The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [127]
He stopped his monologue and stared at her again. “But just look at yourself now! You’re a treat to behold, Missie O’Bryan, dressed in such finery!” He stiffened and said suspiciously, “Though I don’t know where a girl like yourself would find the money for it. Nor what you’re doing at the countess’s party.”
“I’ve got a job,” she said eagerly, telling him her story about Madame Elise. She stopped, puzzled. O’Hara was staring down at his shiny black patent shoes, a troubled look on his face, and she asked him what was the matter.
“It’s all wrong for you, Missie.” He groaned. “You don’t know what these people are like. I could tell you some stories about what I’ve seen at houses even grander than this one, stories that would make your hair turn white! They take up with a person one week and drop her the next. And when I think of you, my ideal, my colleen, flaunting yourself for them to see …”
“Flaunting myself?” she retorted angrily. “Just what do you mean by that, O’Hara? I show off perfectly respectable clothes so that perfectly respectable ladies will buy them.” Pushing aside the memory of the men’s speculative eyes, she added hurriedly, “And anyway, who are you to talk? Selling illegal liquor to people? At least my job is honest!”
O’Hara’s face grew red with anger and he bit so hard on the end of his cigar he broke it in two. He stamped it viciously into the ground and then suddenly he began to laugh. “B’jaysus and if you’re not right. Except in Ireland we don’t consider selling moonshine illegal. And all I’m doing is giving people a little pleasure by giving them what they want.”
“And so am I!” she retorted, stamping her foot.
“Is it a temper then you’ve been acquiring, along with your new job?” he asked innocently, laughing as she lunged at him, catching her hands in his. “I’m sorry, Missie, honest I am. I never meant to imply you were not a respectable girl. Of course I knows in me heart you are, but I guess it’s just that I’d like you home safe with me, in New Jersey instead of showing clothes for a living.”
She gripped his hands tightly. Despite her anger she was surprised how pleased she was to see his familiar handsome face, like a beacon of security among all the shiny New York society people. “I’m really glad to see you, O’Hara,” she whispered.
He beamed happily. “Then grab your hat, Missie O’Bryan. I’m taking you out to supper to the best restaurant on Long Island.”
Thrilled, she ran to find Madame Elise and tell her she was having supper with an old friend.
“An old friend?” Madame repeated with a skeptical smile. “Or perhaps a new conquest? Very well then, you may go. And tomorrow we will discuss the new ‘arrangement’ with Ziegfeld.”
Missie had forgotten all about Ziegfeld, but as she ran to join O’Hara, she decided against telling him the rest of her story. Somehow, she just knew he would not understand. At least, not yet.
The restaurant was set back from the road behind some trees, like the one O’Hara had taken her to before. There were dozens of automobiles in the parking lot, but no lights shone from the windows and only a swinging carriage lamp lighted the sign “Oriconne’s” over the front door.
“Are you sure it’s open?” she asked nervously as O’Hara lifted a little brass lid and pressed the buzzer.
“Sure I’m sure, it’s just private. You have to be a member, and they won’t let you in if they don’t know your face.”
“But whyever not?” she demanded, astonished.
“It’s a speakeasy. That means they are selling booze—O’Hara’s booze,” he added proudly. “They keep the window curtains closed and lock all the doors so they can get it out of the way, chance the police should arrive. Not that they will, with the payola the Oriconne brothers give them.”
A tiny window opened suddenly and a face peered at them through the grille. There was the sound of the heavy bolts being drawn back and they stepped inside, then through another heavily padded