Wolf sighed and handed over the money, and the three of them stepped through the curtain into the red-velvet-swathed theater.
The show was in full swing — and it was quite astonishing. Little Cairo certainly did have the raven curls and exotic attire of an Eastern houri. And she could also do extremely interesting things with her bellybutton. But as far as Sacha could see, no one else in the all-male audience was there to admire her dancing. Not that it mattered much what they were there for. Little Cairo’s virtue was obviously quite safe. It was guarded by a massive woman seated in a folding chair on one side of the stage. She was built like a heavyweight boxer, and her hat was pinned to her head with the longest, sharpest hatpin Sacha had ever seen. The look on her face made it clear that she was willing and able to use the hatpin. And her uncanny resemblance to a much older, much fatter Little Cairo made it clear that she was the dancer’s mother.
When the dance finally ended, Little Cairo waltzed off the stage, sweeping up armfuls of flowers and silken veils and feather boas. Mrs. Little Cairo rose ponderously, shot one last threatening glare at the audience, and followed her daughter into the wings.
Wolf cut through the crowd, leaving the two apprentices to elbow their way after him. When they finally caught up with him, he was standing at the door of Little Cairo’s dressing room toe to toe with her formidable mother.
“Don’t get hoity-toity with me, young man!” Mrs. Little Cairo stuck out her well-padded bosom and brandished a threatening fist in Wolf’s face. Underneath her prim lace gloves, her hands were as meaty as a prizefighter’s, and they looked just as capable of doing damage. “I already ran off one gentleman caller today, and I can run you off, too!”
“I assure you, madam—”
“Don’t madam me! What kind of a girl do you think my daughter is?”
“—that I’m here on official police business.”
“Hah! You think I haven’t heard that excuse before?”
“Honestly,” Lily whispered in Sacha’s ear, “between her and the ticket boy, you’ve got to wonder what the Coney Island police do all day!”
Sacha snorted in laughter, earning himself a dirty stare from Mrs. Little Cairo.
“I’ll have your badge number!” the dancer’s mother bellowed, turning back to Wolf. “Let’s see it!”
Wolf shrugged and fished his badge out of his pocket again.
“You’ll hear about this,” Mrs. Little Cairo huffed. “Let me assure you, Inquisitor Wo — oh!” She stopped cold as she read the name on Wolf’s badge, and when she spoke again, it was in a simpering, almost girlish voice. “Inquisitor Wolf? Not the Inquisitor Wolf?”
Wolf bowed solemnly. “At your service, Mrs.…”
“Darling. Mrs. Darling. Widowed.” She giggled coyly and extended the hand with which she’d been threatening his life moments ago.
Wolf hesitated only for the briefest instant before bending to kiss it.
“Oh, Inquisitor Wolf! I’m sure my daughter will be highly gratified by your appreciation of her art — to which, as you can see, she’s simply devoted — though, mind you, she’s quite unattached in any other sense. A fact which you might just consider mentioning next time you’re lunching with one of your Astrals or Vanderbilks or any of your other great Wall Street Wizards or captains of industry—”
At this point the door to the dressing room opened and Little Cairo appeared. She took stock of the situation, pursed her bee-stung lips, and turned to her mother. “Mamma,” she announced in an accent straight out of Little Italy, “I need a milk shake.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
“But, my dear, consider your reputation! To receive a gentleman caller without your dear mother present to—”
“Mamma, I’m sure Inquisitor Wolf wouldn’t dream of misbehaving with these two adorable children here.” Little Cairo pronounced the word as if it were spelled adohwable.
“But really, Rosie—”
“Mamma, I’ve lost two pounds this week!” Little Cairo plucked at the chest of her skimpy costume. “If I lose any more weight, we’re going to have to take in my clothes!”
Mrs. Little Cairo gasped. Taking in Rosie’s clothes, even by so much as an inch, obviously meant giving up all her motherly dreams of Broadway debuts and high-society weddings. “A milk shake!” she agreed. “And with extra malted powder! Tell me, my pet, do you think you could drink two?” She bustled off, muttering about the difficulty of keeping up a growing girl’s figure through nightly performances and a doubleheader Sunday matinee.
Little Cairo watched her go with a look of fond exasperation. Then she walked into her dressing room and sat down at a wobbly wicker dressing table in front of a pink-rimmed heart-shaped mirror.
“Take a load off,” she told Wolf and the apprentices. “And don’t mind me, I gotta get out of this getup. It itches something terrible!”
She turned back to the mirror, primped at her raven black locks — and then lifted them right off her head, veil, spangles, and all. The hair underneath the wig was a deep, rich, glowing auburn: the same color that every fashionable woman in New York coveted. And in Little Cairo’s case it was obviously natural — as was the way her curls swept into a ravishing Gibson Girl swirl with only a pat or two from her shapely fingers.
Sacha was still blinking in amazement at this transformation when Little Cairo pushed a pair of coke-bottle glasses onto her lovely nose. Then she peeled a gob of lime green chewing gum off the side of the mirror where she’d been storing it during her dance number, stuck it in her mouth, and started chewing as if her very life depended on beating the gum into submission.
“So,” she said between chews, “whaddaya wanna know?”
“Your name and address would be a good start.”
“Name’s DiMaggio. Rosie DiMaggio.”
Wolf had already started fishing through his pockets for the ever-elusive pencil, but now he looked up at her, perplexed. “Your mother said—”
“I know. She thinks Darling has more social potential. Mamma’s very big on social potential. She says you need more than just talent to become a celebrity. She says you need to build a persona.”
“I see. and is working for Mr. Edison part of developing your social potential?”
Rosie stuck her hand out like a cop stopping traffic. “Now wait just a minute, mister! Let’s get one thing clear from the get-go! If you tell my mother about Mr. Edison, then by gum, I’ll … I’ll … I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” Wolf sounded genuinely curious.
She glared at him ferociously. “You don’t wanna know!”
“There’s no need to threaten me, Miss Darling — er, DiMaggio. I’m investigating a magical crime. I have no interest whatsoever in your romantic entanglements.”
“It ain’t no ’tanglement,” Rosie protested. “I ain’t the ’tangling kind of girl! You think I’m just some common chorus-line hoofer? I’m gonna grow up to be an inventor, just like Mr. Edison! After that, maybe I’ll have time for romance. But for now”—she pressed a shapely hand to her chest and heaved a romantic sigh—“for now, I am a Handmaid to Science!”
Wolf coughed. “and Mr. Edison is…?”
“He’s giving me inventor lessons. You think you can just wake up one morning and start inventing? Not hardly! You gotta practice, practice, practice. It’s just like tap-dancing.”
“And your mother doesn’t know about your inventor lessons.”
“She wouldn’t understand,” Rosie wailed despairingly. “She wants me to be a stawh.”