Last Dance on the Starlight Pier, page 28
We worked until the sun went down, and every moment of those long hours I spent in a state of high alert, straining for a glimpse of Zave coming through the crowd.
But he never appeared.
CHAPTER 67
Friday, July 1, 1932
After registrations closed for the day, I stayed on with most of the horses, working late into the night to get the Palace ready in time. When I finally dragged back to the apartment, Sofie and started gabbing and didn’t stop until dawn. For the fourth night in a row, I hardly shut my eyes.
By the time I reached the pier on Friday morning, I was running on nervous energy and fumes and kicking myself for being stupid enough to start a dance marathon in a state of exhaustion. I swore that, as soon as Zave showed up, I’d have him teach me the fine art of sleeping on my feet.
If he showed up.
I studied the long line of hopefuls waiting to register. Zave wasn’t among them. When I reached the card tables where my friends were already weeding through the applicants, I was greeted with a hail of increasingly urgent questions about Zave’s whereabouts.
Before I could open my mouth, Pops was there, assuring all in a loud voice intended for the locals to hear that “Zave is on his way. I just got off the phone with him.”
“Is that true?” I whispered to Pops.
“You better hope it is. And you better pretend it is in front of the civilians.”
Before I could take my seat, several technicians hustled past, carrying crates labeled “KTRH Radio Houston.”
“Set up on the stage,” Pops directed them.
“KTRH?” I asked in amazement. “You got the biggest radio station in Houston to come out?”
“Well, your pal in Houston did.”
“Uncle Jake? Uncle Jake is working for you?”
“He’s my ground man in Houston so he got this pissant lunchtime show to come out.”
“Not Niles at Noon?” I asked.
“Yeah, yeah,” Pops said dismissively. “Something like that.”
“Pops, Niles at Noon is the biggest show in Houston, and Jake was a genius if he convinced them to come all the way out here for a remote broadcast. Everyone in Houston listens to Niles. The whole town shuts down. I remember walking for blocks and blocks and never missing a single word because everyone had their windows open and everyone had Niles tuned in.”
“Okay,” Pops said. “I get it. Jake did something right.”
I was elated to hear that Jake was working, but before I could sing his praises any further, Pops thrust a couple of sheets of paper at me. “Here’s the run of the show.” His voice harshened as he warned, “And don’t ever be late again. You’re on Pops Wyatt’s dime now. Got it?”
“Got it,” I said to his retreating back. I took my seat and Patsy informed me, “Pops said we need more talent. If they say they can dance or play an instrument, we’re supposed to send them over to Mel to do their bits. Cleo’s gonna work with the singers. If they’re not completely hopeless, that is. And I’m the guy,” he went on, stabbing a thumb in his chest, “who gets to decide if someone’s funny or not. Got it?”
“Like a bad case of mumps,” I shot back.
The comforting familiarity of snappy patter. The language of vaudeville troupers, the language of my childhood, eased my jittery nerves and the next few hours zoomed by. We sent the dancers and players in to Mel, where they auditioned for him. Soon we were being “serenaded” by a third-rate Bing Crosby imitator singing an off-key version of “Just a Gigolo” and a girl with a bit too much cutesy boop-boop-de-boop attempting “I Wanna Be Loved by You.”
Mel was always kind and professional. The bandleader even managed to salvage a couple of dancers who tapped away to “I’ve Got Rhythm” with such a colossal lack of rhythm that he signaled the saxophonist to add a few blats in the right places and turned the fiasco into a comedy bit.
It was near noon when a scrawny local girl with dark circles under her eyes took a stab at “Ten Cents a Dance.” Though it didn’t go well, she had enough native talent that Mel called out to Cleo, who was off in a corner, snuggled up with JuJu, “Cleo, come on up here. This kid’s got something, but she needs you to show her how to sell a song so that the clouds’ll open up and rain those silver drops down.”
