Dominique's Confession: A Roaring Twenties Dark Romance 6k5b6o

Dominique’s Confession

A Roaring Twenties Dark Romance

Christopher of Detroit

Sublimation Pressworks

Copyright © 2020 by Christopher of Detroit

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and incidents are either the results of the writer’s imagination or if they are real they are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or any other kind is coincidental.

ISBN: 9781005761356

Cover design: Christopher Kramer with Canva.

Cover source photo: Lambada at iStock.

Editor: Christopher Kramer

Creative consultants and proofreaders: Nadia Morales, Christy Jordan, and Terence Kavanaugh.

Website: www.sublimationpressworks.com

Mailing list: [email protected]

Disclaimer

This book contains dialogue and themes consistent with the historical era it takes place. Views on race, gender, sexuality, ethnicity and interpersonal relationships do not reflect the author’s views.

For those precious few who search for magic.

“The human race tends to the abuses to which it has been subjected rather than the endearments. What's left of kisses? Wounds, however, leave scars.”

Bertolt Brecht

Contents

Genevieve Dowd - File #1089

1. 23 August 1976

2. 26 August 1976

3. 30 August 1976

4. 2 September 1976

5. 10 September 1976

6. 12 September 1976

7. 15 September 1976

8. 18 September 1976

9. 21 September 1976

10. 24 September 1976

11. 26 September 1976

12. 27 September 1976

13. 28 September 1976

14. 29 September 1976

15. 30 September 1976

16. 1 October 1976

17. 2 October 1976

18. 3 October 1976

19. 4 October 1976

20. 8 October 1976

21. 9 October 1976

22. 12 October 1976

23. 14 October 1976

24. 16 October 1976

25. 21 October 1976

26. 29 October 1976

27. 5 November 1976

28. 11 November 1976

29. 12 November 1976

30. 14 November 1976

Dominique Has More Secrets

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Christopher of Detroit

Dominique’s Confession

Genevieve Dowd - File #1089

Folder 6 / Language: English

23 August 1976

He entered my life fifty years ago today, on a Monday, in the city of Detroit. Back then, I marched to a different drummer. Barely twenty-years-old, I plunged into the days’ fashions. I savored the bohemians’ avant-garde experiences. It was true—my senses controlled me more than most, yet I yearned for freedom, to live in the moment. These days, one catches a glimmer of that precocious young lady but only from infrequent smiles during these sessions with my handlers. The 18th Amendment, or American Prohibition, ed in 1919. It made the sale, consumption, and manufacturing of alcohol illegal. Yet nobody stopped drinking—certainly not us. With Windsor across the Detroit River, we gained easy access to booze. 70 percent of smuggled US alcohol came across the Windsor-Detroit border and because of that, the city thrived. The Volstead Act inspired an artistic underground and the razzamatazz of the Jazz Age glittered around us. The Nouveau Riche ruled the day as 20,000 speakeasies littered the city—one on every corner controlled by the Purple Gang, a Detroit equivalent of Al Capone’s Chicago Outfit. A year earlier, in 1925, I arrived and settled into the borough of Black Bottom, known these days as Lafayette Park. Unofficial boundaries contained the neighborhood with Gratiot Avenue to the north, Brush Street to the west, Congress to the south, and the Grand Trunk railroad tracks to the east. Despite its name, Black Bottom wasn’t a colored area. Early Frenchmen named it after the rich black soil below. Still, most Negroes settled there during the Great Migration to escape the South’s Jim Crow laws. Along with the Blacks, countless Italian, Syrian, Lebanese, and Jewish immigrants found jobs in the auto factories. Informal segregation forced the outsiders into older, less expensive rental housing. Germans and Jews owned the stores. Whites owned the real estate. From its pioneer days, Detroit’s blend of ethnic and racial backgrounds created a challenging melting pot. In the early days, the city survived on fur trapping and trading before it moved on to industrial iron ore, building stoves, railroad cars, and Henry Ford’s luscious automobiles. Detroit became a boom town and by the

twenties, it was the fourth-largest city in the United States. In the thick of it, I made my living as a taxi dancer known as “Dominique.” Typically, male patrons paid me to dance with them but the occasional lady also wanted the service. Patrons of taxi-dance halls purchased dance tickets for ten cents each, which bought a single song. Dancers earned a commission on every ticket collected. My alias hid my real name, and that was for the best. As far as my neighbors knew, I waited tables at Marie Scott’s café. Housed in a building leftover from the century’s turn, the Hit Café, the street business, allowed Black Bottom residents to nab an espresso or a Ward’s Orange-Crush. However, behind a double sliding wall in the back another world existed. Named after the sixcylinder engine, Hit on All Sixes, acted as a bootleg bar, a domain of petty gambling, debauchery, and excesses. Initiated customers called the club simply Sixes. The modern parlance would be a speakeasy or blind pig, but in those days, we called them clip ts. Age seeped from the wood-ing. A brass-covered bar stood against the back wall inlaid with aluminum and mounted with brass fittings. Dented and dinged, the damage added character and invited intimate discourse. Lacquered homemade bar stools inlaid with masterful wood and chrome Art Deco designs filled the room. A mysterious disposition dominated the space as if stories over the years remained alive in the walls, accessible to those who listened: starcrossed lovers proclaiming their affection, a planned heist gone wrong, or a factory-mangled ghost story told in hushed whispers. One caught a flash of these spirits skimming by the chandeliers or disturbing the candelabras’ flames as they sipped Marie Scott’s liquid gold. Red velvet draperies hung in various locations about the room. These curtains hid secret alcoves from prying eyes: small rooms where people drank alone, made merry in intimate groups, or did something more alarming like in those risqué stag films. Some dancers crossed that line, but that wasn’t my style. I didn’t mind dancing with a fella, but that transgression I saved for someone special. Marie Scott acquired the bar in a surreptitious contract. Some said she won it in a Gin Rummy game. Others said it came from an inheritance. And still others claimed she murdered a man for it. I never believed such nonsense, but in those

days anything could happen. The woman had a past. Her disposition conveyed wisdom beyond her thirty years, but a murderer? She gave me a life. But we had no illusions; if it came to business or me, I’d be the first to go. I understood. On that fateful Monday, Rudolph Valentino died at 31, but nobody knew that yet. Days after, despondent fans committed suicide and an all-day riot erupted, but oblivious to the tragedy, I stepped into the bar ready to start my shift. In those days, I stood tall with a slender athletic build, but more food might have helped. Dark brown hair, slicked in the flapper style, but wavy and longish, fell over my high forehead. Hazel eyes, large and inquisitive, carried fewer lines and less hidden depth than nowadays. Ruddy lips and cheeks reinforced my hunger chic. Age stole these gifts from me, but my fashion taste hasn’t changed, and my current predicament can’t steal my exuberance. I strode across the room with purpose and halted at the bar. I signaled to Marie, ordered my standard, and scanned the room for a dance. Full as usual, Sixes popped with activity. Most people in the speakeasy bored me, but a precious few held my attention. Lower-class bohemians mingled with upper-crust aristocracy; economic disparity between the haves and the have nots created a nuanced environment. That place would never work now. Then, however, artists, dancers, and musicians mixed with rival bankers, real estate tycoons, and high-finance bean counters. Off-duty cops sipped their drinks in dark corners. Hoods from the Purple Gang came and went. Society ladies filled the place dayside but blueblooded tramps claimed ownership when the moon rose full. Gadabout trollops littered the dance floor late into most nights. In a far corner, Detective Frank Edwards chatted with mayor John W. Smith and future mayor Charles E. Bowles. They discussed Black Bottom’s tribulations over glasses of iced rye. Edwards treated me well. He wasn’t handsome per se but his no-nonsense demeanor made him likable. Most days, we wore a wide brim fedora, tan with a dark chocolate band. His suit and overcoat covered other brown hues. His eyes small, set close together, darted from one person to the next assessing innocence or guilt. A Germanic angular face fell into a point with a cleft chin as his mouth stretched from one cheek to the other. His hair color remained a mystery because

the fedora swallowed his head like a boy wearing his father’s hat. A cop’s salary didn’t allow for dancehall coquetries so I left him alone most days. Local pigs like Edwards knew about the speakeasies and what we did. Most times they took part, so bohemians didn’t have to concern themselves with a well-greased copper. As for the future mayor, Bowles had ties to the Ku Klux Klan—popular in Michigan in the twenties. When Bowles later entered office in 1930, he claimed a solution to corruption and then announced his strategy: Let the criminals bump each other off. A Detroit answer, if there ever was one. Detective Edwards caught me observing him. I nodded. He returned my greeting. I turned to Marie and asked, “Same ole night? Any boozehounds giving you trouble?” “Baby, there’s so many Bug-eyed Betties in here. I can’t take another minute.” “A lot of dogs, eh?” I said as I studied her. Not pretty, but tough and capable, Marie carried European heritage but never itted her birthplace. An impish smirk highlighted her features at all times. Dressed in gypsy style, trinkets adorned her second-hand clothing. She wore her hair piled atop her head like a nest. Sometimes, feathers decorated it; where her mane ended and the plumes began became a point of contention. Large hoop earrings resembling a Chinese magician’s linking rings hung from her ears. About a thousand different necklaces with colored beads tangled around her. Her giant impractical witch boots, laced up to her knees, always amused me. I gestured to the cop table and said, “Anything up?” “Not sure what they’re chatting about. Doesn’t concern us.” I nodded. Dread filled me with them around. Did they know about my past? They also held the power to shut us down. But Marie’s strength of character remained legendary. A great conversationalist, she knew everything about everyone. As their priest-confessor, secrets became currency. Discretion suited her business. How did she stay alive knowing their dalliances? Perhaps she spread information around as an insurance policy. If she disappeared, evidence would surface like a bloated body from the Detroit River.

I said, “Where are the others?” “It’s a slow night. Just you and Moxie.” I continued scanning the room for potential men who wanted to dance. Then, I found one. He stood over in the corner next to a fine-looking Negro gentleman. The man held mystique, well-groomed and dressed in a custom pinstriped suit and bowtie. Overdressed for the occasion, but like that wherever he went, the man stood with quiet confidence, a grandee used to fine dining and expensive cigars. A lowball glass with its special insignia identified his weapon of choice: Templeton Rye, a whiskey made in Iowa. His companion, cacao-skinned and lanky, wore his hair long and wooly like the Nubian hairstyle now called an afro. Back then we didn’t have that term. The urbane man held a dirty martini in a cocktail glass and leaned into his friend laughing. Comfortable body language illustrated fondness between them, but to me, they appeared smug. I loathed them, but money begets money, and they had it. A gaggle of women surrounded them, listening to their banter. Regardless, the Templeton Man looked desperately alone. I appraised him as I sipped my drink. He stood tall and ready for the world with eyes holding supremacy. His pencilthin mustache added to his sophisticated demeanor. His hair, black as the witching hour on a New Moon, matched a philosophical essence in his soul. As he looked around his eyes devoured everything. Steel-blue and piercing, they conveyed a startling intelligence that speculated about life. He finished a cigarette, a Lucky Strike by the look of it. Flicked it to the floor. Stepped on it with his wing-tip. Opened his silvery cigarette case. Twirled a cigarette between his fingers like a magic coin. Raised the Lucky to his lips. Dragged hard. His other hand protected the match’s flame from the overhead fan. He did that in a clean, practiced maneuver. I leaned over to Marie and asked, “Do you know that bird? The one over there who thinks he’s the bee’s knees lighting the fag?” She looked at him as she answered, “Nope. No idea. Ask Moxie.”

I scanned the room for Melody “Moxie” Smith, the closest thing to a friend in the city. I spotted her talking to a man at the bar’s end. Petite in stature, but big in heart, Moxie preferred a subdued panache like Louise Brooks. With vintage sweaters and librarian chic, she dazzled guys who appreciated her unorthodox choices. She dolled up that night—trying to impress a big name. She wore her hair with short bangs and curled ends that touched her cheeks. An ornamental bandana contained her mop framing her face. I crossed the room in her direction. Eyes widened as people moved around me as I ed. Sometimes my intensity intimidates people, but I don’t mind. I stopped in front of them and yanked her away. She acted miffed but said, “Jeez Louise. What’s the rush?” I stared her in the eye. Normally, she never made eye with me, but she noticed my alacrity. Dark liner framed her eyes like Horus. Rouged cheeks resembled a porcelain doll. Lighter lipstick drew attention away from her mouth to her roaming eyes. I gestured over my shoulder with my chin. “Do you know him?” She looked. “Oh, that fella? Sure.” She pronounced “sure” like “shoo-ar.” Then she added, “Last week. I met him. He’s new.” I yanked her shoulders, turned her to face me, and said, “I wanna meet him. Introduce me, kay?” “Okay, if you insist. Jeez.” Her voice always sounded like a honking goose. As we walked over to him doubt crept into my confidence. At Sixes, I tried to dress for the occasion. My open-backed blouse littered with rhinestones fit my slender body in a way that made me look severe, but that’s the style I wanted to convey. My earrings resembled teardrops of sacred geometry bedazzled with fake diamonds, but elegant all the same. I didn’t want these men to think of me like a cheap whore—someone to bed easily. I danced with them to make money, and that was all. As we walked over to the man, I felt underdressed. But then we arrived. Too late to back out. The man glanced my way. People spoke of my attractiveness, but at

that moment, his eyes made me feel otherwise. He finished divulging the contents of a story to his entourage as we approached. He spoke well, charming to all who hovered about him. At first impression, he embraced the stereotype of a person people loved to drink with, a teller of witty tales and tall extravagances. Later, I discovered he was anything but. The man chatted to his acquaintances with a politeness of spirit, but I felt like they were merely that to him—acquaintances. He carried himself like a man with few genuine friends. I considered the few companions I possessed, and I smiled because of commonality. Moxie spoke first. “Um, Mr. Blackburn. Do you me?” He turned to Moxie and saluted. In a debonair cadence, he said, “Yes, of course. It’s… It’s…” He snapped his fingers searching memory for the name. Finally, after several snaps he said, “Don’t tell me. It’s on the tip of my tongue.” Moxie spared him the embarrassment by saying, “Melody. ?” “Oh, yes. Melody Smith. Moxie as it were. We met the other night.” “Yes, that’s right,” Moxie paused, smiled, and added, “I’d like for you to meet my friend.” She gestured to me with a curtsy and said, “This is Dominique.” A queer expression ed over his face. After a moment’s hesitation, he offered his hand. I raised mine with reluctance but presented it to him. He took it. Our hands touched, inflamed with the unknown. Something inside stirred like an animal waking from slumber, a primeval instinct to know him better. An unnamable emotion compelled me to want to slap his face, but hold him tight. Thank God, I did neither. “Hello miss. My name is Jonathan Gamble Blackburn, but you may call me ‘Gamble.’ My friends call me that and I’d be honored if you did the same.” I swallowed and ignored his request by replying, “Hello to you, Mr. Blackburn.” An awkward moment ed between our party. We all exchanged glances. Everyone felt a glamor between the gentleman and myself, but nobody wanted to acknowledge it. After another moment of stammering and shuffling about, I

broke the silence. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He smiled and replied, “The pleasure is all mine, indeed.” Again, an awkward moment ed. I looked to Moxie. She wore a curious expression with plucked eyebrows raised; it said, “He’s rich and handsome. A good catch!” Her grin reinforced her approval. She must have noticed the energy between us. Gamble began and finished another story, but I heard none of it. Many of his women left our circle. I felt thoughtless. I shouldn’t have come over. Out of desperation I blurted, “What is it you do, Mr. Blackburn?” An enigmatic starlight emitted from his gaze as he studied me. His eyes seemed too large for his face and an agelessness gleamed from them. He appeared unafraid and his power created a disturbing forcefulness. Every moment, he wore an intense half-smirk as if an amusing theory played around his head. His slicked hair resembled black licorice, sweet yet bitter. His facial structure looked like a roaming hawk, alert yet dangerous. He studied me with his head tilted forward; his eyes penetrated me like he forced himself to look at an obscenity—not revulsion, more fascination. Regardless, he seemed taken with everyone so I wasn’t sure about his intentions. He mumbled, “Oh, I have certain interests.” His friend added, “More than he likes to it. That’s for sure.” The black man jabbed an elbow into Gamble’s stomach and they laughed. Then, his friend turned to me and said, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance. The name’s Jay Em. And this handsome miscreant here is my bestie, so don’t break his heart or anything.” He hooked his thumb to Gamble. I shook my head in acknowledgement. “I have no intention. Pleasure to meet you, Jay Em.” While the others spoke, I assessed Gamble’s friend. Many Negroes in Black Bottom held lower stations in life, but Jay Em seemed like a self-made man. His near-perfect English grammar made it obvious to me. How he fit in with the luminaries at Sixes remained anyone’s guess. Jay Em had some higher education, but how did he gain it? Yes, there were Negro doctors like that

unfortunate Ossian Sweet who they charged with murder in 1925. Sweet and some friends used armed self-defense against an aggressive white crowd protesting his move onto Garland Street, an all-white neighborhood. Protesters threw stones, broke windows, and then fired shots at the house. Blacks defended the dwelling until one white man died and they wounded another. Police arrested and charged Sweet with murder. Like that sad day for the black community, would Jay Em’s fate be the same? A lot of Whites didn’t like Negroes rising in station, but I wasn’t one of them. Listening to them exchange words, Jay Em and Gamble matched each other well. Jay Em seemed like someone who didn’t mince his language, a loyal comrade. Despite my initial false impression about their smugness, I liked Jay Em immediately, and I imagined even if Gamble didn’t exist, Jay Em and I might still be friends. Our group chatted for a few minutes until Jay Em declared he wanted to get another drink. At that, the others in the assembly dispersed to the bar to snatch a five-dollar bottle of demon rum. Suddenly, Gamble and I stood alone. “Mr. Blackburn, what interests you?” “Please call me Gamble?” He shifted his drink to his other hand. “Okay, Mr. Gamble.” He laughed and sighed. “No, just Gamble. Please.” I held my laughter. “I’ll do my best. So, what interests you?” “Oh, certain things. It’s all very dull and I wouldn’t want to chatterbox you to death with it.” “Oh, I doubt it’d chatterbox me. The men who come in here are rather boring.” I realized my comment might have seemed directed at him. Instead of learning from my mistake, I doubled-down with, “You look like a married man. Do your interests involve a steady-company woman in your life?” He looked to his feet. Then, he spoke in a measured tone, “I’d rather not talk about it. I do have a wonderful sister named Ruth and my mother’s name is Therese.”

