The Girls at the Kingfisher Club by Genevieve Valentine Page A

dance-hungry eyes appearing all at once.
    Jo was the most subdued, in a fawn dress bordered with purple beads. It was the nicest she had; she hadn’t worn it in years, and it was too long for the fashion, but she felt more comfortable with knees covered. She held her shoes in one hand, her grip white-knuckled around the heels.
    Behind her came Hattie and Mattie with headbands of tight-pressed feathers over their caps of dark hair, each in a gray dress spangled in silver, and carrying matching pairs of silver shoes.
    Sophie, Araminta, and Rebecca came next, their chins up like the Three Graces: Rebecca in her gold, Sophie in green, her blond hair curled. Araminta’s long neck was wrapped in the pale green beads, and her white dress fell nearly as long as Jo’s.
    Rose was in red, Lily in black with a necklace of paste pearls. Doris’s dress had a black hip sash that hid the ragged edges where it had been cobbled together.
    Violet was in a simple dress the color of an orchid. Ella wore pale blue and looked like spring.
    Last was Lou, in a copper dress, her shoes hanging around her neck, fastened by their ribbon ties like a pair of rabbits from a hunting expedition, and she had her cigarette holder already clamped in her teeth.
    The Charleston picked up seamlessly (good musicians were hard to rattle), and the bouncer closed the door behind them, dropping the room back into false twilight. Still, the crowd seemed to hang back from the stairs, waiting for them to burst into song or pull out revolvers or throw their shoes at the unsuspecting.
    Jo was already scanning the crowd, looking for Tom, dreading it.
    He was a consummate host, at least—two breaths after she’d started looking, he was already out of the shadows and moving through the crowd to meet them, wearing a slightly awed expression at the pileup on his stairs.
    â€œLadies,” he said, including them all with the word. “Welcome to the Marquee. I didn’t know you were coming”—he glanced at Jo—“so there’s nothing reserved for you tonight, but I’ll get you settled in with something that I hope will be all right, and then we’ll see about drinks. You must be thirsty. Henry at the bar will be happy to help you.”
    Hattie and Mattie moved to keep pace with him, and the others followed. Jo hung back and let them go. Rebecca called it “sheep counting,” and it wasn’t far off, but it wasn’t hard to lose one in the shuffle; best to make sure everyone was safe inside before they scattered.
    (Once the sisters hit the dance floor, all bets were off.)
    Lou was last, and she stopped next to Jo long enough to pluck her cigarette holder out of her mouth.
    â€œYou meet the nicest people in the clink, Jo. I should have figured something was up. Were you planning to hit the road with him in your fancy frock after the party?”
    â€œOh, I don’t think he’d look very good in my fancy frock,” said Jo, and moved to catch up with the rest.
    There were two empty tables on a mezzanine just off the dance floor, and with the materialization of a few extra chairs, there was enough space for them all.
    Within seconds, the younger girls had strapped on their shoes; before the older girls even had a chance to fasten their buckles, the first tray of champagne was being delivered. Henry, the young man behind the bar whom Tom had pointed out, had bleached out his hair stone-white, and when he looked over, Jo watched his pale head pause, counting them.
    The Marquee was a sharper establishment than the Kingfisher. Besides the waiters moving back and forth behind the bar, the wood floor was polished and the red curtains newly made. It was half as large as any other place they’d been, except maybe Salon Renaud.
    Jo guessed that Tom’s deal with the police meant he could afford to spread out a little.
    The space allowed for tables and chairs tucked off the dance floor, in front of the