Onstage, Cleo, Mel, and the local girl huddled up briefly before Cleo stepped up to the mic, said, “Try it this way,” and sang about selling herself to “fighters and sailors and bowlegged tailors” for ten cents a dance. From the first note, there was a throbbing edge to Cleo’s voice that had almost, but never quite, been there before, and it was riveting. She sang now as if she was confessing not only her own life story but telling ours as well. All the jostling and chattering stopped and the sort of electricity that only the absolutely real and absolutely true can spark shot through the Palace. Cleaners put their mops aside and painters their brushes. Motion ceased at the registration table. Though we’d all heard Cleo sing before, we’d never heard her sing like this as she bemoaned her life with rough guys and tough guys who tore her gown and crushed her toes.
Beside me, Minnie’s chin quivered. Ace chewed his bottom lip when it started to tremble. We all thought we knew Cleo, tough as an old boot and twice as ready to kick your ass. We didn’t, though, because she wasn’t singing about a dime-a-dance girl, she was singing about herself, about us. About every one of us that this damn Depression was kicking around and using hard and making do things we didn’t necessarily want to do.
And then, perfectly on cue, a commotion on the pier caught my attention, and as Cleo warbled that sometimes she thought she’d found her hero, the crowd parted and there, luminous in the blazing coastal sun, was Zave.
CHAPTER 68
Friday, July 1, 1932
11:50 a.m.
Like the others, after a week of rest Zave, too, was a younger, more innocent version of himself. He was attacked by a mob of Zaviors. He leaned down to sign a shy, withdrawn girl’s autograph book, and for a second, as he peered gently into her adoring face, I saw the abused boy that my father had saved. Then Zave lifted his head. The beach sun washed over his face, his smile, and he was again a matinee idol. Or, at least as close as the girls on the pier would ever get to one. As close as I would ever get.
Minnie, Lily, and Gerta glanced at me, gauging my reaction. I was certain they all noticed the flush that rose from my neck to my cheeks as my heart galloped. Not wanting my reunion with Zave to be scrutinized, I fled the crowded pier, and ducked inside the Palace. Hidden in the shadows, I watched him enter the cavernous hall.
“Evie?” he called.
The high windows threw crisscrossing beams of light across the floor. Motes floated as thick as a cloud of gold dust around him as he searched the building.
“Evie?”
I waited until his face fell, until I saw genuine disappointment when I didn’t answer, before I found the courage to speak his name.
“Zave.”
“Evie, you’re here.”
I stepped toward him. “I’m here.”
When we were close enough to touch, Zave halted. An uncharacteristic tentativeness gripped him. The silence between us lengthened until I became aware of the sound of Pops arguing with a vendor. Of locals squealing outside when they were admitted as contestants. Of my heart thudding. It was a silence that preceded an important statement and I did not break it. Quietly, he said, “You read my letter.”
“I read your letter,” I confirmed.
Zave lowered his head.
His defeated gesture made me angry at all the cruel, stupid idiots who had piled on the shame he now bowed beneath.
“Zave. Look at me.”
He did.
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“I’m trying to. I’m here. Do you still want the same things I do?”
“More than you can imagine,” he answered.
I started to speak, but Pops barged in. “Good, good. You’re all made up, right? You’re married, right?” He stared meaningfully at us, making sure that we were going to play along.
Zave, waited for me to answer.
“Yes,” I answered, taking Zave’s hand.”We’re together.”
Pops exhaled a gusty sigh of relief. “Aw, jeez, I was sweating this. You have no idea the hell you two have put me through. Mr. Amadeo made it clear as vodka that he was not going to be happy if our star attractions, especially the hometown girl, weren’t both here being the blissful newlyweds they signed on to be. Not happy at all. And, after Chicago, I am done with unhappy investors.”
“We’re here,” I affirmed.
“Great, great. Now, go get on that stage. The broadcast goes live in five minutes and Niles wants both of you.
“I need you to hook those listeners fast and reel ’em in hard. If we don’t make a bundle this weekend with the Fourth of July holiday, we’ll never make it. I’ve never put on a show this expensive. We need crowds. Big crowds. Right out of the gate.”
That sounded odd since I’d heard Pops say more than once that his philosophy was to build slow and let word of mouth bring in the crowds.