My eyes fell to the ground. I looked off to the side to hide disappointment, to act normal. I wasn’t sure why his vagueness dissatisfied me so, but a strong pang of jealousy overtook me. He noticed my reaction, so he said, “Are you married?” His question broke me from my trance. I answered, “No. Never.” I paused. “I’m not against it. It just… never happened.” “Hard to believe.” His eyes revealed a flash of lust. He assessed me. I bit my bottom lip and my eyes drifted into space like Moxie. I became conscious of her tick so I tried to break it. I looked at him again and whispered, “Why?” “Because you’re a charming woman. I’m sure you have many suitors.” “No, not too many. I rub people the wrong way.” “Again, hard to believe. Why would you say that?” “You don’t know me.” “I’d like to if you’d permit me.” “I’m a complicated person. Ruin has taken my whole life and I’m done with it. I like creation more. Some people can’t deal with me and my past is—” Before I could answer, Moxie, Jay Em, and the others returned from the bar with drinks. I blurted, “Okay, Mr. Gamble. What is it you do… for a living, I mean?” He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. I won, and he knew it. He laughed. “Haha. Again, just Gamble is fine. I don’t want you to be formal with me. Never.” His eyes revealed something. “I have money in certain ventures. I’ll ride Prohibition’s spoils until I get my kicks.” He said it like his money came from a dirty place. Therefore, he was a businessman who smuggled liquor from countries such as Canada, or he was

something more nefarious. In my head, I guessed smuggler. They offered the booze to restaurants who would pay them to stock their menus. It was a lucrative business; everyone knew. Later, these smugglers became known as bootleggers or rum-runners. Instead of answering with smuggler, Gamble surprised me with, “I import items from the Orient, certain proclivities.” I eyed him more intensely. He caught my appraisal and said, “It’s rather boring. I import Chinese lamps.” Gamble looked embarrassed but a perplexing expression crossed his features so I imagined more to that story. Our conversation reached its conclusion. I didn’t want to push, so I dropped it. After a few minutes of chit-chat, we sipped our drinks. The band started playing “Breezin’ Along” made famous by the Seattle Harmony Kings. The song made Jay Em whisper into Moxie’s ear, he gave her a ticket, and then they glided onto the dance floor. A few drinkers in the place eyed them with suspicion. A white woman dancing with a colored man was unheard of in that time in Detroit. Gamble looked to me and said, “I’m not much of a dancer, but would you do me the honor?” “Well Mr. Gamble, I’m not a typical lady on a night out. I wanna be straightforward. Marie Scott pays me to dance with fellas like you.” Gamble looked confused but said, “So?” I shrugged. He presented a ticket. He added, “That’s what I want to do, so where’s the problem?” My occupation felt heavy. I wished I had met him under different circumstances. He ignored my sullen pout, grabbed my hand, and led me to the dance floor. The two of us boogied the Fox-Trot, an outdated dance. I preferred the Charleston or Shimmy, but Gamble didn’t seem to know those. After a time, we grew tired of dancing. He and I retreated to a table in the corner as Moxie and Jay Em continued to jig. Gamble ordered us two more drinks. Marie brought the libations. Then, we sat in

silence, sipping our cocktails as we watched our friends dance. After several minutes, he broke the stillness with, “Dominique, what’s the worst thing about this job?” I glanced at Moxie and Jay Em dancing. “Sometimes, I hate it but it pays the bills. I made dresses in a factory once but it doesn’t pay enough for the work.” “Why do you hate dancing? Do you have to put on airs?” I mulled over his question for a moment and said, “When men ask me to smile it infuriates me. I’m not a trained animal. Yeah, I’ll dance with them. That’s my job, but I don’t have to smile while doing it. A smile is precious. Meant for special moments with special people. Liars smile on command.” He shrugged and said, “Yeah, I can imagine that would seem disingenuous.” I changed the subject. “Do you have any bad habits?” “I drink too much. Some other things. You?” “I wanna follow through but I always run.” I noticed a gold ring on his marriage finger. I tried not to stare at it, but I couldn’t resist. The band had an inset cross with a rose carved in the center with beams of shining lines spoking out and the letters F.R.C. under the crucifix. It didn’t look like a wedding ring. “Besides your sister and mother, do you have any other family?” I said taking my attention away from the ring. “I spend a lot of time away from family because of my studies and business, but my mother and sister are the center of my life. I have a few friends. I’m possessive of my loved ones.” He looked me in the eye and I saw that lust again. He added, “Do you have any family?” I didn’t answer and looked away. He noticed my discomfort, so he dropped it. Instead, he asked me a question I wasn’t expecting. “Dominique, have you ever heard of magic?” I frowned. I wasn’t sure what he meant. Thinking a moment, I replied, “Do you

mean like that fella Houdini?” “No, real magic not stage magic.” I laughed and answered, “Bloody hell, you must think me a fool, Mr. Gamble. What do you take me for?” “You’re anything but a fool. I assure you.” I frowned, but his comment pleased me. I hate when men think I’m below them. He said, “I don’t hear Americans say bloody hell much. Where did you pick that up?” “England. And what’s this about real magic? What on earth do you mean?” A lackadaisical expression ed over his features as he said, “The Lifeblood of the Universe, the Universal Solvent, the Great Mystery. The force that pushes us into the unknown.” His words made me think they held great importance, like clues in a mystery. A similar expression crept over my face as I listened to his grandiose language. I waited for him to finish and then said, “You’re talking in riddles.” “No, not likely. I would never do that. I’m a direct man.” My voice lowered. “Then I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.” He laughed and said, “No, not stage magic. Not like Houdini. No illusions.” He paused a moment and repeated, “Real magic. Ceremonial magic.” I roared with laughter until his bewildered face made me realize his seriousness. I said, “There’s no such thing as real magic. It’s all tricks and hooie.” He stirred his drink with the straw while he muttered, “With one’s will we change consciousness with magic. It’s the spiritual life realized.” “What does that mean? I don’t think I want my consciousness messed with by anyone’s will, including my own. Sounds scary.” He smirked a roguish expression and returned, “Well, I guess it can be in some

ways. But it can also be rewarding.” My curiosity got the better of me. “How?” “For instance, magic opens doors to the metaphysical.” “The meta-what?” I asked. “Metaphysical,” he repeated. “That which we can’t reach through consensus reality. The world behind the world understood through visions and dreams.” “I read books, Mr. Gamble. Just because I’m a taxi dancer doesn’t mean I’m uneducated. I know what ‘metaphysical’ means. I just never thought I’d be talking about it in Sixes.” He smiled. “I don’t mean to offend. But what I meant was that magic helps one enter that world.” I felt rather defensive. “Why would someone do a silly thing like that?” “One learns much about the soul when the veil lifts. A seeker learns a great deal about life and the people in it—motivations and fears, et cetera.” His eyes met mine. I looked away and broke the link. I changed the subject with, “They look like they’re having fun with the Charleston. I always loved that dance. Maybe someday you can learn it and we can dig it.” He never heard what I said. He kept on with his magic prattle. “People are often cowards. Those who practice magic have to be fearless, creative. It’s a dangerous venture but a noble one.” Ignoring my small talk miffed me. In a curt tone, through gritted teeth, I said, “Why? What’s the danger? A white rabbit pulled from a hat or being sawed in half?” “Magic takes one down a rabbit hole. Some people can’t face what’s down there.” I studied him as he answered. His jet hair shined in the bar-light. His eyes burned

with a black fire. I realized he never gets to talk about his sorcery. My anger faded as I realized he was sharing something personal with me. I placed my elbows on the table and intertwined my fingers as I rested my chin on my hands. “What’s down there? Hell, demons, brimstone.” He cackled his indelible laugh. “No. Nothing like that, I’m afraid. No monsters or bogeymen. The divine mystery lies within us; that’s what one finds. Those who become worthy see it.” I frowned and said, “It all sounds rather elitist. I’m not sure a simple gal like me could understand.” He got my sarcasm. My eyes proved he shouldn’t trifle with me. I glanced back at Moxie. Her expression made me realize she danced with Jay Em so I could steal time with Gamble. I nodded to her. Gamble looked into space and continued to illustrate his point. “In some ways it is elitist. It has to be. The Sacred Temple of the Great Work will never reveal itself to the profane.” He sounded pompous, and his riddles bored me. I said in an uninterested voice, “Why not?” He didn’t notice my indifference. He kept talking. “It’s too much power for those not ready to wield it.” I studied him more as he sipped his drink. Was he that full of himself? Instead of saying it, I asked, “Would someone like me be able to wield it?” “I’m not sure. Destiny answers those questions. Either you are or you’re not. I don’t decide such things.” I giggled and said, “Well, it makes me curious. But you’d have to prove it to me.” “Excellent! Let’s make a wager.” “What are we wagering?”

He thought a moment. “I bet I can prove real magic exists. I’ll wager my car. I own a 1925 Piccadilly Roadster Rolls-Royce. Bought it new in Springfield, Massachusetts. Paid over fifteen grand for it. If I can’t prove real magic exists, it’s yours.” My eyes widened. I laughed. “That’s absurd. There’s no way you’re giving me your car. And I don’t see how you can prove magic’s real, anyway. Why didn’t you buy a Ford?” “Give me six months and I’ll prove it. If I can’t prove it, I swear to you I’ll give you my car. I promise. Oh, and I like quality but Ford isn’t good enough.” I looked him in the eye searching for the truth. He wasn’t bluffing. What did I have to lose? Nothing. I said, “You’re assuming I’ll see you again past tonight. But okay, Mr. Gamble, you have yourself a wager.” I thought a moment and added, “But what if I lose?” He considered it and said, “Magic will be my reward.” I shrugged gleefully as we sealed our wager with a pinky handshake. Did he think me foolish? He said, “Good.” A long pause ensued and then he added, “The game is afoot, if the universe wills it.”

26 August 1976

Avast shadowy maze built from ivory walls appeared before me. Endless ages splayed out in all directions. My consciousness reverted to a child. As a girl trapped inside an adult’s body, I faced the maze with determination. Without warning, a characterless form exited a colossal chamber that appeared at a corridor’s end. A woman’s slender back appeared facing me. A bright unidentified light hung above her head making her hair glow with flame. I crept forward with fascination. A few steps at a time. Then, a few more. After an eternity, I reached the woman and tapped her left shoulder. A partial turn showed three-quarters of her face; the final quarter remained hidden in shadow. I moved nearer, intimately close. Darkness engulfed me. Suspense built. On and on, I walked the short distance, but it seemed like a mile. I inched forward until I nearly burst with curiosity. Words flowed through the air—“All is mind. The universe is mental.” Without warning, the woman whirled around to show her true face. Horror gripped me as I discovered her single deformed rabbit’s ear flopping from her sudden movement. A medallion hung around her neck with a symbol of three hares chasing each other’s tails within a circular moon. She raised her finger to her lips to silence me. I woke with a panic. What was that? A rabbit ear? I considered the dream. What did it mean? The fiendish woman seemed connected to the gentleman I met a month prior. I hadn’t seen in him in ages, but he stayed in my thoughts. Many questions plagued me that morning as I prepared for work in haste and his wager weighed heavy on my heart. On a typical day, I worked hard on my appearance. My mother always said, “Don’t be a mess. If you have respect for your appearance, people can’t help but respect you.” The wisdom of her words never resonated much in me, but I did as she requested. I sculpted my hair into a frothy ocean of mahogany splashes and Coriolis waves. I applied dark shadow to match my maudlin lip-gloss. I applied my makeup with painstaking perfection. Vanity be damned, I did it because I

prefer to do things properly. Artistic flair bleeds into most activities I do— makeup, writing, cooking, dancing, and even conversation. I always search for the correct word and measure my thoughts to try for precision as much as possible. After that dream, however, my normal focus became useless. After finishing my rushed morning ritual—actually afternoon, because I never woke before noon—I prepared myself for another daily ceremony: sneaking past Prudence Wagner’s apartment door without her knowing. I snatched my handbag from the coat rack by my front door. I exited my room, closed the door without a sound, and tip-toed down the hall. Maybe Prudence wouldn’t hear me. Maybe she slept or left for the day. She heard. Her door swung open as I ed. Without a simple greeting, she announced, “You go to church, don’t you? The time… The time…” I groaned as I stopped in my tracks. I turned to the large woman and said, “Hello, Prudence. How are you this fine afternoon?” “Goodness knows, well enough since I woke early.” I didn’t expect a return salutation. As a Seventh-day Adventist, she judged me with harsh words and never addressed me like a normal person. Instead, she said, “Where were you headed so quietly, young one?” “I didn’t wanna disturb your reading. I know how you like to study the Good Book in the afternoon.” She dipped her head and said, “Are you on your way to that sin den again?” “You mean my work at the café?” She nodded like the busybody everybody knows and despises. “Yes, I’m heading to work.” She frowned. Ignoring it, I said, “Everyone needs to make a living, Prudence.”

“I told you to call me Miss. Wagner.” “Yes, of course. I forgot. I’m sorry.” She ignored me. “Why don’t you work for that dress factory any longer? That was a nice respectable job. Not like the one you have now. You come home at all hours. Can’t imagine what you do there. As an advocate for temperance, I can’t abide it. President Coolidge wants to preserve our morals and you gallivant around at all hours.” “It’s easier money.” She changed the subject. “When is that menace to society you call Moxie coming around again? Dreadful girl. Last time, you kept me up all night with that Victrola and those records.” “I’m sorry, Prudence. Er, Miss. Wagner, I mean. We weren’t that loud. Really, we weren’t.” “I’ll be the judge of that. All I hear is that nascent jazz music you play. All night long. It’s like I live next to heathens.” She was right about one thing: most drinking happened in apartments because bartenders couldn’t question the bohemians’ more outrageous habits. I replied, “Every lady needs a hobby, don’t you think?” “You call listening to that Devil’s music a hobby? It’s the tawdry side inspiring dilettantes. That’s what it is.” I sighed and said, “It’s harmless.” Again, she changed the subject by turning her wrath to my friend. She muttered under her breath as if talking more to herself than to me, “That Moxie is a kept woman, an amoral lustful imp who breaks hearts to sand, if you ask me.” I shrugged her off and descended the stairs. “Okay, Prudence. See you later.” As I reached the building’s front door, I heard her babbling about something else. I exited the boarding house as quick as possible. Once in the street, I sighed with relief as the scent of malodorous trash hit me.

As I walked the street, I heard Ernie the Newsie calling, “Paper, paper!” I walked up to him and said, “Hey Ern. How’s the news?” I lifted his cap and tousled his hair. He frowned at me. “Oh, it’s the way it always is, you know. But they tried to hit Capone yesterday.” “What?” I said with disbelief. Capone’s principal rival, the North Side Gang came to mind. Irish and Poles maintained a monopoly over real beer and high-quality whiskey in northern Chicago. Through racketeering, bootlegging, illegal gambling, and extortion the two gangs waged war on each other. A tangible hostility between the Irish and Italian gangs became more prevalent with each day and it bled over to Detroit. I bought a paper and scanned the front page. Chicago police often assisted the North Side Gang for monetary and territorial reasons. They didn’t want Capone’s operation to get out of hand. Police found Capone’s driver tortured and murdered back on 20 September. As a ploy, it got Capone out in the open by drawing him to a restaurant’s first-floor window. The North Side opened fire with Thompson machine guns and shotguns. Capone escaped unscathed, so he called for a truce but the negotiations fell short. I said to Ernie, “Do you think the Purple Gang knows about this already?” He looked each direction down the street and answered, “Yeah. I’m sure it pisses Bernstein off.” Led by Abe Bernstein, the Purple Gang, Detroit’s most powerful mob, consisted mostly of young Jewish immigrants. They formed in the Hastings Street neighborhood known as Paradise Valley on the Lower East Side. Many went to primary school together. They started as thieves and pickpockets, but as they grew older, they graduated to armed robbery, loan sharking, and extortion. Urban legend stated their name came from the “color of bad meat.” I flipped through the paper absently. “Does this mean trouble for Detroit?” The boy shrugged and said, “Don’t matter to me, but Purple and Easters might fight too.”

The Purple Gang smuggled goods using Albion, a small town midway between the two major cities. Rumors claimed the town’s Bohm Theater acted as a halfway house. Shipments to Capone of Old Log Cabin Canadian whiskey came from the “Little Jewish Navy,” several Purple Gang boats that did rum-running and hijacking along the Detroit River. I considered Purple’s rival, the East Side Gang. Composed of Italians, Greek, and Armenians, they ran Greektown along Monroe Avenue close to my neighborhood. I sighed. The escalation made life in Black Bottom difficult. I waved to Ernie as I started my commute. Hastings Street buzzed with activity. Hotels, grocery stores, and cleaners stood next to pool halls and an all-black hospital. Standard Gasoline gave way to Esquire Loans. Two dime stores— Williams Drugs and Barthwell Drugs—competed for chocolate malt sales. Letterpress shops like Gordy’s Print Company provided print services. My wardrobe came from Hawkins apparel shop. Entrepreneurial Negroes owned most of the businesses. I ed the Astor Bar, Roseland on the Merrimack, and places like the Flame Night Club and Phelps’s Lounge. I strolled past the Graystone Ballroom where McKinney’s Cotton Pickers usually played. My favorite cabaret, the Take-aChance Club towered in the distance. Nightclub signs advertising No Door Charge lit up. People stood in alleys and drank liquor from hip flasks. As an unannounced red-light district, girls wandered about the public dance halls and the late-at-night resorts trolling for work. On the corner, next to a speak-softly shop, girls stood in boots advertising illicit services. Those seeking something downright raunchy, and often illegal, headed west for the Clark Street tenderloin frequented by gamblers, hookers, dime-a-dance devotees, and underworld dandies. Every clip t owned a piano. As I ed, boogie-woogie spilled out into the street as musicians tuned their instruments for the coming night. Most clubs catered to a mixed crowd but the entertainment remained mostly Negro, people like Fats Waller or the Beale Street Boys. Bands from New York and Chicago came to tear it up occasionally.

Later, in the forties, straight from Alabama, John Lee Hooker came up through Black Bottom. He worked for Ford Motor Company by day and hit the clubs by night. Clubs attracted big names like Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughan, Ethel Waters, and many others. My neighborhood even inspired some moves, the Black Bottom Dance. Jazz pianist, Jelly Roll Morton, even wrote the tune “Black Bottom Stomp.” Even back then, Detroit acted as a music capital. As I walked, that strange man from our evening almost a month ago entered my thoughts again. Why hadn’t he ed me or come into the club again? I ran through our conversation in my head. A wager was a strange thing to do if the man never intended to me. His words echoed through my mind. “Magic opens doors to the metaphysical.” Did my dream refer to it? Could magic be real? It seemed unlikely, but he seemed so certain. Looking into the sky as I walked, Gamble’s ideas played out in my mind. Did another world exist behind reality? What then? How did it affect our world? As I looked around, I questioned my perception. Was I inadequate to see his world? I barely met the man, but I felt changed by him. Unbeknownst to me a pivotal transformation approached, a crucial unraveling of my identity. His final words ran through my head, “The game is afoot.”—a Sherlock Holmes or a Henry V reference. Which one? Lost in contemplation, I turned Hasting’s corner and crashed headlong into something large. I hit it with so much force the mass almost knocked me to the ground. Sgt. Joseph stood on the sidewalk smiling. He steadied me and chuckled. I looked up at him and smiled. “Hey kiddo. Be careful,” he said in his hearty low pitch. Sgt. Joseph fulfilled every beat cop stereotype, blue and roly-poly. My neighborhood’s shenanigans caused him much grief. On my normal route to Sixes, I ran into him often. A friendly man, he always gave me a nod and a salute. Although he made me feel paranoid, like he was watching me. People with private affairs avert their eyes so maybe I did that from time to time. I had secrets to keep. He bellowed, “I’m growing weary of Black Bottom. It’s always the same. And now with this Capone affair…” After gathering myself, I said, “Oh thanks, Sarge. I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s all right. Just doing my checking in with the boys. How are things in Black Bottom?” I thought about it a moment and answered, “It’s okay. A day-to-day circus you might guess.” He laughed and said, “Yeah, it’s been getting wilder here as of late. That shot at Capone won’t help matters.” I reached into my handbag and produced an envelope—protection money. I handed it to him and asked, “Can you give this to Frank?” He nodded. “Sure. It’s the normal?” “Yep. I’ll see you in a few weeks.” I handed Joseph the envelope filled with cash from Sixes. Marie delegated that part of her operation because she knew I ran into them a lot. She preferred uniformed cops stay away from the bar—bad for business. Besides, she knew I walked that route most days. I never told her I added something to the envelope to keep trouble from me—another secret of mine. To this day, Sgt. Joseph enters my thoughts often. Drive-by shootings and drug warfare escalated in the intervening years. After the city’s decline, it’s hard not to think of him. Did he die? Difficult to say. I lost touch with him after I left Detroit. Events grew dark during the sixties and seventies. I hope he retired by then. I bid him a good day and carried on with my walk. On the next street, the Hit Café stood nondescript and innocent. As I neared the entrance, I ed a man carrying a sign that read: “Slavery was abolished—Yet we work for dessert.” Economies and styles changed, but attitudes toward each other as human beings stayed the same. The man saw me and bowed. I waved back. I dashed through the café and to the double doors in back. I rapped the secret knock. Marie answered the door and allowed me to enter. As I walked in the room, a group of taxi dancers hovered around the bar pulling up hose or chatting about regular fellas who danced best.

