When a burlesque queen seeks crime fighter Eliot Ness's help in finding her sister, their growing friendship causes friction in their personal and professional lives, as his investigation leads them down a dark path involving a corrupt adoption ring.
Forced into the world of burlesque at seventeen, Lydia Swanson not only adjusts, but becomes the Roxy Theater’s leading fan dancer. Her life seems on the upswing. There’s just one thing that’s been nagging her the past five years—she has no clue what happened to her sister since the day authorities stripped her from her arms after their mother’s death.
It’s 1940, and Cleveland’s famed city safety director, Eliot Ness, may be just the man to help her. When she musters the nerve to approach him, he surprises her by accepting her mission. But when it becomes clear that their bond is heading towards something more than they bargained for, things get complicated for Lydia and the married G-man. Their growing friendship causes friction in their personal and professional lives, and to make matters worse, their search for her sister leads them down an underground trail that exposes a nationwide corrupt adoption ring.
What happens next will change Lydia’s life forever.
Cleveland, August 1940
Sex and crime can be great motivators. I learned that soon after I started this gig. It’s one of the things Eliot and I had in common. We were both meshed in the forbidden fruit business.
As I dipped and twirled on the makeshift stage, my eyes veered toward the front door. If rumors were true, Eliot Ness, the famous crime-fighter and city safety director, would be stopping in for lunch. I’d seen him here before, but he was always surrounded by important men so I could never approach him. But today was going to be different. I wasn’t going to chicken out this time.
And I was dressed for the occasion. All dolled up in my sequined, strapless blue gown with elbow-length white gloves and feather boa. But damn, it was hot. So stinkin’ hot, the sequins stuck to my skin, making me wish I could take off more than allowed.
Thank God I’d left the corset, fishnets, and heavy ostrich fans—items more fitting after dark—back in my dressing room a few blocks over. I wasn’t performing on my usual stage but in a corner of the room where businessmen, political men, cops, lawyers, mobsters (especially mobsters) came on a regular basis. “Roxy Wednesday” was a hit at the Theatrical Grille Restaurant, thanks to me, Lydia Swanson. Better known as Blue Satin Doll.
Strip steak was the blue-plate special of the day. I could appreciate the gag but didn’t have to like it. I was more than some afternoon delight. Not one of those loose, pay-me-in-cash type broads. I was classy—strictly entertainment. And I’d make damn sure the man who just walked in knew it too.
I spotted him the minute he entered, and it nearly threw me off.
The lunch crowd was sparse, probably due to the heat, so despite the dim lighting and swirling cigarette smoke, I could make out every face. Still, even in a packed house, no one missed the presence of the man who had all of Cleveland in a tizzy, including me.
Normally he wore a boring brown suit with pricey looking tie but today’s heat had him in a simple tan shirt, neatly pressed trousers. I stole a few peeks from behind my boa, saw him pony up to the bar. Nerves crept through my insides as I watched him remove his trademark gray fedora and set it down on the wooden bar top. His Brylcreemed hair was slick, his middle part straight as a race track.
Like me, Eliot had a moniker besides his real one. Many, including some law officials, called him the “Boy Scout.” I heard he hated it.
The instant my first act was done, I tossed the boa and gloves on the chair, sashayed across the hazy room, past the long bar and made my way to the corner barstool, thankfully next to the big swirling fan. Eliot was sitting next to Big Joe, who immediately made the introduction. I took a deep breath, smiled sweetly and shook his hand. “How nice to meet you, Mr. Ness.”
He smiled, just as sweetly. “Please, call me Eliot.”
“Eliot, it is.” I flashed my big Irish eyes—I couldn’t help myself.
I had to fight the urge to toy with him. I wasn’t the only gal in town who had a little crush on the handsome law enforcer, but I was different from the others. Sure, my occupation made me stand out, perhaps warrant some extra attention, but I had more in mind than being some hussy on this man’s arm.
That’s not to say I wouldn’t love a piece of him, I’m only human. Even if he was an older man of thirty-seven, he had that certain something that appealed to the ladies. Still, my main interest in this top official was more of a business nature. Besides, he was married—worse yet, a newlywed (second time around, no less)—so getting his attention in that form was futile. Any man worth his salt didn’t stray till at least the second year. I may be only twenty-two but I’d become a fast learner of life working as a burlesque queen.
I turned to Joe. “Sweetie, could you get me a Jack ’n Coke, please?”
“Coming right up, Lydia.” His thick hand flagged down Albert, the weathered old barkeep who’d worked here since probably my first moment on earth.
Big Joe was the bouncer at the Roxy Theater, where I’d been dancing since my mama died. He served as my personal bodyguard and always accompanied me to the Theatrical. After all, you never knew when some sloppy drunkard (and there was usually one, even at noon) might decide it was okay to put his grimy paws where they shouldn’t be. That unfortunate soul would quickly be met with a large bear clutch to the back of his neck, dragging him on a little guided tour of the back alley. It happened with less frequency now, thanks to word-of-mouth, so I had a soft spot for Joe.