“No sweat,” Zave assured Pops.
“You,” he told me, “hit the struggling newlywed angle hard. Got it?”
“We got this one in the bag,” Zave, the old pro, promised both me and Pops, and we took our places beside the host, who greeted us with a wordless smile.
The radio technician raised his right hand, pointed his left at Niles, and called out, “Fifteen seconds to air. Stand by.”
Zave whispered, “Tell your story.”
“Now?” I muttered, blindsided by his request. “I can’t.”
“Okay, then,” he said blithely. “I will.”
I started to tell him not to say a word, but the second hand hit twelve, the radio tech pointed emphatically at Niles, and in mellifluous tones he announced, “Hello, friends, this is Niles at Noon on a beautiful Friday on the first day of July. You’re listening to KTRH, Houston’s radio giant.
“We’re broadcasting remote today, direct from the newly reopened Starlight Palace on the historic Starlight Pier here in the Playground of the Southwest, Galveston, Texas, where The Amadeo Family’s Dance Marathon will open tonight at six P.M. sharp. The Amadeo family name is synonymous with fine entertainment and they told me that this will be a real dance competition, not one of those cheap walkathons. They guarantee all dancing, all entertainment, all the time.
“So don’t wait. Come on down to the Starlight Palace for an evening you won’t forget. Right after the noontime news, we’ll have more about the marathon from America’s sweethearts, the Handsome Hoofer and the Never-Naughty Nurse.”
Though I winced at my latest nickname, I was pleased to have my status as a nurse reaffirmed in Galveston, where it mattered most.
Niles’s voice was sharper as he read the news. “Sorry to start with some bad news, but word is that the Dow Jones Industrial Average has plummeted to an all-time low of forty-one points and the post office has raised the price of a first-class stamp to three cents. And, get this, folks, those Germans have invented a whole new way of campaigning. By airplane! A candidate for president, Adolf Hitler, staged twenty-three rallies in only seven days. Now that’s what I call barnstorming.
“But the candidate we’re all wondering about on this side of the Atlantic is the one that the Democratic Convention is selecting right now in Chicago to run against President Hoover in the election this November.” With increasing urgency, Niles went on. “The last time our nation saw the kind of hardship we are currently suffering was during the Civil War. With our country’s future hanging in the balance, anticipation is running high as we wait to learn who the candidate to run against the Republican nominee, President Hoover, will be. Sadly, however, the Democratic delegates remain deadlocked. None of the three top candidates, not even the popular Democratic governor of New York, Franklin Roosevelt, has managed to secure the seven hundred and seventy votes necessary to win their party’s nomination.”
A collective “Aw” of disappointment rose through the Palace and from the Pier.
“But, friends,” Niles continued in a bouncy, upbeat tone, “no matter who you’re rooting for, you are guaranteed to forget all your troubles tonight at the grand opening of The Amadeo Family’s Dance Marathon on the Starlight Pier. Right now, I’m going to hand the microphone over to the man I know you’re all waiting to hear from. You’ve seen his photo in all the papers, you’ve read about how this Handsome Hoofer lost his heart to the show’s nurse. I give you the man himself, Zave Cassidy.”
“Well, howdy out there,” Zave said with a perfect Texas accent. “I just want to say to all you proud Texans, your state should get a lot more stars than just that lone one. Texas deserves its own galaxy. It’s just that dang purty.
“Folks, Evie and I are just so excited to be here and hope that every one of you listening will turn out to cheer us on. Especially Evie, because she deserves it more than anyone. She loves Galveston even though, and I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I will.”
I held my breath.
“Folks,” he continued, his bouncy, country tone turning maudlin, “I hate to tell y’all this, but a terrible wrong was done to this wonderful woman by my side here, and we’ve come back to Galveston to put it right. Evie’s only dream in life is to be a nurse. Now, she’s a lot smarter than I am, but she worked her rear end off for three years and she aced every test they put in front of her. But do you know what, Niles?”