I scanned them as I made my way there. The twenties reinvented fashion, so many women milled about dressed to the nines. After the First World War, design influences from around the world merged and as dancers we paid close attention to current styles. Paris, Vienna, and New York led the revolution fueled by self-indulgence, sumptuous materials, and newfound freedom. Twenties attire contained clean lines and androgynous silhouettes. Unnecessary adornments and rejecting unnatural restrictions of movement made the clothing boxy but happening. New trends made women more alluring. Nice girls now wore rouged cheeks and lip color. Legs shown for the first time. Flesh tone stockings became all the rage with stockings held up by garters. Some women even wore tros—strictly a man’s garment until the Roaring Twenties. Most garments remained unwashed; we spot cleaned as necessary to preserve shape and color because dyes ran. Cotton, Silk, Velvet, and Worsted Wool Tweeds made the clothes uncomfortable. Stylists used Crepe, Taffeta, Chiffon, and Georgette on sleeves, necklines, upper backs, and overlays. Stiff Rayon rounded out their designs. We preferred muted colors like jade, peach, beige, or rose. The Jazz Age’s most iconic hat became the snug fitting cloche, which is French for “bell.” It worked for those with a small head and bobbed hair. Because young women wore the close-fitting hats low over the eyebrows, it made visibility difficult. Feminine independence and the close-fitting hat made women walk with chins up and eyes down, and that’s probably why I crashed into Sgt. Joseph. T-straps, lace-up boots, slip-on pumps, Oxfords or Mary Janes adorned the dancers’ feet. Mary Janes and T-Straps worked best for feisty Charleston dancing. Durable stockings also became essential. I surveyed the room. How might the night go? It often depended on who showed up to dance. Relief overcame me as I noticed Moxie and Kish in the corner. I held neutral feelings toward other dancers, all except one: Annabel Anders, my taxi dance rival. Annabel leaned against the other end of the bar talking to other girls. I turned in the opposite direction and walked over to Moxie and Kish.

Kish gave me a nod. Born an Ojibwa Indian half-breed, Kish played for the other team. Dressed in a gray men’s suit, people around Sixes called her June Holiday, but I knew her Ojibwemowin name: Kishkedee-ikwe. Her birth name struck me as enigmatic and beautiful. As a sad soul, Kish didn’t have traditional attractiveness, but her dark eyes held a certain sagacity. Unlike most girls our age, she lived through true adversity. As a Michigan Indian lesbian her life must have been challenging. A suspicious expression dominated her features, as if people might abuse her at any minute. I’m not a sentimental person, but something about her made me long for a dead past; a bygone era I never knew but wanted to experience. Abrasive to most, I wouldn’t call her a friend, but as outsiders, we understood each other. That gave us a kinship, a camaraderie. People believed her to be Chippewa or Sioux and she encouraged that misconception. In confidence, she told Moxie and I about her Ojibwa heritage. As natives to Michigan, that made more sense. Why wasn’t she on the reservation? Why did she waste time at Sixes? Once over a bottle of gin, she explained her exile. In traditional Ojibwa society, they considered children born to the father’s clan. Kish’s father was FrenchCanadian. Even if their mothers carried Ojibwa blood, children with non-Ojibwa fathers became outcasts from the clan unless adopted by an Ojibwa male. They called poor Kish a white woman and Ojibwa society expelled her. After that bottle of gin, I purchased the epic poem The Song of Hiawatha, written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow for her birthday. She seemed thankful, but it became clear my gift went against Ojibwa cultural norms. Did the gift offend her? I don’t think so. After, she acted differently to me and held respect in her eyes. I greeted her and pet the dog at her side. Nodin, a German Shepherd/Golden Retriever mongrel, acted as our furry little bouncer. Found feral but now domesticated, the pup ran problems out the door as fast as the wind. After smiling at Kish, I walked over to Moxie and shook her shoulders. She grinned and said, “Hey you.” I smiled to her and said, “How’s it going?”

Moxie socked me in the upper arm. “Hey, I never asked you. Did you ever hear from that cute fella, the one with the handsome friend? I haven’t seen him in here since that night.” Marie handed me my customary pre-work beverage, a root beer. I never answered my friend because Annabel Anders interrupted us with a snarl. “What’s going on over here?” Annabel’s immaculate black lipstick matched her dark hair. Parted down the middle and turned up at the tips, it made her appear to have horns. Makeup hid her face but men liked it. Annabel’s large eyes stared with a cobra intensity like a deadly seduction. Her mouth tugged to the right as if a distasteful smile formed but then she thought better of it. She considered herself as a Clara Bow, the “It” girl with cupid lips and sparkling eyes, and her matter-of-fact expression said, “You’re beneath me.” That fine day, Annabel sported a silk blouse with flowery velvet inlays. An unbuttoned front revealed bosom. Strings of pearls hung from her neck like awards from suitors. A sash wound several times around her waist brought out her body’s form. Her accouterments made her shine, and that’s what she wanted. Where did she get the money to buy these out-of-her-league duds? Men often bought them thinking she’d reciprocate their affections with physical rewards. They looked like costumes on her as she pretended to be something she wasn’t. A man’s attention gave her power, and she adored the scorn women threw at her. She carried an aura of one who’d been around, had seen it all, had rode many courtships to disastrous consequences. Over the past year, I’ve grown to dislike her. Each day, she revealed more nastiness toward me. I tried not to dish back her contempt because I did nothing to warrant her cruelty. I suspected she didn’t love herself much, and she pushed her insecurities on other people. She wasn’t the first person to do that and wouldn’t be the last. I pulled my attention away from the tramp and returned it to Moxie. I said, “No, I haven’t seen him and it annoys me.” “I bet.” Moxie scoffed at Annabel. She didn’t care for the hussy either. Moxie helped the bar by filling the mixer icebox with Vernors sweet ginger ale,

Coca-Cola, and fruit juices. Marie stocked the bar with sugar, mint, lemon, and other flavorings to hide the taste of her distilled whiskey and bathtub gin. I caught Moxie’s look and laughed to myself. I turned to my friend and placed my hand over hers. In a funny voice, imitating my neighbor Prudence, I said, “What an interesting man, but a frustrating one. Did I tell you what he said?” Moxie replied, “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, honey.” “About the wager.” She frowned. “Nope. What wager?” “He thinks real magic exists, like he can prove it to me.” Mocking Prudence, Moxie bellowed in the woman’s goody-goody tone, “Really? That’s crazy and all at once Satanic.” We giggled like schoolchildren until Annabel said, “What are you two tittering about?” I said, “Nothing special. Just chatting.” Annabel scowled because whenever she tried to talk to me, I always silenced her. She didn’t like my keeping her at bay. Annabel shrugged and said, “Whatever it was, I’m sure it wasn’t as funny as you think. Dom, you have nothing amusing to say, do you?” With a scowl of my own, I answered, “My name’s Dominique, ? Learn to use it. And for your information, I’ve made good company laugh when good company presents itself.” Annabel whispered, “I’m sure that’s what you believe.” In a louder voice she added, “Why don’t you use your real name instead of that ridiculous alias?” I shook my head and turned from her to face Kish. I said, “Can you tell her I’m no longer listening to her?” Kish threw me a gregarious expression. Before she could relate my message, a

double knock boomed through the quiet bar from the sliding door that divided the two businesses. Marie looked at Lonnie the barkeep and gave him a signal. Lonnie turned the revolving liquor wall around so it looked like a normal wall. Marie nodded and walked to the door. After a deep breath, she opened it. Barreling past Marie, Harold “Harry” Shanks walked in the door with another hooligan in tow. As the East Side Gang’s number one in that neighborhood, people feared Shanks. He spoke in a mix of Irish and Italian slang. Like Marie, his outrageous accent made his country of origin impossible to discern. I studied him as he moved across the room. He stood five-foot nothing. He always wore a straw boater’s hat even in the winter. His eyebrows resembled arched bat wings. Mannequin eyes surveyed the room, plastic, open wide with a dead stare. His ears dwarfed his head. A huge cleft in his chin added symmetry to his strange features. He never wore a suit coat, merely a vest with his collar turned up like another set of wings, and his tie knotted to choke him. As Shanks approached the bar, I tensed and threw a glance at Lonnie. Shanks chewed his gum with his mouth open wide as if his jaw tapped Morse Code. Shanks and I exchanged glances because we shared confidential information about something hush-hush. Nodin growled and Shanks said, “Keep that mutt away from me or I’ll roast em.” He strolled around the room like he owned it. After declaring his territory, he said, “What’s the craic, Marie?” Pronounced crack, the word meant banter or fun in Gaelic. “I was taking a stroll around town and thought I’d stop in.” He stared at her intensely and added with an exaggerated Italian accent, “Where’s the package?” Marie said, “It’s coming. Had to send a courier.” Shanks said, “If you don’t pay up, I might have to tighten the screws—if you know what I mean?” He wanted to put pressure on Marie but she wasn’t having it.

Calm and with purpose, she said, “Lonnie.” “Yessum, Miss. Marie.” His voice crooned laid back, and it reflected in his speech which had drawn-out vowel sounds. The drawl which was more common in the Deep South, dropped the R sound and rang softer to the ear as the syllables drew out. Lonnie disappeared into the backroom, happy to be away from the dangerous man. Shanks and I exchanged another glance. He asked, “Where’s the zigaboo going? No guns, boy-o.” Marie answered, “No, he’s just getting your money.” Marie knew better than to leave all her dough at Sixes. Robberies happened and speakeasies became prime targets. Marie sent two separate couriers to bring the cash that way if one got hit, she wouldn’t lose all the money. Her under-the-bar shotgun pointed straight at Shanks’ testicles added gunpowder insurance to the transaction. Moxie leaned over and whispered in my ear, “He’s a bunch of baloney. A real ham.” I agreed silently as I waited for him to receive his money and get on his way. I disliked his visits; he made me nervous for more reasons than one. After a long wait, Lonnie returned with two envelopes. He handed the first to Shanks and held on to the second. Shanks opened the wrapper and flipped through the dough like the Yellow Pages. He counted as he flipped. After he finished, he scanned the crowd. His sights fixed on Kish. He walked over to her and she tensed. Shanks sometimes hurled racist slurs but his banter acted as distraction more often than threat. Kish ignored his eye . He studied her before saying, “There’s one true religion and that’s Christianity. Injuns have no religion. Ya better wise up. They worship the Devil, don’t ya know.” Despite her anxious posture Kish remained calm and silent. Shanks said, “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? I’m just slagging.”

She remained silent. “What do you think? Do you poor louts live in a wigwam on those reservations of yours?” His cackle bellowed through the bar as he elbowed his lackey. They chuckled harder. The second man laughed for duty; he knew better than to rub Shanks the wrong way. Kish carried a sad story and Shanks knew it. Indians were the poorest people in the United States. The man almost said something ruder when I heard, “Listen you thick Mick, or Wop, or whatever it is you are, I’ve had about enough of your mouth. Back off creep.” I expected Marie to say it but the voice came from me. Shanks whirled around and faced me. He raised his posture like a cat trying to intimidate, but I’m not intimidated by much. I stood there and stared him down. Confidential information ed between our eyes. He smiled as anger seethed within him, but he understood that his masters wouldn’t approve if he hurt one of Sixes’ girls. Shanks said, “Be careful, or I might wind your neck in.” He turned to his henchman and said, “Andosh!” It meant “Let’s go” in Italian-American slang. They reached the door. Shanks gave me one more glance and a wink, and then the two exited the building. Marie mumbled under her breath, “Prohibition be damned.” Lonnie handed me the second envelope. He said, “Came in the mail day b’fore yesterday. Don’t pitch a fit about that Harry. He beats his gums, but he’s nothing.” Curiosity crept into my thoughts as I stared at the parcel. “Lonnie, who’s it from?” My heart pattered with anticipation and dread. Did someone from New York find me? He answered, “Not sure. But paper seems expensive.” I took a breath and opened the letter. On a printed card the invitation read:

You and yours are cordially welcome to attend the Garrick Halloween Party on 24 October 1926.

Astonishment hit me as I read the handwritten message below the printed portion.

Dominique, I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. I worked in California this past month. If you can forgive me, would you accompany me to a costume ball at Garrick’s on 24 October? The master magician Houdini will perform later that night so maybe we’ll see about that wager of ours. Bring your gal Moxie. Jay Em will attend so we could make festive as a quartette. If you’re so inclined, I’ll send a car for you ladies. I await your response. Sincerely, Jonathan Gamble Blackburn

30 August 1976

Inexpensive wood frame houses lined the streets off Hastings. A few residents lived in their own house with their own yard, but most stayed renters. People without families held rental parties to pay for their enormous houses where four or five lived as housemates. Large trees provided shade and Victorian twostories lined up like dominoes. Back in those days, American flags flew everywhere. Every house had one soaring out front and people still held pride for the country. Black, White, or Hispanic—it didn’t matter. Irish, Italian, or Jew— everyone believed in America. I arrived home on Thursday, 23 October after hitting a grocery store for some miscellaneous items. As I pushed the light button—old houses hadn’t changed to switches yet—trepidation overcame me. For me, electricity seemed untrustworthy. We should leave some things alone despite how advanced we become. Two units divided the upstairs of the large house. My neighbor was a Chaldean immigrant. He never told me his name because of his shoddy English. Most days, he gave me a wordless greeting as we ed each other in the stairwell. Banging sounds came from his flat. I ignored them and plopped into my secondhand chair to wait for Moxie. I dived into Agatha Christie’s The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, a new detective novel, when someone knocked on the house door downstairs. I sighed, rose from the chair, and left the riveting story behind. Christie’s stories gave me hours of entertainment and I relished their surprises. I ran downstairs as fast as possible. I didn’t want Prudence’s judgement again. I opened the door, ushered Moxie inside like a refugee, and led her upstairs as quickly as possible. We ed Prudence’s door, and I cringed. Luckily, the woman didn’t hear us. Moxie and I entered my flat, and my back hit the door with relief. I sighed as I scanned my place. My room’s destitution made me somewhat embarrassed. I exclaimed, “Ugh. She bothers me so much. Did you know she’s a member of the Anti-Saloon League?” I tossed my handbag on a chair. “Don’t mind the

mess. I’ll clean on Sunday.” I considered the space. Decorated to the gills, I tried my best with the clutter but the room conquered me as it overflowed with bohemian litter. Yes, I hoarded things. A hair brush and books sat on my bedside table. Reader’s Digest magazines piled on the end table. Scarves hung from the standing mirror. Dresses dangled from open closet doors. Old fruit moldered on my tiny kitchen table. Animal bones sat atop door jambs as superstitious offerings to gods unknown. Moxie said, “Oh, it’s fine. How’s tricks? What’s up?” “Just reading again. You know how I can’t put down my mystery stories.” “Life is one big fat mystery. I don’t need books to tell me that.” She giggled. I nodded in affirmation. She continued talking as she moved into the kitchen space. “It’s as splendid as last time. You make the most out of crap. That dead plant really ties the room together.” In a sarcastic voice I replied, “Thanks, Moxie. I appreciate that because most days I feel like I’m in the slums.” I added, “I’ll have my house, someday. You’ll see.” Absently, she said, “Wish upon a star and all that.” I grinned and took her bag. My tabby cat, Ashe, sprang on the table to see what lurked inside. I returned the annoyed cat to the floor. I rummaged through the bag and produced the wine bottle I guessed would be there. I uncorked the vino, grabbed two glasses from my meager cupboard, and poured the beverage. Gory spots flittered over my checkered tablecloth. After finishing, I went to my prized possession, a Victrola, and put on a record. Most nights, we played songs by women like Sophie Tucker, Bessie Smith, and Helen Kane. As a ritual, a woman’s celebration of music, but that night I chose “Me and My Shadow” by Helen Morgan. I said, “Who d’you get it from?” “The wine?”

“Yeah.” With a giggled she answered, “Smarmy Harold Longshanks gave it to me.” A thoughtful expression ed over me and I asked, “What did you have to do to get it?” “Oh, not much. I have to dance with him next time at Sixes.” I groaned. “Sounds wonderful. It’s quite a cost for a cheap bottle of foot juice.” She caught my sarcasm with a frown. “He’s not so bad. For being a bigoted weasel, he can dance fine enough. And he never gets fresh with me, at least.” “Yeah, but I heard he’s an octopus with the ladies. All hands,” I warned. “Don’t worry. I can handle ole Longsharks.” I laughed and added, “Yeah, I bet you can.” I knew things about Shanks. His advances with women didn’t surprise me, and neither did the wine. Moxie stole more suitors than most other taxi dancers. Honesty and originality made her too cool for the bourgeoisie and even cooler than the bohemians. Moxie asked, “What is in the fridge? Are we square?” “Not much but leftover potatoes and chicken.” “Well, it’s a good thing I stopped at the store.” One by one, from her bag, she produced the ingredients to make spaghetti. I smiled. As a team, we headed into the kitchen to make a modest dinner. As I boiled the noodles, Moxie strolled around my apartment with her wine glass appraising my life. Her eyes fixated on a necklace hanging from my standing mirror. “What’s that? I never saw you wear that before.” I looked to the necklace and said, “It’s my mother’s gold festoon necklace. She gave it to me years ago. I thought about wearing it again. It’s been ages.”

“Bassoon?” “No, festoon. In jewelry design, it’s an ornamental garland hanging from two points. You see?” She looked closer and said, “That’s interesting. It’s like Art Nouveau, right?” “Yeah.” My friend looked pensive for a moment and then muttered, “So what’s up with your mother? I never hear you talk about either of your parents.” I ignored her question and tried to change the subject. “Hey, do you like to listen to the Grand Ole Opry on the radio? I could turn that on instead of music.” “No, the records are fine. Isn’t the fight starting soon, anyway?” “Oh yeah. The Tunney-Dempsey fight.” I strolled over to the Victrola and stopped the record. I moved to the radio and tried to tune in the fight. Moxie said, “A hot topic around Sixes. Some people put money down on the oola-la. Dempsey wanted the fight moved from Chicago because he feared Capone might fix it. Imagine that.” I went into the kitchen and came back with two hot spaghetti plates. I placed one down in front of my guest and the other on my place mat. Moxie dug in without fanfare. “How’s the chow?” I asked. A mumbling reply meant success. I picked at my food absently. We ate in peace for a while as the fight commentators introduced themselves. I broke the silence. “I’ve never been to Philadelphia but I would have loved to see that fight. I’m a pacifist but I love a good contest.” Back in those days, radio fights sounded more surreal and less violent than television fights that came later. The announcer’s voice rose and fell with the crowd’s excitement. Moxie and I drank, ate, and giggled as the frenzied disembodied voices influenced our mood.