Eliot stood and waved his hand toward the stool. “I imagine you could use a minute to sit.” Everyone knew Eliot was a gentleman, but his words were more telling than his actions. Any gentleman would give up his seat for a lady, but this one didn’t do it as a mere polite gesture. His comment showed straight up that this fella understood the working girl.
I shifted my gown slightly and slid onto the offered seat. While Joe babbled on, something about the bust at the Harvard Club, I glanced around, rather enjoying the envious looks from the few women in the place and listened for an opening. I waited patiently for my drink, and my opportunity. My glass arrived first. In ladylike fashion, I sipped it slowly, purposefully. The syrupy liquid soothed my insides, summoned my confidence. I was more than ready. I’d rehearsed it for days.
“So, Lydia, you from around here?” That resonant, self-assured voice tugged at my insecurities, but I was used to the question. A lot of burly girls lived in other cities. Like Sally Rand and Ann Corio, who spent much of their careers flitting from one town to another. Traveling the wheel, they called it. Those were the girls who made the real money. But living out of a suitcase was not my cup of tea. I preferred a home base.
“Westside? Eastside?” His eyes, a merging of blue and gray, penetrated my own. Despite the hot blush I knew was adding to my rouge, I couldn’t look away. He took a swig of his drink not taking those eyes off me. It was a bit unnerving.
“Oh, I’m a Westside girl.”
“Is that right? What part?”
“Lakewood.”
“Why, we’re practically neighbors.”
“You don’t say?” I took another dainty sip to quash my burst of glee. Practically neighbors? Maybe he really would be willing, feel obliged even, to help me. Setting the glass down, I noticed his beverage was in a tall pop glass, no fruit. Ginger ale. “No drinking on the job, I presume?”
He shook his head, just slightly.
What must he think of me, then? Drinking in the early afternoon and while working? I slyly pushed my glass to the side as I opened my mouth to begin my prepared speech. “I was hoping to have a few minutes to ask—”
A dark-haired woman, wearing a mustard-yellow polka-dot dress and crooked smile, pushed herself between us.
Damn.
“Well, if it isn’t the big man himself.” The lady said it like she didn’t like him.
Well over six-foot tall, Joe towered over the woman. “Thelma, why don’t you take your mouth and swagger elsewhere.”
Thelma? The only woman I knew of with that name belonged to Angelo Parrisi from the Mayfield Road Mob. His girl.
Thelma raised her head, inhaled smoke from her silver cigarette holder, then met his gaze for an uncomfortable second before glaring at Eliot and stomping off.
Big Joe scanned the room as if checking for Angelo and his boys before shifting his attention to me. “Looks like your fans are getting anxious.”
I turned toward the crowd in front of the stage. He was right. The room had filled up, the voices louder. “Oh jeez. That time already?” I leaned in to read Eliot’s watch. An Omega. I knew the brand. Bill, the man who thought he owned me but didn’t, had one just like it.
“Excuse me, Mr. . . . er, Eliot. I do want to talk to you, it’s rather important.”
Big Joe’s hand pressed on my back as I heard the announcer paging me.
“And now folks, it’s time once again for our delightful star of the show! Blue Satin Doll, come oooon uuuup.”
“If it’s important to you, it’s important to me.” Eliot said as he patted my hand, holding it there a three full Mississippis. Was he flirting? Hard to tell. “Call me anytime,” he added. Full of respect. That alone could make a girl melt like chocolate in the sun.
Feeling a hot blush, I turned away and spotted my glass, still half-full. I was tempted to let it be, but I was parched. I gulped it down.
The hell with dainty, I was who I was.
Meandering through the crowd back to the stage floor, I felt a rush of giddiness. Something resembling hope.
Now what? Did he actually mean I could call him at his workplace? Now that we were acquainted, was that acceptable?
Maybe I wouldn’t have to. Maybe he’d make his way down the street one night to catch my Roxy act. I knew he would enjoy it. Married or not.
I danced the next set in a daze, thinking Eliot Ness might just be my savior. There was more to this man that met the eye, or his reputation. More than his status as one who refused bribes from gangsters like Al Capone. More than his leadership qualities that helped clean up our fair city. And certainly more than the man who had known failure. People still taunted him for not snagging the notorious serial killer that had Clevelanders so frightened a few years back. Still, he’d accomplished a lot in his six years here. Like fighting organized crime, reorganizing the police and fire units, getting traffic lights installed to reduce traffic fatalities. That all was nothing to sneeze at.
Eliot was gone by the time my show was done, and with him went my expectations. Ever since I’d decided to seek his help in finding my sister, I couldn’t keep my mind on nothing else. I had to get him alone, explain the whole story, beg for his help. And yet, the perfect opportunity had passed me by. Doubt seized me quickly. What if even the great law enforcer, with all his connections, couldn’t help me? What if he was just too busy to help me? Or worse, what if he simply wouldn’t want to? Still, even if he turned me down, better to know than keep those elusive dreams alive.
Hope can be such a bitch.