“What, Zave?” Niles asked, eager for whatever twist Zave was putting on the typical promotional spiel. Pops, on the other hand, was apoplectic.
“Because of some stupid technicality, the director of Evie’s nursing school refused to give her the nurse’s pin that she had poured her heart and soul into earning.”
Technicality.
“Now I ask you,” Zave implored, “is that right? Evie is just like all of us who are getting kicked around by the fat cats and big bosses. So, folks, if you’re as tired as I am of seeing the little guy, or gal, get a raw deal, come on down tonight and cheer on the woman who will steal your heart just as sure as she stole mine, my own sweet Evie Grace.”
I sat speechless as Niles went down the long list of show sponsors. I couldn’t believe how Zave had managed to make my story belong to every listener who’d ever gotten a bad break. The campaign to get my side out had begun. I squeezed his hand under the table. He squeezed back and, just like that, we were a team again. He was on my side and that was all that mattered.
Niles, shooting us a big okay sign as we left, leaned in to say, “If you love you a good love story, come on out tonight at six and cheer on Zave and Nurse Evie and all the other incredible contestants.”
As we walked back outside, Zave held my hand up in his like a referee declaring the winner of a prizefight, and the crowd gathered on the Starlight Pier applauded.
CHAPTER 69
Friday, July 1, 1932
4:00 p.m.
At four that afternoon, Pops herded us all into the girls’ quarters with the order, “Everybody lay low in here until I give you the high sign. We’re gonna open the doors soon and I don’t want anyone getting a peek at you until the grand entrance. Gotta preserve the mystery, right?”
For the next two hours the mirrors above the five sinks were crowded with contestants fluffing up or patting down hair, brushing on swipes of mascara and rouge, tilting their heads to check themselves from different angles. The amateurs peeked back over their shoulders to straighten a hosiery seam and slip on fancy pumps. We pros chuckled knowingly at the newcomers. We were all barelegged and wore comfy socks under our ground-gripper shoes. I liked being on the inside. Knowing the score.
“Hey, Stretch,” Cleo said, approaching me with a pot of rouge. “You look like death warmed over. Come here.” As JuJu’s girlfriend, she’d taken on the role of den mother looking after the Amadeo family’s interests. Tentatively, I leaned down. Cleo smelled of Beeman’s clove gum, tobacco, and a deeply human animal odor that was all her own. Half expecting that she would smear me with great dots of clown makeup, I was relieved when, with the gentlest of touches, she stroked what had to be subtle brushes of color onto my cheeks.
Popping her gum, she tipped her head from side to side to check the effect. “Well, you don’t look like they just pulled you out of the morgue anymore, but you sure don’t look too peppy either. Did you get any sleep last night?”
“A bit,” I answered, not adding that I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had a full night’s rest. “Thanks for sprucing me up.”
Cleo shrugged. “Can’t have the rubes worrying that their hometown heroine is about to keel over. That’d be bad for the show.”
Patsy poked his head in and the locals, who weren’t yet used to random guys appearing in our quarters, shrieked and squealed. “Aw, can it, girls. None of you got anything I haven’t seen before. Listen, I got a news flash for you. Pops is charging a dollar a head. And, get this, he’s asking five whole bucks for box seats. He is even getting fifty cents for seats up in the rafters and a dime for kids. Can you believe that?”
Incredulous, Minnie said, “No show charges that much. Not even a quarter of that.”
Glumly, Gerta predicted, “That is too much. The seats will be staying empty. This I am promising you. No one is having such money in times like these. Pops will be losing his shirt. And then the gangsters are unhappy. And then the show closes and then again we must run like frightened chickens with our heads cut off into the night. Perhaps this time we are starving to death.”
“Clam up, Helga,” Cleo snarled. “You don’t know shit from schnitzel. And don’t ever, ever, use the word ‘gangster’ again when referring to the Amadeo family. Also, it wasn’t Pops who set the prices. And I should know. I was in on all the planning. High-level stuff. Signor Amadeo himself decided what to charge. And I am pretty sure that Mr. Amadeo knows this town just a little bit better than you do, Heidi.”