The boxing match made me think about Mr. Blackburn. Was our wager intellectual sparring or flirting? Perhaps both, but a month ed with no word. Why did he wait to send an invitation? By the end, Tunney won by a large margin on the scorecards. The 10-round unanimous decision lifted the world heavyweight title from Dempsey. We barely listened to the fight. Instead, we talked the entire time about Marks at Sixes. The attractive ones. The men with two left feet. The ones with money. I ignored the outcome and said, “What do you think of him?” “Who, Dempsey?” she said. “No, Mr. Blackburn—that strange man from last month.” “Him? How should I know. He’s a big shot, no? Like most socialites.” “Yeah, men like him are the same. Full of money and nowhere to go.” She laughed and said, “Still, their upper-class lives seem squeaky clean but we all know about their dubious backgrounds. If ole Mr. Blackburn had funny money it wouldn’t surprise me, if you know what I mean?” She raised her hand to her mouth as she giggled. Her self-consciousness toward her kisser became legendary amongst the dancers at Sixes. Her reasons for that stayed a mystery. “Yeah,” I agreed. “He acted rather curt when I asked him about his investments,” “I bet he’s splashing around in money as we speak… in his gold bathtub… with Canadian Club Whiskey in one hand… and a shotgun in the other.” We laughed to ease our minds. As the wine flowed inhibitions fell. I repeated, “What do you think?” “Of him?” She looked thoughtful for a moment and then answered, “He’s handsome enough. That’s for sure. Lonnie told me he’s married.” I snickered. “Yeah, handsome like a duck. I’m not sure about the marriage. He

wears a strange ring, but it doesn’t look like a wedding band.” She shrugged and said, “Oh, it’s not just that he’s strange. It’s the way he carries himself. He’s cagey and frightening.” “I know. He’s a tough nut to crack. I sense something in him. For lack of a better word, innovative, but not artistically.” “Don’t give him too much credit. He’s no Valentino.” She thought about it more. “Do you think he’s a Sheik?” Back then, we used Sheik to mean player and Sheba to mean a woman like Annabel. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t seem like he uses people. It seems below him.” “You can bet your bottom dollar he’s popular at Sixes! In that short time, those few days, lots of girls hung around him.” “Yeah, I noticed that too. But he seemed disinterested. Acquaintances seem like nuisances to him. He wants people to leave him alone—everyone except his colored friend.” “Yeah, you might be right.” “Do you know where Blackburn lives?” “I heard he stays in the ritzy part of town, over in Boston-Edison.” “Really? Wow! He must have more dough than I expected if he lives there. He must have a comfortable life.” “Comfortable? Loaded is more like it.” Moxie laughed again making her cloche hat—the kind worn by Josephine Baker—fall from her head. Her Eton crop hairstyle sprung free. I grinned and said, “He was vague about a marriage. Never gave me an answer.” Her eyes widened and then she said, “I don’t know. I know he’s close with his sister. I’ve seen her with him a few times.” “He told me things complicated his life when I chatted with him. Maybe that

means a wife.” She looked disappointed but shrugged. I poured us more wine and took a sip. Alcohol hit my brain as I slurred, “That… would be my luck.” She laughed again and said, “Yeah, if it wasn’t for bad luck, you’d have none. But if he’s a married man, he cornered you for a long time.” I handed her another drink and looked out into the night. Black Bottom churned with activity. A saxophone wailed in the distance and a stray cat’s mating howl spooked Ashe. I lost myself in thought for several minutes until I heard Moxie clear her throat. I stared at the skyline. “He’s an intolerable man. He even made a wager with me that’s impossible to prove. He thinks he can prove real magic exists.” “Really? What’s the bet?” “He staked his automobile, a Rolls-Royce Roadster. About a year old.” “That’s crazy. Why would he do that? He can’t prove it.” “I don’t know. But I don’t think he’s crazy. He seemed so certain.” She took another sip and said, “He’s handsome enough and rich so if he told me the Easter Bunny was real, I’d believe him.” I laughed, but she made her point. Then, she added, “Do you think he’ll give you his car?” “I’m not sure, but he doesn’t seem like a person who would flake on a bet.” “It would surprise me if he did.” “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least. He doesn’t seem to care much about his wealth. It’s like a distraction to him, like he’d be willing to part with it if needed.” She snickered. “Wish I had those problems.”

I laughed too and said, “Me too, Moxie dear. Me too.” She poured us two more drinks, took a sip of one, handed me the second, and said, “So have you seen him around? What do you think about him?” I grew nervous but replied with another question, “What on earth do you mean, sweetie?” She rolled her eyes and said, “You seem to talk about him a lot. I never hear you gabbing about other men at Sixes.” Embarrassment crept into my eyes as I looked away. What did I think of him? I wasn’t sure. I answered, “I think he’s impossible. His smugness infuriates me. He’s brash. Full of himself. Don’t you see that? Besides, he made the wager to me and disappeared. I haven’t seen him for a month and then he sends me an invitation.” “An invitation. Really? To what?” Her questions bombarded me. “To the Garrick Halloween Party. Houdini will be there.” “Wow! You’re going, right?” “Only if you go with me. I don’t trust rich people. Don’t you see?” She giggled. “What I see isn’t what you see, but what I do, I know.” Her perplexing answer made me sore. Then, I realized. My hand covered my mouth. I said, “You don’t think I’m attracted to him, do you?” She shrugged in her way and said, “He’s handsome. Not at all his age. Very mysterious. Maybe.” “No, that’s impossible. He’d never go for a woman at my station in life. Plus, he’s probably married. I couldn’t imagine stealing a man from his wife. It’s just not my style.” Moxie said, “Nope, it’s not your style, but people do strange things when love comes a knocking.”

I answered, “I’m not in love with him.” Moxie shrugged and remained silent. She stared at her empty plate. I motioned for us to move to the balcony. A quiet night greeted us but jazz clatter from Hastings still raged in the distance. We sat on two chairs purchased from a resale shop. We sat there sipping our drinks as the night deepened. I changed the subject. “What do you think of Jay Em?” Her plucked eyebrows raised. A purple mustache covered her upper lip as she pulled her mouth away from her glass. She shook her head and said, “That will never happen. People wouldn’t let us.” I understood. An interracial romance endangered them. Many people thought the Ku Klux Klan’s time ed in the South, but in Detroit it continued. Fueled because some people thought Blacks degraded the Anglo-Saxon ideal, those people reveled in racial prejudice. After a time with nothing to say, I spoke. “Maybe I am attracted to Gamble. Could that be true?” Moxie smiled again, tapped her finger against her glass, and said, “And what if you were? What will you do about it?” “I’m not sure. I guess I need to answer his invitation. At the very least, it’s a party and we get to see Houdini.” “We?” Her eyes widened in surprise. “Yeah, you’re coming with me,” I said and added, “I don’t even like him that much.” “I haven’t even agreed yet.” Wisely, she added, “Sometimes we obsess over people we don’t like.” I gave more excuses. “He’s not my type. He’s too old. I live in the here and now. I yearn to be free. I’ve never fallen for a man like him.” She whispered, “Yeah, I know but…”

“If I repress these impulses, I feel dead inside. It makes me wanna cut and run. I suspect that even if I had no legs, I’d have to fulfill that impulse. I would leave home in the middle of the night to journey to San Francisco or somewhere. It’s just in my blood.” Moxie said, “You can be charming on first meeting, but you know that. I’m sure he’s thinking of you right now.” She petted Ashe while she sipped her drink. I frowned. “But what if he’s with someone else and has forgotten about me? I’m competitive and I don’t like to lose.” “You’re unmarried, unrefined, and ill-mannered. Hold no offense. I’m just stating the obvious facts. He has impeccable etiquette even though he’s a pariah amongst high society. So, you’re made for each other.” Her arms went up to the sky and uncontrollable laughter erupted from her tiny body. “No, seriously. If you were a cultured man like Jonathan Gamble Blackburn would you fall for a wretched waif like me?” A long pause. Then. “Yes. Yep. For sure. Absolutely.” I smiled. Moxie had a way of disarming me and my defenses fell. Maybe the alcohol wasted me. Maybe a realization overpowered commonsense. But I had little choice in the matter. A direness takes hold when you know fate has plans but as emotional beings you want to resist. How do you allow yourself to head toward certain doom even though you know the carnage? How many people do bad decisions affect? I tried one more time. “I want no part of society life.” She smirked like an imp. “Not.” “They would never understand me.” She whispered, “Nope.”

I smiled. She said, “Well then, I guess we need to get writing.” And thus, we spent the rest of that evening composing my reply.

2 September 1976

Iran through the maze until I entered a tangled bramble inside a large jungle. In the wild, I discovered the same strange room as in the rabbit-ear dream. I entered it with fear but also knowledge that whatever hid in the darkness couldn’t surprise me again. I wore the hare medallion around my neck. Out of the Above, a great beast erupted, monstrous with scorching flame with a human head and a lion’s body. A tail of venomous spines stretched into the air like a scorpion. Below, people ran from the darkness screaming for escape. The monstrosity devoured victims, munching them with three rows of jagged teeth. I watched in horror as it consumed everything around. As fast as it appeared it vanished. Words trailed behind it—“As within, so without.” As the day ed, and I prepared for the party, the nightmare’s savagery ran through my mind. Trepidation filled my heart as I readied myself for the party. Thankfully, Moxie arrived and diverted my attention from the night terror and my mounting fear. Gamble sent another telegram stating his car would pick us up at eight o’clock sharp on 24 October. Earlier that day, Moxie and I went shopping for harlequin masks and gowns. They cost us a lot but the event warranted the expenditure. My meals would turn into cheese sandwiches henceforth for the week. Promptly at eight o’clock, Gamble’s driver arrived, and we tumbled into the car. If one had money, one could buy a Ford for $290 but it was out of my reach and so was his Rolls. Still, it would have been nice to drive ourselves to the affair. As we drove across town, Moxie whispered, “Is this the car?” “What?” I whispered back. The driver glanced back at us in the mirror. She lowered her voice even further. “The car from the bet? His Rolls.” “Yeah. This is it.” She burst out laughing as the driver peeped at us again. “Shh… Have some manners,” I said to her with a smile.

Before long, we arrived at the corner of Michigan and Griswold, next to the Liberty Building. Moxie and I exchanged glances. Without a word, his driver stopped, got out, opened our door, ushered us toward the venue, and with a frown, bid us adieu. We stood in front of the giant building at 1122 Griswold Street unsure what to do next. The building facade leered down at us like a behemoth’s toothy grin. I recalled my dream and chills ran down my spine. Gathering my courage, I motioned to a playbill on the wall and we moved toward it. In large red letters the playbill read:

Oct. 24, 1926 Tonight at The Garrick Theater The Greatest Magician of the Age: Houdini Presenting the Most Novel Entertainment Ever Staged 2 ½ Hours of Magic, Illusions, Escapes and Fraudulent Medium Exposes 3 Shows in 1

“I can’t believe this,” I leaned into her and muttered under my breath. “Yeah, jeez! It’s almost like we’re famous or something.” I grabbed her arm, beheld the enormous awning that covered the entrance, and dragged her toward the large double doors. An usher opened them and we walked inside with tentative hearts. Men in long overcoats and women in expensive furs ed by us as we skulked through the entrance. We weaved around them as we approached the box office. The attendant appraised us. Her expression spoke volumes. She knew we didn’t belong. But she handed us the

tickets because of Gamble’s invitation and pointed through a second set of double doors. An usher accepted our tickets, winked at us like we hit the jackpot, and handed us each a program; the cover displayed a stylized design with curved lines and whiplash forms that reminded me of Alphonse Mucha, the Czech illustrator. More opulence greeted us as we shuffled through the second double doors. A gorgeous Art Deco carpet with black and white geometric designs bedazzled our eyes as we trod over it. An enormous 7-tier chandelier hung from the towering ceiling. Glass shards sparkled reflecting the guests’ affluence. A red-carpet stairwell led to the balcony and the private boxes. People milled about everywhere with anticipation and costumed dilettantes mingled through the event. I moved through them trying to find the man who invited me. I appraised the crowd marveling at the many feathered harlequin masks and other exotic costumes. Upper-class women showed off their extravagant dresses. Uneven and straight lines, spirals, and zig-zags stressed their purchases. Because of the discovery of King Tut’s tomb in 1922, exoticism dominated fashion design, and here, they put it on full display; dresses made of black silk gauze with geometric Egyptian patterns embroidered in gold thread filled the room. Other influences came from other sources. Ancient Greek design, and the intricacies of the Machine Age, inspired some dresses. Aboriginal designs from Africa, Aztec Mexico, and Native America, inspired others. Our paltry outfits entered my thoughts. Even if we wanted to compete, our meager pocketbooks denied the right. Cinderella popped into my head as I hung my head in embarrassment. I murmured, “Did our clock strike midnight, or what?” Moxie said, “Huh?” “Nothing.” Banishing Cinderella from my mind, I focused on the men in the room. I searched through them for Gamble. Some wore black suits, others wore tuxedos, but all sported simple masks. Unlike the lavishness of the women’s dresses, men’s peacockery focused on their hair. Gentlemen of that time preferred four different styles. First, came the straight back-tops—combed over the sides and crown, slicked down the head and angled to the back. Second,

parted middle or off center. Third, a deeper part far to one side. Fourth, those poor, unfortunate souls with thinning hair used a comb over. Brilliantine created a slickness, but it left a smarmy residue on the fingers. Homemakers knitted lace doilies to protect the backs of chairs and couches. Underprivileged men sometimes used cheaper petroleum jelly, but nobody at that party would dare such a thing. I whispered to Moxie, “Why are we here? We shouldn’t have come. Look at this place.” “Nonsense. It’s only money and lousy attitudes. I bet they can’t ball like me. Besides, that’s why you brung me here, right?” “Touché to that, but I don’t like these people and what they stand for.” “Me neither, not one bit. I don’t like chimpanzees either, but they’re funny sometimes. Think of these people as scalawags and the evening will be grand.” I grinned at her logic. Her way with words and a unique perspective always entertained me. I grabbed two Sloe Gin Fizzes from a ing waiter and handed one to Moxie. She accepted it and downed it in one motion. She licked her lips as she smiled at me. “I need more hooch if I’ll bear this place,” she said as she sought out another server. After a few more minutes strolling through the crowd, we discovered Gamble. He wore a black mask but his unmistakable aura confirmed his identity. Along with his simple disguise, he sported a black trench with a white scarf. A crowd of prominent-looking men surrounded him. We approached the gathering like animals circling prey. They conversed without being aware of our approach. As we neared the group, Gamble glanced up and our eyes met. At first, he appeared discombobulated as a fearful expression crossed his face. His expression turned into a smile. I returned his greeting, arched my shoulders meekly, and made a small wave with my hand. His group turned to see who caught his attention. I too felt bewildered. Maybe we shouldn’t have come. Moxie squeezed my other hand, and it increased my confidence. I inhaled a deep breath, gathered courage, and then we engaged the men. “Mr. Gamble, how have you been?” I said.

He smirked and said, “Why do you always call me that?” “Because it’s funny.” “It annoys me.” “Good.” We studied each other with candor. A few seconds of uncomfortable silence ed. Finally, he said, “I like your dress.” “And I like your jacket.” Frivolous compliments to be sure, but the meaning behind them carried potency. Compliments, however trivial, build bridges between potential suitors. Gamble said, “I’m glad you could make it.” He hesitated. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come.” “I came. Don’t you our little wager? I haven’t forgotten.” Gamble laughed as his friends turned with eyebrows raised. One of them, a tall older gentleman said, “A wager? What’s this about a wager? Gamble, have you gone to Tommy’s again?” “No, I haven’t been going to Tommy’s. But yes, this lovely lady and I made a wager the other night,” Gamble explained. “The other night?” I asked. “Forgive me.” A slight bow came, and he added, “I meant last month.” The older gentleman acknowledged me and said, “And what does this wager concern?” Gamble hesitated. “For now, it’s between her and I. Not to change the subject, but this is Dominique and Melody. I know them from that place Hot on All Sixes across town. I told you about it.” The older man said, “That place behind the nice café, the clip t, right?”

Gamble nodded. I said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you all. I’m Dominique and this is Melody but her friends call her Moxie.” The older gentleman said, “Hello, Dominique. And hello to you, Moxie.” He pointed at Jay Em. “This is Jay Em…” Then, he gestured to a slick-looking man. “Victor…” And then back to Gamble. “And you know Jonathan.” A moment ed before I ed Gamble’s first name was Jonathan. I said, “Hello again, Jay Em. It’s nice to see you.” With a gallant nod Jay Em acknowledged Moxie. They exchanged smiles. I offered my hand to Victor. He took it with a slight bow. His deference seemed too exaggerated as if to say, “I’m your humble servant.” I didn’t trust his display. I released his hand and offered mine to the older gentleman. With deference of my own, I said, “And does the distinguished gentleman have a name?” Gamble laughed and chimed in, “This is Clay. He’s best known in publishing circles as Clayton Milhouse Theed, Esquire.” Gamble said his name like a fine wine. I said, “Wow. That’s quite a name Mr. Clayton. Rich people always have the longest names.” Everyone exchanged amused glances. Victor’s eyes dropped, but Clay chuckled and said, “Yes, they do. People have told me before, but nobody as striking as you.” I blushed. Moxie rolled her eyes, hitched her thumb over her shoulder, and her tongue lolled to the side like silly dog. I shot her a reproachful glance and her expression turn to “gimme a break.” If one imagined Sherlock Holmes, Clay fit that image. His features hinted at Welsh blood. His tweed jacket and vest matched unruly grayish hair. His thoughtful, calculating eyes gazed at everything as if detached. High society in all ways, Clay carried the worldliness of his elevated station. He reeked of old money and privilege, but he also seemed like a man who didn’t mind mingling

with people lower in station. Without warning, two scholarly people caught Clay’s attention, and a conversation with them ensued. His intellect shone through his appreciations as he spoke. I leaned into Gamble and whispered, “So what’s with the old man?” My sudden closeness startled each of us. Unconsciously, Gamble moved back an inch and said, “Oh Clay? He’s a champ. An avid chess player. He wins at that abominable game more times than not.” I studied him as he spoke of his friend. iration showed on his face. I said, “I wasn’t talking about games. But you love him as much as Jay Em, don’t you?” “My association with him differs from Jay. He’s my mentor and an important person in certain circles.” “Really? How so?” “Clay’s a thoughtful man. He’ll go out of his way to help. He’s a powerful person.” I considered Gamble’s words. Later, I discovered how much Clay would help us with our troubles. Yes, his actions spoke louder than words and I can never thank him enough for what he did later. Men like him made things happen, for good or ill. I leaned in more and said, “Aren’t you a powerful person?” He laughed. That time he didn’t inch away. “No, not really. Magic has powerful effects. But it’s not my power. It channels through me. People who abuse this power become nefarious.” “What do you mean?” “Take, for instance, Thomas Edison. He’s considered a brilliant man by society. But did you know his people electrocuted dogs, calves, and a horse? During the War of Currents his company even fried an elephant. They wanted to discredit Nikola Tesla and George Westinghouse.”

