“Oh, sure, the tall girl,” Jim said. “With the feet. She had these unusally long feet.”
“Do you know where we could find her?” Erin said. “It’s important.”
“No idea,” Jim said. And Rudy nodded.
“Let me see that,” one of the other painters said, and Tricia brought the cover around to him. “Yeah, right—Stella. Isn’t she the one who was talking the whole time about how she wanted to be in television? How she was really an actress and a singer and I don’t know what-all else. Like maybe one of us would pull a record contract out of his back pocket if she kept talking about it. You remember Norm made her pose with a cigarette in her mouth just to shut her up?”
A couple of the others nodded.
“Any idea where she is now?” Tricia said
“Nope.”
Tricia looked around the circle, saw heads shaking. Then a small voice said, “Excuse me?” They all looked down. From where she was lying on the ground, propped on one elbow, the squaw/spacewoman/doughboy said, “I think I know where she is.”
“Keep your mouth closed, honey,” one of the painters said. “I’m working on your face.”
But Tricia darted over to the woman.
“Hey,” the painter said, “get out of there, you’re lousing up the pose.”
“Just one second,” Tricia said. Then, to the model, “Stella Dane, right? This girl?” She showed her the cover.
“Yeah, that’s her,” the model said. “I saw her just the other day.”
“Where was this?” Tricia said.
“At the fights,” she said. “In the basement at the Stars Club.”
“She was in the audience?” Tricia said.
“No,” the model said. “She was in the ring.”
It took them a bit more than an hour to get back to Times Square and from there it was a short walk west to the Stars Club, a squat building in the shadow of the piers. It stood a scant quarter mile south of the Sun and though it was supposed to be independently owned, Tricia knew from the newspaper articles she’d read that Sal Nicolazzo was involved behind the scenes. He hadn’t really gone out of his way to hide the connection—he also had a piece of one of the city’s last remaining ten-cent-a-ticket dance halls, and a year ago he’d renamed it the Moon.
The doorman stationed outside the front door of the Stars looked like the least likely man in New York to be found wearing a top hat, but a top hat was what he was wearing. Beneath it he sported the crumpled face and cauliflower ears of a boxer who’d taken one too many trips to the mat. His fighting days looked to have ended around the time of Carnera, if not Dempsey, and he glared at anyone entering the building as though nursing a deep resentment that boxing attendance hadn’t come to a halt the day he left the sport.
The lineup advertised on a card beside the door promoted three afternoon fights, the first already underway, Mick “the Brahmin Brawler” Brody against Jerry “the Jackhammer” Lamar. After that it was Norman “the Mountain” Peakes against Steve Curtis, who had no nickname, apparently, and then the headline bout, featuring former middleweight champ Bobo “the Hawaiian Swede” Olson, fresh out of a short-lived retirement, against Ramy “the Chemist” Farid. Those were the fights in the main arena on the ground floor. In a box at the bottom of the card there was also a mention of an exhibition bout in the basement, pitting a fighter called the Houston Hurricane against one called the Colorado Kid. Those two fighters conspicuously were identified only by their nicknames, not by name and not with photos. According to the girl out in Brooklyn there was a reason for it—the Houston Hurricane was one of the cover models from Death Stalks a Bride, and not the one in overalls.
“I’m surprised they let women box,” Tricia said.
“They who? The boxing commissioner doesn’t; the city of New York doesn’t. But a lot of things go on behind closed doors that they don’t allow.”
Tricia aimed a thumb at the ex-pug, who was letting a well-dressed couple enter. “Looks like an open door to me.”
“Just try getting past our friend there if he thinks you’re an undercover cop, or an inspector.”
“And what exactly is he going to think we are?”
“The two of us?” Erin said, putting one arm around Tricia’s waist. “He’s going to think we’re girls who like watching other girls hit each other.”
Erin tugged at Tricia to get her moving and whispered, “Put a little sex in it.” The advice was superfluous; it didn’t take guidance on Erin’s part to make Tricia do the things that got heads swiveling. It wasn’t something Tricia turned on and it wasn’t something she could turn off. Cars that would’ve honked angrily at your typical New York jaywalker honked appreciatively instead. Passersby stopped passing, if they were of the male persuasion, and those with female companions were jerked promptly into motion again, departing with an involuntary glance back over one shoulder. The boxer at the door to the Stars Club didn’t budge from his post, but his thick-veined eyes widened as they approached and his massive jaw swung down like a drawbridge.
“We’re here for the fight,” Erin said.
The boxer said, slowly, “Upstairs...or down?”
“What do you think?”
“I, I...look, I,” the man said, and then started over. “They got a rule here. No ladies allowed unaccompanied, see?”
“Do we look unaccompanied?” Erin said. “I’m with her. And she’s with me.”
“But—”
Erin stepped forward, walked her index and middle fingers gently up the front of his too-tight jacket. “Or you could say we’re both with you. If anyone asks. And no one’s going to ask, will they?”
“I don’t know—”
“Mister,” Tricia said, “we’re old friends of one of the fighters.”
“Oh, yeah? Which one?”
“Stella Dane,” Tricia said. “She and I used to live together. We...shared a room.” It was true, Tricia told herself, only slightly ashamed of the deception. It wasn’t her fault if the man leapt to conclusions.
Which he seemed to be doing, judging by the blush that reddened his ravaged cheeks. “You and she...”
“They were very close,” Erin said. “Like family. You’d let a fighter’s wife in, wouldn’t you?”
“Sure,” the boxer said. “But...”
“Well,” Erin said, pulling the door beside him open, “then you should let my friend in.”
The man shoved the door shut again, firmly, wagged an index finger at the two of them. “If anybody asks, I’m gonna say I didn’t see you. You snuck by me. If there’s any trouble, I’m not taking the fall for, for, for a coupla...”
“A couple of what?” Erin said, hands on hips.
“You know what,” the boxer grumbled. “I don’t need to say it.”
“All right, then,” Erin said.
Inside, a narrow staircase led down and a wide one led up. The wide one was better lit. From upstairs came the sound of feet slapping canvas, of wooden chairs sliding against a concrete floor, of men and women hooting and gasping. And of punches landing. Then a bell rang and you could hear a collective sigh—of relief, of despair, Tricia couldn’t tell.
“Ladies and gentlemen...” came the amplified voice of a ring announcer. “The winnah and still champeen...Jerry, the Jackhammer...”
The voice faded as they began picking their way downstairs. Tricia held onto the railing and took care not to trip. She heard Erin’s steps behind her. The basement ceiling was low and the lights hanging from it were all trained on the ring in the center of the room. There was an announcer here, too, and a microphone dangling at the level of his mouth, but the ring was empty otherwise, except for a stool in each corner and a metal pail beside it.