"I've Got What It Takes"

Backstage at 43rd St’s ‘Spelman Club’ – behind the loose-lipped drunks, and the cigar smoke haze, and the big black curtain – Lorna Monroe sat alone, restless.

Toying the string of pearls around her neck, she sighed as her eyes wandered past her dolled-up likeness in the dressing-table mirror to the costume rail reflected behind her.

Geez, Harry. You sure went all out this time.

The final part of tonight’s ensemble hung, waiting. A mint-green bustle, open at the front but full behind, tumbled downwards in ruffled, thick, plumy layers, embroidered with sequins and the eyes of peacock-feathers. And hefty-looking. Bulkier than the see-through chiffon and bead skirts she’d gotten used to wearing.

Boy. Guess someone important’s in.

Lorna made to stand, then fell back into her chair. She needed these moments too much to rush them - never liked being ready till the last second, if she could. Most nights she’d sit corseted for an hour before, pondering, dabbing away with the powder. In the mirror’s soft lights, she savoured the chance to a daydream of a night beyond the club. Or even of being in the exact same spot, just doing it her own way sometime. Her own music, lines, frocks. Her own terms.

But Harry would never –

Howls and wolf-whistles came blaring from the freshly parted curtain, as a tall brunette stepped backwards through, earning one final laugh as her heel caught in the tassels and she tumbled backstage.

“Every time,” she huffed, snatching the curtains closed. “What’s he got me in these things for, Lorn, they’re a death trap!”

“Least they show off your pins, Trix,” replied Lorna sincerely, stifling her own chuckle. “You look gorgeous.”

“Yeah, not when I’m tripping like a ragdoll, I don’t,” Trixie sighed, wrapping herself in a thick gown from the rail before stomping to a well-worn chaise and collapsing onto it. “Speakeasy, he calls it – I tell ya, he don’t like making walking easier.”

“Amen,” Lorna smiled through the mirror, as she always did to this joke.

Trixie ‘Belle’ (born Silvestri, only a couple of blocks from her) was the sort of girl who put you at ease, Lorna thought; could crack you up making a klutz of herself, always more deliberate than she let on. But mostly, Lorna loved the way she filled her silences – as she started to then, recounting her routine with more gusto than the brass band booming onstage. Other girls didn’t take to Lorna’s quietness. Accused her of being all high-hat, ‘Harry’s favourite'. But not Trixie. The one person who never minded when Lorna clocked off someplace else...

She’d have your back, right? If you ever -

“Trixie!”, a voice bellowed from behind Lorna, whose attention immediately snapped back to the mirror. “Quit your yappin'. How is it I got a full quintet out there and yet I can hear every word o’ you piping on clear as day, huh?”

“Sure thing, Harry” came Trixie’s embittered reply, as Lorna saw the man’s reflection approaching her, resting his hands tentatively on her chair.

“Your face is done, girl”, he said as she reached for the powder-brush, sterner with her than usual. He seemed to sense this too, and eased off:

“Flawless. How come you don’t got your skirt on yet though? I made that one extra special.”

“I’m getting to it”, she said, rising to her feet, slowly turning to look him eye-to-eye, best she could. Harry Spelman was a tall, angular man – bonier than most of the club-owners, and better-dressed. Tonight’s getup was particularly immaculate, Lorna thought, if a little showy: maroon, checkered three-piece, with paisley mustard tie and pocket square. Cologne musk struck her as her eyes traced up the outfit to meet his. “I got it.”

“Here, lemme give you a hand," said Harry, stepping forwards as she reached the hanger.

“I said I got it”, she replied, firm but not snappy, disguising her shock at the skirt’s weight as she eased it down and around her waist. Harry gestured for her to step into the centre, circling her as he carefully ruffled the layers to their fullest, meticulously checking from all sides.

Lorna knew this side of him all too well. The visiting girls, with their home-sewn rags, said the other joints were nothing like this. Sure, the boss might ask you to stay late, but he’d never set foot in the dressing room. But not Harry. Dressmaker, manager, bookkeeper – everything had to be just so, his way.

Under his thumb.

“Looks perfect. Go careful with it.” Harry’s words brought Lorna back from her fazed-out mannequin mode. She caught Trixie’s smile from the chaise, checking in, and smiled back. Harry stepped between.

“Now listen. I need you to do something a little different tonight. End of your first number, ‘I’ve Got What It Takes’, you’re not gonna drop this behind your screen, okay,” he said, gesturing to the skirt with one hand, while his other fished his inside jacket pocket, producing a pen and small black, leather notebook. “You’re gonna walk ‘round the tables. Pinch a sip of some sap’s drink. Y’know. Saunter.”

He flicked through the book – skimming quickly so Lorna only caught a glimpse of names, dates, figures – till he reached a bare page and scrawled a quick layout of the auditorium. “And when you drop it, make sure you end up... here.” An X for the spot. “First row from the back, bar-side.”

Now why would –

“I’ll be next table, keeping an eye. Just head over to the guy here and let it fall from your waist – but classy, like. Subtle. Then walk away.”

“Jesus, Harry,” piped up Trixie, “what, we letting the pervs in now? We encouraging them, that it?”

“No, Trixie,” he replied, teeth clenched. Lorna saw as he turned away how tense his shoulders were tonight, standing far from his full height in his smartest suit.