I cringed. “I never heard about that, but I’m not surprised. Electricity is dangerous. He killed all those animals, though? That must be a lie.” My head turned slightly and my hair hit his face. He didn’t pull away. Without thinking, I added, “I’ve never seen an elephant, but I’d like to one day.” “Well, it’s no lie. They even filmed it. They fed the poor animal potassium cyanide and put conductive copper sandals on it.” I thought about it. It was a peculiar topic to bring up at a party. I murmured, “That’s truly terrible.” Gamble continued. “Take someone like Aleister Crowley. A wise man, but newspapers considered him ‘The Wickedest Man Alive.’” “Do you agree?” I didn’t know much about Aleister Crowley, but I had heard of him and he didn’t have the best reputation. He considered it a moment. “Power only becomes evil if one uses it that way. Actions that seem evil can often act as good. Actions that seem good can act as evil in disguise. Businesspeople and politicians often approach the world this way.” I considered his words. By his body language and our candid tête-à-tête, he seemed to like eccentric people, damaged and tortured perhaps. He rambled as he spoke of “nice guys” and “not so nice guys.” Antiheroes like him, the strong and silent type, the kind he adored. I found that type attractive, so I listened with eagerness. I said, “You don’t seem like the businessperson variety. You’re more withdrawn.” “I’m no businessman. My father thrust that label upon me. Believe me, I don’t want it.” “You must like it. If not, why not sell the business?” He sighed and recited a tale he must have recounted many times. “I came into money from my father who made his fortune in steel. Nigel Blackburn immigrated as a child to Detroit from England and began working at thirteenyears old at a grocery. At sixteen, my father became a telegraph messenger boy,

and soon after they promoted him to be the telegraph operator.” I took a sip of my Sloe Gin Fizz and listened intently. “During the Gilded Age—from around 1870 to 1900—my father became a personal assistant to a steel tycoon. When he turned twenty, he mortgaged his house and made his first gutsy investment of five-hundred dollars for ten shares in the Detroit Electric Car Company, and the investment rewarded him. He then invested in another business which led to his fortune. By the time he turned thirty, he owned investments in iron, steamers, railroads, and oil wells. His real money came from his steel empire that produced rails, pig iron, and coke. Now —unfortunately—it’s all mine.” His darkening eyes made me avoid questions concerning what happened to his father. I left that query for another time as my thoughts turned to my parents. The storm left his eyes as mine clouded over. As if reading my mind, he said, “Tell me about your parents.” “There’s nothing much to tell. My father worked as a great doctor. My mother nursed people. They met on a jungle expedition through the Amazon. That’s about it.” His expression revealed my lie, but he said nothing. He stared me in the eye and nodded as if transfixed. I continued my fabrication. “They’re famous in South America. Brazil to be exact. I don’t see them much anymore because of their work.” He bowed his head and then said, “Would you like another Sloe Gin, Dominique?” Relieved to stop talking about my parents, I answered, “I was just thinking about pinching another. Free booze and all.” He laughed, and as my comment brightened his spirits, a different man stood in front of me, a happy one. I marveled at the way his spirit could bounce from melancholy to joviality so quickly. He said, “Wait right here. I’ll grab us another.” I smiled. As he departed, I scanned the crowd looking for Jay Em and Moxie.

They must have drifted away during our talk. Clay noticed me looking around so he ventured over. He smiled. “I hope these stuffy folks aren’t boring you too much.” I laughed and said, “Nah, I find it rather curious, actually.” He chuckled. “Curious isn’t the word I’d use.” I watched him as he scanned the crowd trying to find something redeemable in them. Unexpectedly, a great opportunity revealed itself. Clay might know something about Gamble’s magic. Bluntly, I said, “Do you believe in magic, Mr. Theed?” Surprised, he appeared puzzled at my question. The older man gathered himself, paused, thought a moment, and then replied, “Yes, of course. But why do you ask?” I glanced away and fidgeted with my dress. “Someone I know brought it up. It’s been weighing on me. Why do you think it’s real?” He pulled out an Alfred Dunhill Ring Grain pipe and loaded it with tobacco. He lit the bowl, took a drag, thought about my question, and then a plume of smoke billowed from his lips. Cherry filled the room as the smoky tendrils weaved between the guests. His pipe reminded me of England. He became pensive a moment, and then said, “In my experience, it’s difficult to disprove magic. Logic dictates if you can’t refute something it may be true. Ancient societies throughout time all focused mounds of energy upon it. Many died in the name of it. Why would they do this if it was imaginary?” “That’s a good point,” I said. Instead of dropping it, I asked him another question. “But what is it? Can one quantify it?” I caught a peek of Gamble waiting at the bar. He saw me talking to Clay and a quizzical expression ed over his features. The two men’s eyes met. Unspoken communication stirred between them. Maybe a tighter bond existed between them than I first realized. I turned my attention back to Gamble’s mentor. The older man’s eyes appeared distant like he saw far ahead and gazed

back on those who lost the race. He put finger to temple like node to battery. His closed eyes became tranquil as he considered my question. Clay’s eyes opened, and he studied me to judge my seriousness. Calmly, he said, “It’s whatever you want it to be and it’s also whatever it’s not.” His answer sounded like gibberish and it perplexed me. How could that educated man consider such a nascent idea? He spoke parlor riddles like Gamble. Before I could delve deeper, a friend pulled Clay away and Victor replaced him. I yearned for more answers as the crowd engulfed Gamble’s mentor. “Gamble tells me you’re a sharp cookie,” Victor said with a seductive edge. Absently, I mumbled, “Sharp as a pin and as carefree as a Bton birdie, Mr. Shelton.” “My friends call me Victor.” “That’s a silly name. I’ll stick with Mr. Shelton.” I downed the rest of my Sloe Gin in a gulp. “Well, if you say so. A woman like you may call me anything you desire.” Flirtation was his intent, but I deflected it by giving him a you-gotta-be-kiddingme glare. I said flatly, “I’m sure.” I appraised the man. He was handsome enough. His hawkish nose created an interesting geometry between his cheekbones, a slit of a lip, and his pointed chin. Muscular and lean, his tuxedoed body resembled a dagger balancing on its tip. He wore his pencil-thin mustache and slicked black hair less naturally than Gamble. His gun-barrel eyes carried mercilessness. My verdict: a handsome man, but a dangerous one. “Are you that kind of man, Mr. Shelton?” I asked. “Ha-ha. You think I take advantage of womenfolk. As a good-time girl, wouldn’t you know?” I retreated a step. “Good-time girl? I’m no such thing.”

“Gamble told me you worked as a taxi dancer. Wouldn’t that come with the territory? You’re a pip, kiddo. But I still like you.” He almost said something less courteous when Gamble returned with our drinks. Victor understood his cue to leave, so he faded into the crowd like a shadow. Gamble handed me my drink, and I took a long drag. I wiped my mouth with my hand in an unladylike gesture. I said, “That man… is a creep.” “He’s out there. I can’t criticize him too much. If I use magic to apprise, Victor uses it to absorb. We’re brothers like Cain and Abel. I balance him. He’s harmless, though, once you get to know him.” I shrugged. Fat chance. Gamble presented his glass for a toast and we clinked our glasses together. I rubbed my finger along the edge of the crystal in silence as I scanned the room. I wanted to know more information about Gamble’s associates. “Who’s that man with the entourage?” Gamble raised his head a notch, his eyes widened. “Oh, that’s Robert Henry. Probably not your type of person. Some say he’s a card-carrying member of the Ku Klux Klan, but I don’t know.” Before I could comment, Jay Em and Moxie returned. We toasted and then Jay Em said, “The event will start shortly. How are you two faring?” Gamble and I exchanged looks and waited for a response, but before we could say anything, I heard a robust voice say, “Good evening. How’re you all doing this fine night?” I turned to find Robert Henry standing next to me. Henry turned to Jay Em and muttered under his breath, “And are the niggers doing well too?” Everyone heard his barb despite a halfhearted attempt at concealment. My mouth hung open. Moxie’s head almost exploded with rage. She went for the man with a vengeance. “How dare you? You taffy-assed son-of-a-gun… I oughta knock your block off.” Before events came to blows, the wretched man disappeared back into the crowd

as quickly as he materialized. With a sigh, Jay Em said, “Don’t mind him.” Moxie huffed and puffed. “The nerve of that man… He’s downright dreadful.” Jay Em calmed her down by waving his hands. “Dreadful isn’t his problem. He’s ignorant. It’s rather sad, really. Ignorance means ‘to ignore wisdom.’ One who turns their back on knowledge becomes the worst type of person. If heaven exists, it will never accept a man like him.” People like Robert Henry still exist. Back then, they founded the first Klan in the Southern United States after the Civil War and then it died out by the early 1870s. D. W. Griffith’s 1915 film The Birth of a Nation inspired the second Klan in Georgia soon after. The group flourished nationwide but especially in the Midwest. Imbedded in local Protestant communities, they sought to maintain white dominion, often taking a pro-Prohibition stance. They opposed the Romanists and the Semites—their way of referring to Catholics and Jews. They worried about the Italians strengthening the Black Hand and the Mafia, and the Jews doing the same with the Purple Gang and the Little Jewish Navy. Men like him thrived in our city. I leaned over to Jay Em and said, “I don’t like it here. These people make me nervous.” Jay Em said, “Don’t you worry about it. I’ll protect you.” I turned, eyed him, and said, “I suspect you would. You’re an honorable man, Jay Em. That much I can tell.” He smiled. “A friend of Gamble’s is a friend of mine.” I returned his smile as I scanned the crowd. Gamble sauntered after Robert Henry with intentions of defending Jay Em. Clay intercepted him before an altercation ensued. I leaned into Jay Em without taking my eyes off the duo and said, “What relation do you two have to that man?” He followed my eye line to Clay, chuckled, and then said, “That, my darling, is the head of our order. He’s also our lawyer.” “Order? What do you mean?”

“We belong to an esoteric fraternity.” I made a mental note to ask Gamble more about the fraternity. “He’s a lawyer? What kind of law?” He said, “Mostly business law. He’s also one of the wisest men I’ve ever known. He’s a mentor to all of us.” I sensed Gamble standing behind me. My eyes moved to the side waiting for him to come around but he never did. After a few moments, I saw him talking to another lady. Hordes of people engulfed us as the foyer filled. Our group lost itself in the crowd. Through the mingling individuals I spotted him. Our eyes met. He became more furtive by the minute. He faded into the ing bodies. I searched for my mirage. Our eyes connected again. An electricity ed between us. Then, the crowd engulfed him again. Over and over, he disappeared and reappeared somewhere else. Then, a feeling I wasn’t expecting overcame me… Sexual hunger. I banished it. He disappeared once more. I moved away from his friends and searched for him. I spotted him and darted forward. Quickly, I grabbed his arm and pulled him close. My breast hit his elbow as his body slapped into mine. Alcohol made me bold. I leaned forward and whispered into his ear, “I think you’re married.” His lips, mere inches from mine, curled into a smile. He whispered back, “No. I’m married to my quest. That’s all.” “And what’s this quest?” I inched forward. “Abolishing ego through magic,” he answered matter-of-factly, as if it was the most obvious answer imaginable.

“You speak riddles, Mr. Gamble.” We stared into each other’s eyes searching for permission. I wanted him to kiss me, but I didn’t want to give it freely. ion stirred within us. Without breaking eye- I whispered, “I’ve been having strange dreams.” “I suspected you might.” I frowned. “What do you mean?” “Magic wants to speak to you, that’s all. I can tell.” I frowned again but stayed close to the man as the crowd bustled around us. Over the next several minutes, I described my dreams. After I finished relaying the visions, he placed his finger to his chin and concentrated. As he contemplated the dreams, I licked my lips. Alcohol bitterness filled my mouth. After several moments, he said, “I’m sure you’ve considered Alice’s White Rabbit. Correct?” “Yeah, that thought crossed my mind. I got the sense both monsters rested inside me, like I needed to understand or vanquish them, like they were opposites. Do you think that’s the case?” “Possibly. From what you’ve described the second monster might be the Manticore. Pliny and Dante mention it in their writings. It’s also an alchemical symbol. I’d have to think about it more to be sure. Maybe some research.” Then, Clay returned and said, “Can I steal her for a moment? I’d like to introduce her to some friends.” Gamble made a “be my guest” gesture. Clay led me around the room. As we walked, he said, “I hope this isn’t too much for you. I know these society events are overwhelming.” “I’m fine. Just taking in all the parasitic laziness.” He smiled, gestured to the people, and then he explained the room to me. “Elites are two kinds of people: Robber Barons or Captains of Industry. Robber Barons use ruthless, questionable methods to eliminate competition to create monopolies

with little empathy for workers. Captains of Industry are often philanthropists who gain wealth in a way that benefits society by providing jobs or increasing production. Which do you think we are, my dear?” I considered his categorization and said, “The latter, I suspect.” “Possibly,” he said and added, “I suspect you have French in your bloodline. Is that correct?” “How did you know?” “I have an eye for these things. That’s why I wanted to introduce a few friends to you. Oh, here they are.” He shuffled me over to a handsome couple talking in a subservient demeanor to a man of importance. Clay interrupted them by saying, “Hey, you two!” They turned in unison and smiled. “Dominique, I’d like to introduce you to Philippe St. Marten and his lovely wife Emilienne. They’re from Toulouse, . They think Detroit has become the Paris of the US. They stay over in Sugar Hill.” The couple said bonjour in unison. The third man also turned but remained silent. The St. Martens were an odd, but fascinating couple. Their angular, narrow faces ended in pointy chins and hooked noses that curved over the tip of their mouths. Gaunt but powerful, their style hailed from a different era. They looked oldcountry, but also modern despite their antediluvian attire. Clay engaged them in conversation as I watched the trio. Mostly Clay spoke, and they nodded. Fearful of their silence, I never met a couple who spoke so little to each other. They exchanged expressions but seldom words. Even when Philippe spoke to Clay, he leaned over and whispered into Clay’s ear. I couldn’t tell if English embarrassed them or if that was their way. Philippe’s cocktail-swigging wife looked more comfortable on a vacation on the French Riviera, not there. I learned rudimentary French from my mother so I tried to speak to Emilienne by saying, “Coucou!”

Emilienne frowned but said nothing. Clay leaned over and whispered, “That probably wasn’t the best greeting. It’s extremely informal.” He laughed and added, “No worries, but jouer à coucou is what mothers say to play peekaboo.” I swallowed hard as I felt small. Philippe leaned over to Clay and whispered into Clay’s ear. The older man nodded and said, “Philippe loves Detroit. He says ‘the city of straits’ is interesting to him.” I smiled hoping to recover from my blunder. Clay said, “Philippe is a new initiate in our order.” I asked, “And what order is that?” Clay said, “We’re Rosicrucian initiates.” “What’s that?” I asked. Clay answered. “While in Paris, Philippe used to be a part of the Association Alchimique de . In English, it’s called the Alchemical Rose-Croix Society. In Detroit we call ourselves the Rosicrucians.” Before I could press further, the third man spoke in a tired but loud voice, “I just traveled from Montreal.” Clay chided himself but said, “I’m sorry, Dominique. My mistake. This is the star of the show, Harry Houdini.” A star-struck excitement overcame me as a reeled. I couldn’t believe the expert illusionist stood in front of me. Clay spoke for me. “From his amazing escape out of a locked safe under the frozen Detroit River to his even more improbable getaway from a lockup in Scotland Yard, this man is a legend. And tonight, you will see Houdini’s full evening roadshow.” A modest smile crept across the short man’s face. He cut a dashing figure in his stylish suit complete with a pocket watch chain and silk tie. His sharp nose and

sensuous lips looked European. His powerful gaze stared right through you. I said sheepishly, “It’s quite lavish… the event, I mean.” Clay said, “Houdini anywhere becomes a lavish event. This evening’s show sold out.” Just then, Gamble reed me. My thankful expression showed him I appreciated his rescue. Houdini, Clay, and the St. Martens spoke while Gamble asked me what happened. I whispered, “I made an ass of myself.” He chuckled and said, “Don’t worry. I’m sure it was nothing.” He eyed the magician and said, “Houdini doesn’t seem like himself tonight.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Not sure. He just looks off. His face looks drawn. His posture wooden.” “I didn’t notice. Maybe he has the flu?” “Maybe.” Gamble’s response didn’t seem genuine. I changed the subject. “I can’t wait to see the show.” Gamble said, “Exposing the methods of duplicitous mediums is the part I want to see. I heard he even wants to confront the local legend, Etta Wriedt.” He leaned in closer and added, “He’s a Jew, you know.” “What? Really? I never knew.” “Yep. He tries to hide it with his name.” Many people hid their Jewish ancestry. I never understood why people had a problem with Jews but it seemed so. Gamble’s expression showed he cared naught. After more chit-chat, Houdini left us.

We reacquainted with Moxie and Jay Em, and then we all moved into the auditorium. The 1,409-seat theater, designed by Chicago theater architect J. M. Wood, shattered my expectations. We took our seats. Gamble sat next to me with Moxie on my other side and Jay Em next to her. Clay and the St. Martens sat behind us. I didn’t see Victor. Houdini appeared on stage in a whirl of pomp and spectacle. He began with a few elementary escapes, but he missed several cues and seemed in a hurry. After a time, Houdini appeared to make conversation with someone in the wings, and he couldn’t complete some magic effects in the show’s first act. As the smoke cleared for the second act, the magician looked more tired than before. He made several uncharacteristic mistakes during the performance. A second man helped him through his problems. I whispered to Gamble, “Who’s that helping him?” “That’s his assistant, Jim Collins.” We watched in concern as Houdini cut the escape section of the show and appeared to rush the final act. Halfway through, the curtain lowered. After we left the auditorium, Gamble exclaimed, “Well, that wasn’t what I expected.” “No magic?” I asked. “No, not that. Something was wrong. Not sure what it was.” “His show doesn’t prove our bet,” I teased. “I didn’t ask you to come here to see stage magic.” “Why did you ask me?” I waited for a sign of his intent. “I asked you because I thought you might like it.” His answer wasn’t the response I wanted. I said, “So what about our wager?”

“Getting someone to see magic is an arduous affair. Dissonance is a powerful force. It blocks people from seeing. It may take some time.” “I’m not sure what you mean.” “We’re taught many things from the moment we’re born. Some things help us survive. Other things help indoctrinate us into our societies and eras. Once those indoctrinations solidify, it’s difficult to break them. As children our instinct knows magic exists, but as they indoctrinate us, we doubt and it disappears from our lives.” “Hmm. That’s interesting.” “Children perform rituals. If you watch them, they do this of their own accord. Stacking sticks. Making circles in the dirt. Drawings. Sometimes they draw stuff that isn’t there. Stage magic isn’t the same thing. It’s illusory, not instinctual.” “Yes, I’ve seen kids do that. But what do you think they’re doing?” “Letters are spells. Those dream images of yours are messages. If the universe wills it, you’ll hear it.” “Do you think so?” He nodded. “I’m sure. It’s rather elusive in its secrecy, like a puzzle to solve or a game to win, but it’s no game. It’s more of an experiment. Freud’s ego doesn’t play around and neither does the universe.” “Who’s Freud?” “Sigmund Freud. An innovative psychologist whose model of the psyche includes three distinct parts, the id, ego, and super-ego—and the tensions created between them. It’s novel and the scientific community is still debating its worth.” I shook my head. I didn’t understand everything but I would ask him more about it at a future date. Moxie waved me over to the curb. I took a step toward her and the waiting taxi. I hesitated, gathered myself, and then said, “Well, I guess I’ll see you around…

If the universe wills it.” I waited for something more. We stared at each other. The moment ed as I expected an advance. None came. Instead, he replied, “Yes, perhaps.” I shrugged, and he retreated a step. Moxie stuffed me into the cab and we sped away from the Garrick. I stared out the window lost in my head as his words replayed in my mind, “If the universe wills it…” A few days later at Sixes, we found out the truth about Houdini from Clay. Two days before the show, on the afternoon of 22 October, two university students visited Houdini's dressing room at the Princess Theatre in Montreal. One student asked Houdini if he could truly withstand a punch to the stomach like the magician boasted. Houdini responded that he could if he readied himself for the blow. Without notice, the student punched Houdini four times in the stomach. After the incident, Houdini remained in constant pain, but he never went for medical help. Finally, he saw a doctor. The physician advised him to go to the hospital for emergency surgery for acute appendicitis. Despite that advice, Houdini completed his show at the Garrick. He continued to refuse medical care until the next morning when his wife, Bess, insisted he go to the hospital. Houdini relented and had his appendix removed. Unfortunately, it had ruptured and doctors didn’t have hope for his survival. A few days later on Halloween, Houdini died. The Garrick Theater followed him into oblivion two years later. Changing times made the grand theater outdated compared with the massive movie palaces popping up around it, and on 11 August 1928, the Garrick closed. The final show —Gene Buck’s play Ringside.

