocoanut Grove, where Iâd had dinner the night before under the palm trees. Buntyâs this place was called, according to my source, though there was no sign of any sort over the door. A fug of smoke so thick it stung your eyes hung low like a dirty bit of lace over the roped-off dance floor where six girls dressed in some exhausted-looking silk flowers were doing an unenthusiastic hula.
My backhander bought me a table at the front along with a glass of something they called bourbon, which was probably about as authentic as the dancersâ costumes. I took one sniff and put it to the side. Above me, on the balcony, men were leaning over and catcalling. In Harlem, a place like this would be stuffed full of wannabe sophisticates out to claim their stake in history by taking part in the Jazz Age. Whatever that is. Fitzgerald and his like have a lot to answer for. I met him in Paris once. Unlike most of his acolytes, he struck me as the real deal, dead set on taking the road to destruction just as fast as he can travel.
I was thinking about him as I sat, not drinking my drink, watching the dancers in that louche little club making their dates with their exit. I was thinking I could be just like him if I let myself. Not the writing, but the self-destructing. I was thinking that I had a hell of a lot more reason than Fitzgerald, too, because to my knowledge heâd never seen what Iâd seen.
But thatâs a path Iâll never take. What happened in Europe, what I saw, it could have destroyed me, but I wonât let it. Thatâs the difference between me and the others. That sounds smug. Iâm not smug, but Iâm darn sure Iâm not gonna let myself wallow, either. I know Iâm one of the lucky ones. I owe it to the rest to make the most of my luck, and thatâs what Iâm doing. If Iâm not happy, then I ought to be. Iâm good at what I do. I like it, too. I have any number of people happy to claim Iâm their friend. Any number of women, too, though Iâm not one of those guys who needs anyone except myself. Iâm not lonely; Iâm self-reliant. Thatâs what the war taught me more than anything, that the only person you can depend on is yourself. Iâm happy. Why shouldnât I be happy?
Iâd taken a sip of the bourbon. It was just as bad as Iâd thought it would be. Thankfully, my thoughts were interrupted by the MC announcing the next act. I didnât recognise her at first. I was expecting a blonde, and the person who walked onto the stage had black hair. I was expecting the soft curves and low-cut dresses she wore on-screen, not a manâs dinner suit. I was expecting her to sing something bubbly, light, fun, flirty. I was expecting her to be sexy, vampy, maybe even cute. Like her movies. What I gotâmy God, what I got.
She sang a jazz number I didnât recognise, though it was, needless to say, about a woman done wrong. Her voice was husky, smoky, the sort of voice that makes your hair stand on end. She didnât milk it the way another singer might, and it was all the more believable for that, her song. She stood there in front of the band, in her too-big manâs suit with her slicked-back hair and her face completely devoid of cosmetics, all big eyes and pale cheeks and sultry mouth, and Iâve never seen any woman so incredibly sensual in my life.
Iâd been sceptical about her ability to act. That was why Iâd come here, on a tip-off. I realised two things at that moment. She was wasted on the screen. And I wanted her.
Poppy
I donât know what it was that made me notice him. Usually when Iâm singing I donât notice anything or anyone save for the band. He was alone, which was unusual, but it wasnât that. It was the stillness of him. The way he was watching me, so focused, utterly intent. I let him catch my eye, something I never do because it gives men all sorts of wrong ideas. And some women. In the early days, when I first started singing here, when I first realised that I had to sing somewhere, even if walking on stage alone brought back such painful memories, back then I used toâsometimes. I tried both, men and women. Neither worked as well as I hoped. Maybe because I thought they wouldnât.