“Y’know me, it’s not like that,” he continued, “but it’s important. After,” turning back to Lorna, “you just head upstage for the routine as we practised. Same as always.” He finished his drawing, tore out the page and held it to her, only to grasp tighter as she took it to catch her eye. “You got that, Lorna?”

Lorna sensed the faintest tremor from him, before his grip relaxed and she unfolded the drawing, reading the scrawled message beneath: ‘No questions. Please. I’ll make it up to you.’

Will you now...

“Harry, I know what the club looks like,” she replied, gently tossing it aside, “I’ve been here long enough... But don’t worry,” meeting his eye once more. “I got it.”

Harry smiled, cloaking a breath of relief, shoulders easing slightly. “I know you do. My little canary, huh?” he said, suddenly checking his watch and hurrying out of the room. “Two minutes. Don’t make her miss her cue”, he said, with one last chiding look to Trixie as he slipped out the side curtain.

“The nerve,” grumbled Trixie, making towards Lorna once he was out of earshot. “Changing your intro like that, it’s not so easy to just ‘saunter’, ya know. I’d love to see him try – especially in that thing!”

“It’s fine,” said Lorna, moving into position behind the curtain. Deep breaths, eyes closed.

“I’m serious,” she continued, getting louder with each step. “All just to show off his precious design, and it ain’t even that ritzy! Honestly, doll, you normally look so glam, but look how big –”

With that, Trixie gasped as her left heel buckled from beneath her. Lorna opened her eyes to see Trixie tumbling towards her, right foot outstretched, and the stiletto heel land gashing right down the back of the skirt, ripping its bottom layers wide open with a ferocious tear.

“Oh god! Oh Jesus, honey, I’m so sorry!” she said, scrambling to her feet, chucking the broken heels aside.

Lorna could see Trixie staring in horror at the back of the outfit, but could only turn so far. “How bad’s the damage?!” she asked. “Can’t you sew it up quick or something?!”

Dammit, Harry’s gonna –

“Lorn,” said Trixie quietly, crouched down behind her. “Look at this.”

Unfastening the waist quick as she could, Lorna let the skirt fall as she spun around – and suddenly brought her hands to her mouth.

From within the tear in the thick-sewn fabric, Trixie was pulling out not feathers... but crisp, green banknotes. She froze, holding up a fan of them, open-mouthed. Then she reached in again to pull out more, and more, stuffed through every layer of the skirt.

“Christ, this is...” Trixie murmured, stunned, flicking through the notes. “They’re all fifties, Lorn. There’s gotta be a couple hundred here. Easy.”

Lorna’s eyes darted to the side-curtain, then back to the scattered green bills.

“So that’s... Tonight must be some...” she trailed off.

“What do we do, Lorn?” said Trixie, panicked. They could hear the band getting louder, the busy crowd taking to their seats. “What’re we gonna do?!”

We could even...

But then, what if...

Lorna let out a deep sigh. “You better grab that sewing needle, Trixie. And quick.”

***

Sat near the back of his club, Harry Spelman locked eyes with his guest at the neighbouring table, best he could make them out beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed trilby. The spotlight still shone on the unopened curtain, as the band picked up softly to bridge the delay.

“She’s coming”, Harry mouthed. As glanced down to click open his watch in panic, he suddenly heard the familiar sound of Lorna Monroe’s soft, soulful voice:

“Oh Stingy Ginny saved up all her pennies

Straight to the bank she would go.”

Harry looked up to see Lorna’s face popping out between the curtains, radiant as always, and smiled over to his companion.

“The sharks would have their hands around her

But none could get her dough.”

Suddenly an unexpected burst of gasps and applause sent Harry’s eyes shooting back to the stage, where he saw Lorna emerge through the drapes, already in corset, stockings, and suspenders alone – the skirt nowhere in sight.

Harry stood to his feet, as did his furious guest – but in turn so did the crowd, men rushing to their feet clapping, showering praise and catcalls. Above them he could make out Lorna’s face, for the first time truly lapping it all up.

With that he made a sudden rush towards this stage, bumping into a burly man in front who snapped round to him: “Hey, calm down will ya! Show some respect to the lady!”

As he made to go round him the man blocked his path, puffing his chest, his friends turning round to do the same. Harry tried to shove past, but only made it worse – within no time the whole crowd was taking note, flapper girls eyeing him fearfully as their fellas barked at Harry to pipe down or take it outside. He was outnumbered, flummoxed, and as he barked up at the man – “Lemme past, she’s mine, this is all mine, ya idiot!” – the last thing he saw before a swift socker to the face was Lorna Monroe, shuffling backwards through the curtain, smiling right at him:

“I'm saving it up for a real good man,

I've got what it takes.”

***

Safely backstage, Lorna made a beeline for the fire escape. Heels flung aside, in her bare corset, she burst open the metal door, clambering out onto the street behind.

C’mon Trix, tell me that was enough time to –

Suddenly, as she ran barefoot down the rain-soaked road, a yellow cab-car pulled up beside, and Trixie Silvestri threw open the door for her to jump in.

“Get this on ya, doll,” she beamed as the car sped off, throwing her black coat around the shivering Lorna, and revealing her own outfit beneath: a hastily stitched-up, mint-green skirt.

“You girls are dressed pretty fancy,” came a voice from the cab-front. “Heading someplace special?”

The two women smiled to each other.

“Something like that,” Lorna replied.