10 September 1976

On a Monday in mid-November, I left my flat to nab a root beer at the corner. I entered Barthwell Drugs, and lo-and-behold, to my surprise, Mr. Gamble sat at the counter reading a pulp magazine and drinking an ice cream float. I stopped and my body tensed. What was he doing here? Almost three weeks had ed since Garrick’s, and he never came into Sixes or ed me. Conflicting emotions clashed within my heart. He hadn’t seen me yet. I debated whether I should leave without him knowing or if I should approach. A sense of foolishness seized my commonsense, but I wanted to greet him. I crept forward. Two other people lingered in the store. One read a battered newspaper and drank coffee, and the other browsed through a Christmas postcard rack. I ed the man drinking coffee; Gamble didn’t notice me. I took two more steps. I hesitated. I neared Gamble. I stopped. Second thoughts ran through my head. I wanted to bolt. Taking a deep breath, I tapped him on the shoulder and said in a breezy voice, “What’re you reading?” Startled, he spun. Befuddlement ed over his eyes, but once he recognized me, he smiled. I asked, “Did I catch you at a bad time?” He stared past me as if looking for another person, perhaps a companion. He glanced back at his magazine and then said, “No. Certainly not.” “Okay, then I’ll stay.” I plopped down on the stool next to him.

Awkward silence ensued. Neither person said a word. We searched the air for something to say. After several more tongue-tied seconds I said, “This is quite a surprise. Do you come here often?” My comment sounded like a trollop’s advance. I felt stupid and regretted it. Before a reply came, I tried to recover. “Do you like dime store novels?” He glanced down at his magazine like it had materialized in his hands. He laughed, glanced back at me, and said, “It’s a detective story. I’m interested in occult investigators.” “Oh, I love detective stories. What’s an occult investigator?” He put the magazine down. “They solve mysteries with occult underpinnings.” “That’s interesting. Hey, what do you call a detective who’s also a real estate agent?” He thought about it a second and then frowned. “I don’t know.” “A Sherlock Homes.” My mouth hung open in an O, my eyes beamed, and my eyebrows hit my forehead, as I waited for his reaction. He didn’t laugh. Instead, he continued explaining. “It’s rather fascinating. There’s a whole tradition of occult detectives going back: Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes, O’Brien’s Harry Escott, and Le Fanu’s Dr. Martin Hesselius. Even the narrator in Bulwer-Lytton’s ‘The Haunted and the Haunters’ falls into this genre.” I became perturbed by him not humoring my joke. My wrist went to my forehead as I pretended death by boredom. In a deadpan voice I said, “Oh… That’s fascinating.” Gamble stared straight ahead and squinted his eyes, but he remained silent. My sarcasm must have either breezed by him or he didn’t know how to reply. I said, “Within seconds, the detective figured out the murder weapon.” He shook his head in confusion as I added, “It was a… brief case.”

Still, he didn’t laugh. I snatched the magazine from his hand and started flipping through it. Illustrations of werewolves and strange beasts filled the rag with almost too much to process. Large fonts in stark black made the story titles jump from the page. He said, “I love that magazine, ‘Weird Tales.’ It’s new but so remarkable. Some stories are exceptional. Do you like books, Dominique?” “Dancers at Sixes say I’m street-smart but not book-smart. They’re wrong. I read books. If you must know, I love Agatha Christie novels and I adore fables and fairy tales—the darker the better. I’m obsessed with them, actually.” He took a sip of his float. I waited for him to invite me to drink something, but the invitation never came. My disappointment blew past him. Instead, he said, “Besides fairy tales, do you have a favorite book?” “I guess it might be A Christmas Carol by Dickens or that book by Wollstonecraft. I think it’s called ‘A… something… for the Rights of Woman.’” He smirked. “I know the one. The feminist book, right?” “Yes. That’s right.” He appeared thoughtful and then said, “Is there anything you hate to read?” “I hate reading the newspaper.” I shot a glance over to the fella reading one. “It’s depressing.” “I don’t blame you. It is.” He shifted on his stool. I shrugged. I grew tired of waiting for an invitation. I gestured to the clerk. “Sir… May I have a root beer, please?” The clerk poured a Hires and placed it near Gamble. I slid a coin across the counter and reached for the glass. Gamble and I became close. Our bodies tensed. Yearning and hesitation filled the air. Again, I didn’t understand the man or my feelings toward him but something drew me near. I slid back over to my spot. Gamble said, “It’s so surprising that Houdini died. I still can’t believe it.”

“Valentino, and now him. Next thing they’ll tell me is Calvin Coolidge kicked the bucket.” “I hope not.” My heart fell. Houdini’s death still weighed heavy on me. I barely met the man and his demise came so fast. Valentino and Houdini’s sudden deaths made me question my mortality. Life ends in a second. Trying to banish the thought, I saw the postcard customer busy the clerk at the counter’s far end, away from the door. Absently, I mumbled, “I’ve been listening… to that new NBC radio network for more information about him but they have little to say. Have you listened to it?” “No, I don’t give new-fangled technologies too much time. They’re playing with fire, if you ask me.” I chuckled and said, “I agree about electricity. It frightens me. But radio sound is amazing. It’s the first nationwide channel. What will they think of next?” “Probably something dangerous.” I changed the subject. “It’s a strange coincidence to be in my neighborhood.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Besides going to Sixes, I don’t end up in this area often. Today, however, something drew me here.” “Yeah, I never see you around. I walk just about everywhere. Unless I’m going to a picture, then I take the streetcar.” “You should get an automobile.” Anger hit me. I’m not rich like you. I tried to smother the thought. I remained silent. Our wager popped into my mind and irritation ran through it. My next thought—Even if I win, I don’t want your stupid car. Instead of embarrassing myself, I said, “I’ve been thinking about leaving Detroit. Did you hear about the route system? I should blow town and travel the country. There’s something romantic about a road trip, don’t you think?” “Why would you want to leave?”

“I don’t know. I can’t seem to find my footing here.” I paused and my voice grew quieter as I added, “I have other reasons too.” “You don’t like your job?” “No, it’s not the job per se. To be frank, I don’t have many friends.” I didn’t reveal the actual reason. He made a sad face. “What about Moxie and that Indian girl at Sixes?” “Yeah, Moxie’s my friend. And I like Kish. The others...” I let my sentence trail off. He looked at the counter and bowed my head solemnly. I whispered, “It doesn’t matter.” “If it makes you feel any better, I have few friends myself.” I chuckled. “Hard to believe.” “Nope, it’s true. I’m a difficult person to reach.” I shook my head back and forth and said, “I doubt it. You seem like a man people love.” “No, not even close. I don’t interact with them well, or I can’t reach them.” “What do you mean?” He thought a moment, took a sip of his dying drink, and said, “They don’t know how to approach me and I won’t approach them. It’s that simple.” I considered his words for a second and then said, “You had no problem talking to me.” “You’re different.” I turned to him. “How?” I waited. He didn’t answer.

I asked, “Why am I so different?” I waited. He fidgeted with his straw. My question hung in the air, perilous like fortune. He considered it. I waited for any reply. Finally, he said, “Not sure. Just different.” My heart raced. I murmured, “I’ll take that as praise.” He laughed and said, “Yes, I hope you will.” “Don’t get too sure of yourself, man.” He laughed again and said, “Oh, I wouldn’t. Never.” We sat there in silence again as a few cars ed by the big window in the front. The front door bell rang as the postcard customer exited with a paper bag. Gamble and I hit an ime, but I wanted to give him something else. I said, “If we’re speaking candid, my true friend is my cat, Ashe.” I smiled at him. By his expression, my comment grabbed hold of something deep inside. It broke through his defenses and I saw it on his face—a pain. He changed the subject. “Do you want a float? I’m buying.” “I came in here for a root beer. It’s a lot of sugar to have both, but I guess so. But I can buy it.” “Allow me. I insist.” He called out to the clerk. As he ordered the drink, I shifted on my stool and looked around. After a few minutes, the druggist set the drink in front of me and my male friend paid. “I feel weird about you paying,” I said. “It’s nothing. I enjoy your company.” “You don’t have to pay for my company. I’m not at work.”

He nodded, looked around one more time, and asked, “What makes you laugh, Dominique?” I smirked like an imp. “Absurdity. I adore the absurd. Bad jokes.” “Really?” “Yeah. That’s why I like Breton and Tzara. Two years ago, Breton found the Bureau of Surrealist Research. I find art so fascinating. Dada and the Cabaret Voltaire. Do you know about it?” “Oh yes. I saw some artwork while I was in Europe. Bizarre but all the rage I’ve heard. Do you like art, Dominique?” Our conversation deepened, and it made me feel bolder. I said, “Nobody says my name like you do.” “Really?” His eyebrows raised in surprise. I turned to him. The words came softly. “I like how you say it.” His eyes met mine. I averted my gaze by looking at the counter. After a moment, I said, “Do you dislike any art movement?” “I hate Impressionism. There’s no magic in it.” I tilted my head in thought. I didn’t like it much either. I asked, “Do you have a favorite artwork?” “That’s easy. It’s Plate 100 From ‘Jerusalem’ by William Blake.” “I’m not sure I’m familiar with that one.” “My father’s favorite artist was always Blake. I saw that image all the time with its night and day and the symbol of the architect.” Looking back, I imagine Gamble would hate the modern art of our future. It lacked the wonder and mysticism of the Romantics. Something bled from society—a bright spark, an inspiration, died over thousands of nights. All the wars, the innovations, tied us up into knots of hopeless abjection.

I that day so vividly. I listened as he spoke. I learned from him. I wanted to know him more. He went on. “You know… he believed in magic, right?” “Who?” “Blake.” “No, I didn’t know. Speaking of which… what about our wager?” “I said six months. I have a lot of time yet. But as far as magic and Blake, occult references permeate his work and he created his own mythology—an astounding achievement.” “Sounds ambitious. I’ve done little with my life so far. I won a Mahjong tournament once. Not much to speak about.” “What? That’s a huge accomplishment. You should be proud. It’s a difficult game.” “No, it isn’t. But they say it’s over 2,500 years old. Experts link the game to Confucius and his love of birds, but the oldest historical record dates from the 1880s. I don’t care how old it is. I like the concentration it takes. I focus with Mahjong and with dance. That’s when I’m most alive.” “Authorities say similar things about tarot cards. They don’t know how old they are, though. I should read your tarot. Would you like that?” “Yes, I would. I’ve never had a reading.” I looked at the clock. Shoot. Work-time approached. I said, “I’m sorry. Mr. Gamble. I need to head home to prepare for work.” “So soon?” “It’s been nice chatting with you, really.” I waited for him to ask me on another outing but no invitation came. After many awkward seconds, I said, “Good day.” He smiled. “Good day, Dominique. I hope to see you again.”

We’ll see about that—I thought as I rose from my stool and headed to the door. I looked back once and waved. I exited the drugstore disappointed.

12 September 1976

I’ve always loved cinema. In those days. Rudolph Valentino and Gloria Swanson addicted me to the silver screen. Comedians like Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin tickled my humorous side while directors such as Fritz Lang and F. W. Murnau appealed to my intellect. Because of my current predicament, I find it hard to get to the theater, but I miss it. On Christmas 1926, I ventured to the State Theater in the Francis Palms Building off Woodward to see Barbara Kent and Greta Garbo in the film Flesh and the Devil. I ran late, so I darted to the box office, bought my ticket with cash from the previous night’s dances, and headed for the front door. I presented my ticket in a hurry and waved it at the smiling usher named Jack. “We’ll chat later, Jack. I’m late.” I zoomed past him like a cheetah and entered the theater. Most times, I conversed with him but I didn’t want to miss the movie. We often talked about a topical film or an release. Jack was a sweet old guy, a real prince. People at his age couldn’t get the lucrative industrial jobs that appeared around the automotive industry. Theater usher remained the only work available to poor Jack. I entered the auditorium and plopped down near the middle in Row G, Seat 12. It was my favorite seat since coming to that theater over the past year. Because of the holiday and the snow dusting on the ground, the cinema remained empty, save a few people in the mezzanine and a few in front. The silver screen glittered back at me as I waited for the feature to begin. After a few minutes, the film started and wild organ music accompanied it. My bottom dug deeper into my seat as I focused on the movie. Minutes into it, some people entered the theater. They walked down the aisle whispering to each other. After several seconds of commotion, they sat behind me. I ignored the intrusion. Silvery shards of light danced over the seats as the

motion picture unfolded. After a few minutes, it felt like one of them was watching me. Was it my imagination? Perhaps my paranoia invented New York rapscallions searching for me. Either way, after several more minutes bearing the feeling, I almost turned around and said, “Do I know you?” As if on cue, a finger tapped me on the shoulder. I whirled around on the defensive. Gamble sat there with a single index finger pointed upward, pressed against his mouth. The rabbiteared woman’s silencing gesture from my dream entered my thoughts. With an amused smile, he leaned forward and whispered near my ear, “It’s the Sign of Silence.” “What?” I tried to whisper but my voice bellowed through the auditorium as a quiet break in the film revealed me as an idiot. Someone in the mezzanine shushed me. He whispered, “Nothing. Quiet down. You’re disturbing people.” I turned around to tell him off until I noticed his company. A woman and a couple I didn’t recognize sat to his right. He wagged his finger and then motioned to the screen. I turned back around. I heard them whispering about me. I caught my name but not much else. The movie went on as I considered the second chance meeting. How did he know? One happenstance run-in seemed possible, but two? Lost in contemplation, the movie continued, but I ignored it. Jealousy overcame me. Was the woman next to him his wife? The film ended. I rose to leave. I turned to say goodbye and realized they disappeared. My initial disappointment melted away as I exited the cinema and hit the sidewalk. I didn’t see Jack; he must have gone home. Rats, I wanted to discuss parts of the film I missed. I turned to begin my walk home and then I noticed them—Gamble’s crew stood next to the box office. He waved to me. I hesitated as he motioned for me to come. I waved my hands in the negative. He motioned me a third time. I sighed and my shoulders slumped. I succumbed. His friends made me nervous, but I approached the group. As I made it to them, Gamble said, “Hello, Dominique. What brings you to this fine establishment this evening?” “You saw me in the movie. I meant to go grocery shopping, but I picked the wrong door. And you?” He never answered my question. Instead, he declared, “I’m so rude. Dominique,

this is my sister, Ruth. And these are her friends, Tom and Bettie.” He turned to his sister and said, “Dominique works at that Hit Café place I told you about.” Relieved that the woman wasn’t his wife, I exhaled a held breath. As he prattled on, I studied his sibling. Ruth had dead, forest-colored eyes with the largest, darkest pupils imaginable. Her messy sandy hair hung equal to her ear. She wore a drab featureless dress and a long coat with few bells and whistles. A pearl necklace hung from her neck as her only accouterment. I ignored the other two people’s appearance. The group nodded and smiled. I waved at them but felt awkward. Ruth said, “Do you make or serve the coffee?” Her dead eyes harmonized with her words as if speaking required complete concentration. “Not exactly.” Ruth’s expression showed how she felt about my occupation. Ruth judged her brother and then me again. My station felt too low. I averted my eyes from her appraisal and turned my attention to the others. Some small talk ensued between them until Ruth announced, “I’m exhausted. I think I’ll turn in. Are you ready, brother?” Ruth looked to Gamble for confirmation. He stammered a second and said, “I think I’ll hang here, if you don’t mind?” Ruth looked at me with her lost eyes. Disdain crept across her features. She turned to her brother and said, “No, not at all. I’ll grab a taxi.” Ruth gave me one last reproachful glare, hailed a car, got in, and escaped into the night. More small talk ensued until Ruth’s friends announced their departure. After farewells, the couple walked in a different direction. Gamble and I exchanged glances. I spoke first. “I guess it’s time to take my leave too. Good day, Mr. Gamble. It was nice running into you again.” As I turned to leave, he grabbed my arm gently. I turned. Our eyes met. His gaze contrasted with his sister’s. While hers ran

empty, his filled me like a virus. He said, “Can I get you a car?” I shook my head. “No. I like to walk.” “Then, would you allow me the honor of walking you home?” Feelings battled inside me, but I quelled them. He never called on me after the magic show. He never found me after Barthwell Drugs. Now, he wanted to walk me home. I eyed him with suspicion. He smiled and said, “I’m not the Big Bad Wolf or anything.” I smiled and replied, “You better not be.” “My intentions are pure.” We giggled. I offered him the crook of my arm and he slid his into it. I said, “Let’s go.” We remained silent as we marched. After some time, he spoke. “What did you think of the movie?” I lied. “I liked it. I love Garbo but it wasn’t my favorite.” “What’s your favorite?” I thought about it a moment and said, “I love Murnau’s Last Laugh.” “Oh, that’s a brilliant film.” I nodded. “I think Murnau is the best filmmaker. Fritz Lang is also good.” Snow fell as we chatted about film. As we walked, we made physical . Our shoulders bumped or our fingers grazed against each other. Our conversation switched to other topics such as books and radio. We reminisced about our talk in the drugstore. After a while, it became obvious we had parallel

interests despite our difference in station. He tried to catch my eye but I avoided his gaze. I didn’t want to give it to him. Part of me still disliked the man, but I remained uncertain why he elicited that reaction. Maybe because of his wealth. Maybe because of my poverty. Maybe because he never called on me. The answer lingered undefined. Without warning, I whirled around. “Mr. Gamble, how did you find me again? Was it another coincidence or did you come here intentionally?” After he considered it, he leaned forward and his breath tickled the back of my neck. “Maybe coincidence, but I’m less than sorry it happened.” I leaned back, tilted my head, and said too loudly, “I’m sure, Mr. Gamble.” He reiterated, “I swear. It was happenstance. Our group ed by the cinema minding our business after dinner. The urge hit me to see a movie. I mentioned it to my companions. After some convincing, we entered the cinema. How could I know?” “That’s just it. You couldn’t. Unless that magic of yours directed you. But that can’t be the case, can it?” He smiled and shrugged. Cars ed by as the wind strengthened. Slushy sounds rolled on through the night. We discussed the stars and their placement. He knew about astronomy. The falling snow blew past a church steeple. A Christmas wreath hung from the almost white tower. Ice covered the metal handrail. Chilling and somber, a Virgin Mary statue prayed in bleakness and the snowfall demanded a melancholy tone from Detroit. We discussed our wager again, going over the bet’s details until he said, “What brought you here? A woman alone on Christmas… It’s unusual.” My face fell. Through our conversation I wanted to avoid the topic, but no longer. By his expression, the truth needed clarification. My mouth opened, but no words came. In an exhale, I said, “Christmas is a complicated day for me, filled with tricky emotions.” He grew serious. “But why?”

I cast my eyes to the ground as we marched. Thoughts of my past churned in my brain as he waited for me. After a few more seconds, I whispered, “I don’t know how to say this.” “It’s okay. Whatever it is, I won’t judge you. I promise.” He stopped walking. I stopped. He turned my body toward him. My mouth hung open, but again, no words came. He repeated, “It’s okay.” Before I could hold back, I blurted out, “My parents died. They never went to a stupid jungle.” I pulled away from him. He let me go. A few paces away, I added, “A terrible murder on Christmas.” He wasn’t expecting this answer. I looked back at him and I saw indecision. He muttered, “My goodness, Dominique. I’m so sorry.” I continued speaking as I stared into the past. “Their death crushed me. To this day, I’ve always felt nervous around Christmas. It’s rather laughable. A man carjacked them, shot them dead, over pocket cash.” I tried to turn it into a joke. “If you lose your car to me of all people, that’d be a hoot. Because the truth of it is… Even if I won the car, I wouldn’t drive it. Someone might murder me too for a few dollars on Christmas. Is that cowardly of me? It must be.” “No, it’s understandable.” I started walking again, and he followed. He spoke softly from behind me. “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to.” “No, it’s fine.” “How long ago did it happen?” I looked up to the sky and snow melted on my face. “In New York when I was twelve. We spent Christmas day together opening presents. In the evening, my parents wanted a romantic dinner because it was their anniversary. My aunt babysat me. I sat in bed reading a book.” He listened as the flurries fell around us. But I wouldn’t let the somber moment ruin the snowfall. It felt like beautiful ashes raining down after a battle. It made me feel like a survivor. I raised my hand to the air and snowflakes liquified on it.

Then, I continued with my story. “Two gunshots ripped through the night. I’ll never forget it as long as I live. A hellish scream followed, the sound of pure terror. It happened a few streets away from our tenement. They were almost home. I cried because I imagined strangers grieving when they found out the news. Later that night, I discovered the truth.” “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry, Dominique.” “My name’s not Dominique. It’s Genevieve… Genevieve Dowd.” I expected him to respond to my real name, but he stayed silent. I continued my tale. “I lived with my aunt but it didn’t work. Rage made me a difficult person to be around. It’s funny how one moment stability rules the day and the next moment… you’re an orphan. It’s simple, fast and cruel, but life.” We turned a corner. A few people ed us. I waited for them to leave and then I continued. “For a few years I stayed in orphanages and a few foster homes, but I wanted independence. I went on my own and hopped trains from New York to Detroit. Because of the booming economy, this place seemed ideal to establish roots and to forget my past. But death never stops speaking and their memory always invades my present.” We turned another corner. Our arms broke free, but he snatched my hand. I let him take it. We walked on and our hands warmed. “Even now, all these years later, I still mourn them. My father’s cigars and my mother’s perfume come to mind…” I broke off, but he encouraged me to continue so I added, “Home died that day. I came to Black Bottom to face that fear. I mean, this is where they make all the cars, don’t they?” “Yeah. I guess that makes a certain sense.” I nudged his ribs. “It’s comical you offered the automobile of all things, isn’t it?” He nodded with a smirk. We stopped walking. I studied him. I waited for an answer. For a moment, disbelief rested in his eyes. Maybe the murder trumped my jungle story. Incredulity vanished and concern replaced it. He said, “Perhaps that’s a moment of magic. It’s ironic, of all the things I could offer to lose, I

chose the car. Maybe I knew deep down.” “Maybe.” Perhaps he didn’t believe it, but he asked, “What were your parents like?” “Despite the constant moving, my parents provided a good life for me until they ed. I have fond memories of my time in England. It was a wonderful few years. My father had good work at the shipyards. I attended school. It was a pivotal time for me. I learned fast and incorporated English culture into my life. When the war broke out my parents’ attitude shifted. They became fearful. Despite my father’s excellent job, they fled Europe. We settled into New York City with hopes of my father gaining similar work at a shipyard but that never came. Not everyone did well after the war.” We neared my house. I wanted him to ask me to another event. We broke through a barrier that evening and an intimacy began. I didn’t want it to end. In those first cherished encounters, each person tries to broadcast their hearts without giving away their true feelings. He said, “Do you mind if I still use Dominique? I’ve grown fond of it.” “Nah, I don’t mind. Genevieve’s dead to me, anyway.” “Dominique, would you like to accompany me to a social engagement?” Doubt crept into my desire. I said, “What about your sister? I don’t think she likes me.” “She’ll get over it.” He stopped walking and said, “Your house is just over there, right?” Astonishment struck me. “How do you know where I live?” He noticed my dread. He raised his hands and said, “Relax. I’ve been sending my driver to make sure you get home at night. Black Bottom is a rough place. I hope you don’t take that the wrong way.” Anger flowed through my heart. Through gritted teeth I murmured, “Why would you do that?”

“The world is a dangerous place.” He looked off into space and added, “People get into trouble sometimes. You come home late at night. I wanted to make sure nothing happened to you.” My eyes widened. I said, “Too bad your driver wasn’t around to follow my parents.” My jab caused him discomfort. I added, “It’s kind of you… but unnecessary. I can take care of myself.” He shrugged and said, “I’m sure you can. I’m sorry.” He paused. Indecision crept across his face. He added, “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but ever since meeting you, I’ve felt a duty. I don’t understand it.” A moment ed with neither person doing anything. He offered his hand for a handshake. I accepted it. Then, without warning, I darted forward and hugged him. My head rested momentarily on his chest. I whispered, “Don’t take this the wrong way.” He said, “Never. I’m so glad we did this.” Our eyes fell on each other. Our faces moved closer, yearning for . We almost kissed and then I blurted, “I have to go. My cat is waiting for me.” He said, “Yeah, I have to get along. Ruth’s wondering what happened to me.” Our embrace lingered. He vocalized his expression. “You’re not what I thought you were.” I lunged fast, kissed his cheek, ran to the front stoop, entered my house, and slammed the door behind me. My back hit the door and my fingers covered my mouth. My heart hammered in my chest. Then, I realized we never solidified plans. I parted the curtain, and looked out the side window, but he was gone.

15 September 1976

Almost three months ed. I gave up on my mystery man. Disappointment arrived but a quiet relief filled my days. Until Monday, 21 March 1927 when I received another telegram.

Monday, 21 March 1927 Dearest Dominique, Would you like to accompany me on a three-day trip to Belle Isle starting on Wednesday, 30 March? Do you think you can clear that with Sixes? We’ll stay at the Detroit Yacht Club. Clay is throwing a party under the fountain. I’ll explain later. Jay Em sent an invitation to Moxie. It should be a grand time and I’d love for you to attend. I’ll send a driver to bring you to my home and we’ll leave from there. If you want to depart, I’ll drive you back myself. Cordially, Jonathan Gamble Blackburn

An invitation to a three-day trip after three months of silence. He never came into Sixes. No word of where he went. No apology. I mulled over the invite. Several thoughts crossed my mind. What did he want? Was he toying with me? Were these delays ways for him to prove something to me? Since our walk home from the movies, my dreams remained normal compared to the rabbit-eared woman and Manticore visions. But I had to it, his absence weighed on my thoughts. I missed him and these long silences in-between were maddening. An internal battle made me wait several days to respond. Against my better

judgment, I agreed and sent a curt reply two days before the event. If he wasn’t so damned enigmatic, I’d tell him to go straight to Hell, Michigan. The next two days became difficult to get through. Did he feel the same? I had no way of knowing. After our hug and close , he rarely left my thoughts. I yearned for even a simple word spoken from him. Again, he sent his car for me, and without a word, his driver took us to his large house in the Boston-Edison District on the Eastside. Built between 1900 and 1925, architects filled the neighborhood with opulent housing in varying designs: Tudor, Georgian and Dutch Colonial, Italian Renaissance, and Roman and Greek Revival. Boston Boulevard to the north, Edison Avenue on the south, Woodward Avenue on the east and Linwood on the west enclosed thirty-six blocks of the city’s biggest names like Henry Ford, the Fisher brothers, and J. B. Webber. Gamble’s property rested in the center, enormous and elegant, larger than any house I ever visited. As I walked up the front path, a row of trimmed hedges surrounded me like adversaries. Gothic trees planted ages ago gnarled themselves over the backyard and dwarfed the entire building. On the right side, a wrought-iron gate with a foliaged pattern led to a long-standing garage in back. The front stoop housed ornate doors carved from English oak. Bulky mottled stones jutted from the walls. An enormous bay window added to the lavishness. Forty windows made the frontage resemble a giant greenhouse. Three chimneys, asymmetrically balanced with two left and the third right, signified a cozy interior. A tentative step toward the imposing building inspired peculiar feelings. My discomfort at the Garrick Theater seemed minuscule compared to my feelings now. I stared at the building as I gathered my courage. With hesitation, I struck the brass door knocker three times. After several seconds, a brusque servant opened the door and ushered me inside without fanfare. To my surprise, the interior revealed a different atmosphere than the building’s exterior. Ruhlmann, Brandt, and Dunand furniture filled the home. An old friend from New York educated me about expensive furnishings, so I spotted these designs immediately. Oddly, sheets covered many of the pieces. I became curious. I asked the servant, “Is the family planning a move?”

The man appraised the furniture and said, “No. I’m afraid not. Mrs. Blackburn has no intention of leaving this place until she es.” The man dropped my bag to the floor. I nodded, confused but keen to the eccentricities of rich folk. He led me through the large room. As we walked, he added, “After Mr. Blackburn ed, we closed down several wings for safety reasons.” His words riveted me. I asked, “Safety reasons? What do you mean?” After a long pause and some soul-searching, he answered, “Ms. Ruth… She has trouble with large spaces. They decided it made the house smaller for her. The West Wing houses the family these days. Nobody ventures into these other rooms.” His words and the house’s emptiness gave me chills. A mausoleum carried more life. We came to a large stairwell, and that’s when I discovered her. Ruth stood at the top. Sinuous arms grasped the rail like she choked a serpent. She wore flowing robes and florae in her hair like the Bacchae. As before, hollowness sprang from her eyes. Her face burned with an aversion for me. A sneer slithered across her thin lips. “Dominique.” She hissed my name like poison. “What brings you to our household?” Her frail form hovered at the top of the stairs like a phantasm. She looked back and forth as if searching for other spirits around her. I hesitated. A glanced to my left for help but the servant vanished. Before I could answer, Ruth descended the stairs in a majestic stride—one step at a time with drama. Years later, a film called Sunset Boulevard made me recall that descent. My body made no action. My mind, however, reeled with fright. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, her eyes penetrated me, her mouth lilted, never a smile, but always an amused smirk. I gathered the nerve to answer. “Your brother asked me to come.” “Did he?” Disdain oozed from her voice as she looked through me like a madwoman. I regretted my decision. I wanted escape.

A familiar voice came from upstairs. “Ruth, leave Dominique alone. She’s here to see me.” My gaze shot from the bedlamite to her older brother who stood on the landing. I smiled at him. My gaze moved to where she stood but the woman vanished. My eyes widened in disbelief. I looked around, but she had disappeared. Gamble mumbled, “She does that.” With spring in his step, he descended the stairs in a more jovial way than his unpleasant sibling. Palpable relief filled the room. “I’m sure you’re wondering where I’ve been the last three months. I apologize. I had business to attend to in China. Got back as soon as possible. It’s a rather long seafaring trip, I’m afraid.” I nodded and said, “Where have you been? Yes, that thought crossed my mind. After our meeting at the movie, I assumed I’d hear from you sooner.” “Yes, I understand if you’re cross with me. Everything happened so fast. I…” “It’s fine. I know you’re a busy man.” I changed the subject. “So, what’s with your sister?” He defended her by saying, “Ruth had a childhood illness that left her frail and needy. I take care of her and she sees me as a crutch. She’s sore because I’m going to Belle Isle with you.” “Where’s your mother?” He took my hand. Sexual magnetism ed between us. “She isn’t home now. She’s playing pinochle with the neighbors.” He sat me down on one of the few functional chairs. “I hate to say this but my sister insists on coming to Belle Isle. After much quarreling, I convinced her to come on the third day, for the party.” He looked around for the woman and leaned in close and said, “I lied and said the other two days would bore her.”

His confession made me wonder. How much sway did his sister wield? I giggled. Then, he ed in my laughter. We ended our amusement as soon as a shadow ed in the hallway upstairs. Gamble placed his finger to his lips. He motioned to another hall at the room’s end. “Shall we go?” In agreement, I tilted my head toward it. He grabbed my bag from the floor. I allowed him to lead the way, and he guided me through the house until we exited the rear. Gamble gestured to the large garage and said, “That’s it. Your prize sits in there, if you win our wager.” We entered the building and the lush automobile sat there. I said, “Six months have ed.” “Really? Time flies. I guess you won the bet.” I shook my head and said, “That’s silly. I had no intention of taking your car. I’ll it you’ve piqued my curiosity about magic though. If you continue to reveal it, I’m listening carefully.” He smiled. We hopped in the car, he started it up, we exited the garage, hit the street, and bolted toward the riverside. As we drove, he said, “So what’s your insight about family?” “I don’t trust the institution, if that’s what you mean.” “Do you have siblings?” He turned a corner. I rolled my window down and let cool air flow though the car. “Do you mind?” I asked. He said absently, “No, go right ahead.” I answered his question. “I don’t have any siblings. I have a distant cousin though who lives in . My mother was French and my father was German.

I’m not sure I told you that last time.” He nodded and took another turn at top speed. Then, he said, “This might be an odd question, but what do you think about death?” A pall came into my eyes, and I said, “Yeah, it’s a rather odd question, but you ask many of those.” He spoke like at our first meeting at Sixes. “Magic happens from confronting danger, overcoming death. Most fairy tales contain a thread about overcoming fear and death. You mentioned fairy tales at the drugstore, right?” “Yes, as a matter-of-fact, I did.” A knowing smile crept across his lips. “Death creates an intellectual light. In symbolism, Lucifer the light-bearer calls the ego to overcome death to fill with light.” With an edge, I said, “Is that what your sister told you?” He chuckled. “No, I read it in books. Learned some at my fraternity. But you seem to have experience with it.” I diverted his attention. I said, “What’s your take on fairytales? Do you have some esoteric angle on them? You have that about everything else.” He thought a moment and answered, “Stories used to carry more brutality. Authors designed them to show allegorical psychological destruction. Over the years, especially with the Brothers Grimm, the tales became less and less moral lesson and more kid’s fancy. But truth exists within them, harsh truths.” We turned another corner. My hair blew in the wind as I considered his words. After a few moments, I said, “That’s interesting. Can you give me an example?” “Sure. Take, for instance, the fable of Little Red Riding Hood.” “Oh, I love that one.” “Yeah, but you probably love the newer, amended story. In Charles Perrault’s

version the courageous huntsman doesn’t save the girl. Little Red strips naked, gets in bed, and then dies, eaten by the Wolf. No miraculous rescue.” My eyes widened. “Oh, really? That’s dreadful.” He continued. “In a different version, Little Red eats her own grandmother. They cook up the old woman and pour her blood into a wine glass.” “What? That’s not true. It’s too morbid.” “Yes, it’s true. I swear. Not all wolves are beasts. Did you know the French call a girl who lost her virginity elle avoit vû le loup? She has seen the wolf. Philippe told me that once. Life used to be much different.” I shivered. “Do you have to be so dark?” “I’m just calling it like I see it, but it was a different time. You had to worry about animals, lawless people, and the wilds. All we worry about is Prohibition.” I giggled but his mention of Prohibition didn’t sit well with me and my secret past. I said, “Yeah, ole Harry Longshanks acts like the Big Bad.” He said, “Harry Long-who?” “He’s just a guy who comes into Sixes.” I said. “Anyway, that stuff about the fairy tales fascinates me.” “Truly. It’s more epic than people imagine. It’s a battle between light and dark, between love and hate, between civility and barbarism. A line separates them. Sometimes they mirror each other.” I listened. The man had strange ideas but the more I knew him the more fascinated I became. I studied him as he talked. His eyes brightened with each word. He said, “There’s a darkness to love as there’s a light.” His mention of love made us silent. An uncomfortable moment ed between us.

He continued after the moment ed. “Either polarity can’t exist without the other. Modern fairytales lean toward goodness, but that’s a lie because within goodness selfishness exists. For example, a benevolent nun who gives to the poor seems like she’s doing a good act. In many ways she is, right?” I hit the dash in agreement. He went on. “But there must be a satisfaction to the deed. I’ve found neutrality rarely happens. A motivation exists behind actions, even if it’s for the happiness produced by the act. Few people are neutral.” “Yes, I guess that’s true. I never thought of it that way. You have a unique way of looking at things, Mr. Gamble.” “No, not unique. People like me exist, especially in my order. It takes effort to find them. Some live in books. Others seek you out. And then there’s the third option.” “What’s that?” I asked. “Fate brings them. Sometimes people appear in your life at the perfect time. For better or worse, like our meeting.” “Uh-huh.” Then I added, “So tell me more about this magic? We’re past our deadline but I’m thinking this car looks good.” He laughed. “Okay. You want more.” “Yep.” He turned another corner and straightened the automobile out, and the river came into view ahead of us. He thought one more second and then said, “Here it goes. Maturity influences consciousness. Consciousness creates magic. The undeveloped consciousness can’t realize the miracle of anamnesis, the recovery of what we’ve forgotten.” “Wait a minute. What’s anamnesis? I’ve never heard that word.” “We’ll talk about it. But now isn’t the time.”

Frustration crept into my emotions. He continued. “Okay. I know. It’s cruel to mention something and not deliver.” He searched the rear-view mirror for an answer, shifted lanes, and said, “Here it is. The more consciousness opens to divine intelligence, the more we our divine selves, and the more magic occurs in our lives.” “Okay. And…” “A closed consciousness only grasps the universe at a cognitive level it understands. Therefore, the more we open ourselves to magic, the more we about our eternal selves, and the more divine we become. Our new awareness becomes like a religion and no religion stands higher than truth.” As if on cue, the island rose like a mirage. Arches suspended a bridge about twenty feet above the Detroit River. Excitement filled my heart and his words occupied my thoughts as the roadster turned off Jefferson and onto the large bridge that spanned the shore and the island. A distinct feeling washed over me that if I crossed that bridge, I’d never be the same. His words about consciousness and religion danced around in my mind. Fairy tales of terrible wolves and human cannibalism filled my thoughts as I inhaled a deep breath of river air, and we crossed the bridge.

18 September 1976

On Thursday, March 31, I woke in my private room in the Detroit Yacht Club. They built it on a manufactured island constructed from fill dirt excavated from other construction projects. Architect George D. Mason designed the sprawling clubhouse. For me, it was another place I didn’t belong. Over the next several months I’d often feel that way. Little happened the previous night. Gamble showed me to my room, told me to get rest, taught me how to order room service, and then disappeared for the night. I slept well enough. After he met me in the morning, we ate a light breakfast at the club. By early afternoon, we took a small boat back to the main island and arrived at the Belle Isle Boat House. From there, we walked toward the Belle Isle Aquarium to the south, toward Canada. While we walked Gamble spoke. “I have a surprise.” “What’s that? Are you gonna do a spell and prove magic to me?” “No, not exactly. I was thinking about something else. Follow me.” He turned east, and we followed the trail. The fiery sun beat down on the crowds as we strolled through them. A few days prior, hot weather fell upon the city. Outdoor enthusiasts played Bocce Ball, Croquet, and threw leather balls around. Children played in the grass. To compensate for the sun, women carried parasols. Others wore wide brimmed sun hats with round crowns and silk sashes. The Three Musketeers film inspired a trend for ladies wearing the three-corner Cavalier hats; many wore straw versions. The bi-corn become more popular with the front brim folded up creating points on either side with a bow to one side or dangling ribbon, feather, tassel, or jewel. Men wore baggy ivy, newsboy, and golf caps made of a light linen or cotton poplin. Driving caps and cab driver hats came in pastel colors. Straw hats became even more popular than flat caps. Hand-woven boaters made with thick

straw became widespread too. Skimmers had smaller brims than boaters. Handwoven Panama hats made from South American lightweight straw became all the rage amongst high society. I watched the people play in their finery and it made me miss England. The English always dressed for the occasion. Most Americans I rubbed shoulders with did not. My spirits dipped, but Gamble noticed and said, “We’re almost there. Don’t pack it in yet. We just started.” We walked more. Then, I saw them: the conical twin pagodas of the Belle Isle Zoo. He said, “I hope you like animals.” I smiled. “Yes, I do. Very much so.” We entered the zoo. As we walked, we took our time. Seeing animals wasn’t the point. Our aim became wandering around and trying to know each other better, so our walk became a leisurely stroll to nowhere. As we ambled, step in step, Gamble spoke. “Dominique, do you have any pet peeves? Anything that bothers you?” I considered his questions and replied, “I hate when people don’t look me in the eye while speaking. Moxie does it sometimes but on her it’s charming—on others it’s dreadful. I’m guilty too, I guess. But anyway, I hate it.” “I can see why. It shows a certain reluctance to connect.” “What’s yours? What bothers you?” “That’s easy. I despise laziness. Life’s too short for such nonsense. I also don’t like intellectual mediocrity. Whether educated or street-smart, I prefer those who can think for themselves. That’s something few schools teach.” As we ambled along, birds chirped, in the distance a monkey howled, and our conversation deepened. I asked, “Do you have any obsessions? Anything that grabs you?” I paused a moment and added, “Mine’s potatoes. I love potatoes. I can’t live without them.

Thank god, they’re cheap.” He chuckled and answered, “Maybe the occult.” He stopped walking. He paused, unsure of his next words. Then, he added, “And… I suppose I’m obsessed with you.” I stopped too and looked away bashfully. I opened my mouth to speak, but I ed my pet peeve. I remained silent. I stood at a loss too. Breaking the romantic stillness, he said, “If you could change one thing about yourself, what would you change?” I looked him in the eye and said, “Wealth. I’d like money. I’ve been poor so long I don’t even know what it’s like to have extra money. But let me make this clear, I’m not here because of your money. I’m not interested in becoming some rich guy’s toy story.” He shrugged. “That thought never entered my head. That doesn’t suit you, so I never imagined it. Not for a second.” I held his elbow longer. An emotion deep inside made me refuse to let go. I turned to him and gazed into his eyes. I said, “What would you change?” He returned my stare. “I’d break away from my sister. It’s been difficult. I never should’ve allowed her to lean on me so much. Live and learn, I guess.” A moment of silence ed as we searched each other’s eyes. What did we look for? Understanding. Permission. Love. Did we see the future? Nobody can answer these questions. He asked, “Do you have any juicy secrets? Anything I should know?” “Anything you should know before what?” My question sounded sexual. He assessed me. I returned his lustful gaze. A moment ed with searching for the next words. For now, we ignored the sexual connotations, so we started walking again. He prodded for an answer, but I gave him nothing. Instead, I said, “We all have secrets. I have more than most. I’m curious what you have.”

He shrugged again. “I don’t love my sister. At least not the way she wants me to love her. Don’t take that the wrong way. I care about her. After she changed, I became a therapist of sorts, a crutch. Before that, we loved like siblings often do. Now, she loves me in ways I can never return.” Incest popped into my mind but I banished it. Changing the topic, I revealed, “I’ve never been in love before. That’s my big secret.” It was a lie. I turned away from him with a melodramatic flair, but that wasn’t my intention; it happened involuntarily. His hand touched my shoulder. A moment ticked by. Indecision ran through my mind. I ignored my better judgement. I turned around to him and itted, “Nobody’s ever good enough.” My comment sounded false to my own ears, but he didn’t catch it. His second hand went to my other shoulder. We faced each other, but I looked to the ground. He whispered, “This is my big secret. I love someone else.” Without eye , I asked meekly, “Who?” He whispered, “You know.” “I do?” “Yes.” I turned away toward an animal pen. I changed the subject again. “Gamble, what were you like as a child?” He broke away from me, opened his cigarette case, took one, twirled his unlit cigarette between his fingers, and ruminated on my question. He sat down on a bench and I took a seat next to him. My misdirection worked. We couldn’t go there yet—the greatest mistake is a kiss too soon. “I was like now, only smaller. No deck of Luckies or other vices either,” he said it like it was obvious. “What were you like?” “Not much different from now,” I replied. “I bet.”

“No really. I’m the same.” He looked pensive. “I guess I was fine until the moment my father died. Then, I had to become an adult. But it’s a lot of pressure.” I nodded in agreement. Then, I said, “As you know, I lived a complicated childhood with lots of pain. It’s difficult to look back.” My response told him I didn’t want to talk about my parents. But he didn’t let it go. “What advice would you give yourself as a child? If you could spare yourself one regret, what would you warn yourself against?” I also adopted a pensive expression and I said, “I told you before that my parents died when I was young. It would be that, wouldn’t it?” He appeared uncomfortable but replied, “That’s tough. I understand to a point. But I still have my mother and sister. I can’t imagine what it must be like without family. I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry too. But that’s the hand fate dealt me. I’m not a complete orphan. I have my aunt and cousin. But I’d tell that little girl to have her parents live.” Our mood grew dark as we sat there in silence. A child ran after a pigeon. We watched the youngster zig-zag across the grass with the bird only a step behind. Silence ensued. Precious moments ed as I looked to the sky. I said, “I didn’t mean to bring down the afternoon.” “It’s okay, Dominique.” “Please call me Genevieve, not Dominique. If we’re going there, revealing this much, you might as well use my real name.” “Going where?” he asked. “Into places best kept secret.” He took a drag off his cigarette. The pigeon flew into the air and the kid began crying. The child’s mother came and skirted him away.

I paused a moment and said, “What did you want from childhood?” “I’d warn myself not to cement my sister to me. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but in some ways, I hate her. She demands too much and I can’t deliver.” I nodded and looked back into the sky. The sun shone about two o’clock. He asked, “What reminds you of childhood? I always the smell of licorice sticks from the corner store. We lived in a different neighborhood then.” “My mother’s perfume. Vanilla and ylang-ylang. She preferred exotic oils. Our house always smelled of her. I miss that and whenever I catch a trace of either, I think of her.” He nodded, stood up, and said, “Hey, I want to show you something. Follow me.” I walked after him. Before long, we marched side-by-side. After several minutes, he took my hand. Pulling away was my first impulse, but I banished the thought. We walked that way for several more minutes. He asked, “What did you want to be? Did you have a dream job?” “I wanted to be a ballerina, but I settled for a taxi dancer. It’s a letdown, isn’t it?” “No way. If you didn’t have that job, I never would have met you. I rarely go to ballets. I prefer operas.” I smiled. “It’s a nice thought. I’ll think about it the next time I’m dancing with Robert Henry or somebody dreadful like him.” Gamble shook his head. His expression showed he didn’t want me to think of my job that way. Instead, he asked, “Do you have a childhood memory that sticks with you?” “I the enormous HMS Dreadnought my father helped build. That battleship helped revolutionize naval power. That was about 1908 or 1909. We stayed there a few years. Then, the Great War broke out in Europe in 1914. Back then, they called it names like ‘The World War,’ ‘The War to End War,’ or ‘The

War to End All Wars.’ All the titles meant nothing. I little, but I the boat.” “How old were you?” he asked. “I guess I was about eight. Any memories yourself?” “The best day of my life was at the Detroit Zoo with my parents when my father was still alive and we hadn’t come to odds yet. That’s why I brought you here. I like animals.” He frowned and added, “My worst memory was the long, drawnout death of my father by consumption.” “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess we’ve lost so much.” He shrugged his shoulders but his comments about his father felt untrue. I didn’t know why but the feeling remained palpable for some time after and it nagged me. As we turned a corner, I saw it. His arm reached out, and he pointed at the large beast. He said, “I wanted to show you this. Her name’s Sheba and she’s famous.” “Wow! It’s an elephant. I’ve never seen one in person.” “She arrived three years ago. Isn’t she beautiful? Five tons of flesh and bone.” “Yes, she’s fetching.” He nodded. “Sheba has an interesting story too. Do you want to hear it?” “Yes, of course.” “A schoolgirl wrote a letter to the Detroit News. She wanted schoolchildren to work together and buy something for the zoo. Kids across the city contributed milk money to the cause. By the end, over one-hundred and fifty-thousand children raised about two grand.” “That’s beautiful.” The story brought a tear to my eye. Then I realized. “Did you bring me here because I never saw an elephant? I told you that when we talked about Edison. Did you ?”

“Maybe.” I lunged forward, wrapped my arms around his neck, and hugged him. The embrace didn’t last long because I pulled away with a beaming smile. Then I said, “I think that’s the sweetest thing anyone has done for me.” I wasn’t lying. Even to this day, nobody has cared enough to take the time to plan something like it. It was an innocent gesture but a thoughtful one. Sheba the Elephant lived in the Belle Isle Zoo and on the island until her death in 1959. I returned to that place many times over the years to see where they buried Sheba. Looking back, it’s amazing the youngsters made that happen. I went to hug him one more time and my face stopped an inch from his lips. Our eyes looked down at our mouths. Time ed but our kiss hung in the air. We looked up. Our eyes met. His lips inched closer. My breath quickened. I raised myself up on my tiptoes to meet him. Love blossomed but then I fought it. I pulled away and murmured, “I can’t do this.” His expression showed confusion. “Why not?” he whispered, paused, and then added, “What are you afraid of?” “I… I have secrets.” “So do I.” “They’ll tear us apart.” “Does it matter?” “It does to me. What about your sister?” “What about her?” “She hates me. It’ll be a problem.” “No, it won’t.” “Yes, it will. And there are so many things you don’t know.”

“I want to learn.” “When you find out, you won’t want me as much.” “I doubt that.” We volleyed statements back and forth as he tried to convince me. Without another word, I turned west and headed back toward MacArthur Bridge, the structure we ed over in the roadster the previous day. “Where are you going?” he asked. “I’m walking home.” He ran up to me and matched my speed. “Do you know how far that is?” “It doesn’t matter. I’m in shape.” “Dominique… I’m sorry. I can’t call you Genevieve. It just doesn’t fit. Anyway, please stay until tomorrow. I’m sorry if I was too direct.” “It’s not that you were too direct. It’s me.” I stopped dead in my tracks. He almost ed me. Then, he backed up a step and said, “Did you know the name Belle Isle means ‘beautiful island’ in French? Please stay and see the rest of this beautiful place.” “I don’t know.” “Don’t you want to see the rest? And what about Clay’s party?” I hesitated. He added, “Let’s see the fountain. After, if you want to leave, I won’t stop you.” I relented with a sigh. “I’m sorry I got worked up. I didn’t expect that to come over me.” He shook his head and explained it away with his hands. He looked at the sun and said, “It’ll be setting in a few hours. By the time we get there, we should have an excellent view.”

“Okay, I’d like that.” We spent the next hour walking from the zoo past the aquarium to the fountain. As we went by the aquarium, Gamble said, “Albert Kahn designed that building about twenty years ago. The inside has a large gallery with an arched ceiling covered in green tiles to resemble being underwater. Maybe tomorrow we can go before the party. If you stay, that is?” I sighed. “I’m staying.” I added as an afterthought, “That would be nice. I do like fish.” “At the party tomorrow, we’ll see people you met at the Garrick around Halloween. It’s a special event only known to those who attend.” “Wow! Sounds secretive.” He turned to me. “Have you ever heard of the Bohemian Club in California?” “No, should I have?” “Probably not. I heard about the club from Clay. It’s an invitation-only group founded in San Francisco in the 1870s. They only allow males. Artists, writers, actors, lawyers, journalists, and politicians comprise its main hip.” “Sounds like my kind of place,” I joked. “The reason I bring it up is that tomorrow’s party will be like that club. Most of the are part of my order. Others will be there from other esoteric orders throughout the city.” “Are women allowed?” “Yes, and encouraged. This is more a party than a meeting. We’re celebrating Clay’s new book.” I noticed a building in the distance. “What’s that?” “Oh, that’s the conservatory. It’s got a greenhouse and almost thirteen-acres of a botanical garden.”

“I wanna see it. Can we see it on our way to the fountain?” “Yes, certainly.” We changed direction and entered the gardens as a couple. We strolled amongst budding perennials, annuals, a rose garden, and next to a lily pond. As we walked, I said, “So what’s with this order you always talk about?” He searched his feelings. His expression showed he didn’t want to tell me much. Despite his inhibitions, he surprised me. “Have you heard of the Eleusinian Mysteries?” “I read something about it in a book on Ancient Greece, but I know little,” I responded as my curiosity became ravenous. “Tell me more.” “They held initiations yearly for the cult of Demeter and Persephone based at Eleusis. The rituals represented Persephone’s abduction by the underworld king, Hades. The ceremony characterized three phases: the descent, the search, and the ascent. At the end, Persephone returns to her mother.” “What’s that got to do with the order?” “My order initiated me. Just like they did at Eleusis. In fact, the cycle of descent, search, and ascent dictates the magical transformation.” “I’m not sure I understand,” I itted. Without thought, he said, “I am the resurrection and the life.” I squinted my eyes at him. “What are you talking about? The Bible?” He tried to put it another way. “A person can’t change the world without the method changing them. The world can’t change the person unless they descend and become reborn.” “But why all the secrecy?” “It’s revelation, not secrecy. Initiates respond to the reveal. Mystery religions instituted initiatory rites to protect the wonders of the commonplace from those

who would debase them because people fear what they don’t understand.” “Okay. So, it’s like insurance to protect the magic.” “A bit, yes. But it’s meant more to protect the naïve from taking on more than they can handle.” I considered his words and we walked around the side of a large building, the conservatory. We marveled at the central dome that rose almost ninety feet into the sky. We entered through the north wing. We ed ferns, cacti, and succulents. We moved to the south wing. Banana and orange trees, coffee, sugar cane, and orchids filled the humid room. We exited the building and made our way to the James Scott Memorial Fountain on the island’s west end. We stopped at the pearly marble basin and sat down. Sculpted faces and animals covered the five tiers. Its upper and lower cascades showered down into the bowl. Gamble said, “Many people don’t know its history. They named this fountain after a man with a terrible reputation, James Scott. As a powerful realtor, people disliked him throughout Detroit. When he died, the man left a small fortune to the city on one condition: to access the money, the city had to build a fountain in his honor. Detroit’s government debated his wish until last year they completed it.” “That’s fascinating.” He tossed a coin into the fountain and added, “Even fewer people know of the secret bar below the aquarium. That’s where they’ll hold tomorrow night’s special event.” “Under the aquarium, really?” “Yes.” He pointed to a building across the way. “That’s the Belle Isle Casino. The finest one in the United States.” I looked at the building and noticed ornate towers framing the four corners. Verandas provided picnickers with shelter. He told me many came from Canada

for the day. I’m not sure how he knew that tidbit. He seemed to know something about everything. I said, “How do you know about this place?” “My father gave money to help with construction of some buildings.” We strolled toward Sunset Point. Hundreds of people gathered to take photos. People set cameras on tripods. Children played near the fountain. Pigeons pecked at the ground. Paddle-boats, rowboats, and skiffs traveled down the river. As we sat there, he said, “What’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” I considered his question. After a long time, I replied, “Le Voyage dans la Lune by Georges Méliès. From Earth to the Moon, that film. It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.” “Why so?” “It fills me with wonder. It stimulates my imagination. I can’t imagine how they did it.” “That picture contains many occult ideas. Did you know these ideas pervade many films? They based Rex Ingram’s The Magician on a Somerset Maugham novel about Aleister Crowley. Christensen’s Häxan, Wegener’s Der Golem, and Murnau’s Faust are other ones.” “I didn’t know that but I’ve seen the Méliès shorts featuring the Devil. I’m sure that had some occult stuff, but I didn’t know how to understand it.” “Even Lang’s Metropolis. Workers labor in a monstrous machine, a hellish industrial complex. At one point, the apparatus represents Moloch, the ancient Semitic deity honored by human sacrifices. Like the Demiurge, Federsen, always plots his next move. He holds a com, the symbol of the architect. Rotwang’s front door bears a pentagram. His mechanical hand, his left, represents magic’s Left-Hand Path. The android, Maria, performs erotic dances as the Whore of Babylon, the Great Harlot of the Apocalypse. It’s all Gnostic symbolism.” “Goodness knows, you’ve looked into it. To me, it screamed science fiction, and that’s all. Magicians aside, what are your thoughts about space travel? It looked

dazzling in the Méliès film. I wanna do it.” He raised his eyebrows, glanced at me, and then looked over the river. He said, “I’m not sure if we can break the firmament. All ancient cultures thought the earth flat and that the firmament held the waters above. Many believed that the moon and the sun chased each other around like the Tortoise and the Hare. Talk of space travel persists, but it’s impossible.” I frowned, turned away from him, to let my body language show his ideas made me unhappy. I said, “I think we can do it. When humanity puts its mind to something, we get it done. How do they know there’s a firmament? Nobody’s ever been there. What about Columbus? He sailed around the world, didn’t he?” He laughed and said, “That’s a fairy tale. I’m not saying he didn’t sail to America. But he wasn’t the first explorer. The Vikings did it before him and the Asians too.” “I suppose you’re right. It’s hard to separate truth from lies. It’s difficult to trust what we’re told.” He nodded and said, “I trust nothing unless I it. It’s fun to entertain theories but when it comes down to it, it’s best to cross reference information and then decide if it’s accurate or even plausible.” As our talk of the cosmos increased a mysterious force pulled us together. One might say our orbits aligned. We moved closer and closer. He leaned in and stopped an inch from my lips. Our eyes looked at each other’s mouths like we did at the elephant. Time ed but our potential kiss hung there. We looked up. Our eyes met. He moved his lips forward. My breath quickened, faster than at the zoo. I leaned forward. Love intensified. We almost came to our senses, but the force grew stronger. Inevitability brought us closer.

Our lips touched. Hot saliva painted our lips. I yearned for him to engulf me. Our kiss almost deepened until we heard a voice. “Excuse me. Do you know where I can find the boat house?” Our short kiss ended. Gamble turned to the stranger and muttered the directions. He turned back to find me walking toward the docks. I glanced back at him with an alluring expression and said, “Was that magic?”

21 September 1976

Antique valves, pipes, and drains filled the room. Some leaked water. Others hissed ready to burst with pressure. A low ceiling made the room claustrophobic. Wooden crates of illegal Canadian whiskey sat in the room’s corners. A couple tables and some makeshift crate counters divided the space into sectors. A man playing a guitar provided background music as attendants served about thirty guests. As we entered, I noticed Jay Em, Moxie, Kish, and Clay sitting at a table in the far corner. After snagging a drink, we ed them. Salutations ensued and people moved chairs to accommodate us. I smiled at Kish, surprised to see her. Then, I gazed around the room. Zozzled flappers drunk on jag juice danced around as men ignored them. The males smoked cigars, shot whiskey, and hooted at an exotic dancer gyrating around on one crate. Her beaded outfit jiggled with her salacious moves. Jay Em motioned to some guys in the front and said, “A few brothers from down South brought some still-produced moonshine. I wouldn’t touch that stuff if you paid me.” Gamble agreed with him. “I’ve heard the terrible booze they call ‘smoke.’ It’s made of pure wood alcohol and rumored to have bumped off thousands of fools.” I scanned the room, frowned at the dancing display, and said, “Excuse me, but what’s the reason for this celebration again?” Jay Em nudged Clay and said, “Clayton Milhouse Theed, Esquire published a new book this week.” Gamble added, “Clay’s new book is a commentary on the 1911 magical treatise Our Magic by Nevil Maskelyne and David Devant. It’s an important book on magical theory.” Gamble raised a glass in a toast and the table followed him. “To Clay.” He

looked at me and added, “And to magic.” Everybody downed their drinks. After some fanfare and congratulations our conversations splintered into smaller groups. Jay Em said, “I still can’t believe Houdini died. It’s been hard to get over.” Gamble said, “I wanted to introduce him to Etta Wriedt.” Jay Em poured himself another drink. “Alas, that can’t happen now.” Always a step behind the conversation, I asked, “Who’s Etta Wriedt?” Clay chimed in with her background. “She’s a famous Detroit medium who conducts seances from time to time. Quite a celebrity in certain circles. Sir Author Conan Doyle included her in his History of Spiritualism. Some people accuse her of ventriloquism, not true mediumship.” At that, the door opened, and I glanced at the landing. Like a crazed peacock, Gamble’s sister Ruth strutted down the staircase. She wore a velour smock. A pearl necklace bound tight around her neck gave her a severe aura. And those crazy, vacant eyes made her into an attraction the entire room noticed. She approached our table and said, “Gamble, my dear, you didn’t save me a seat.” Our group exchanged glances. Clay stood and offered his seat. Ruth took it without a word. Clay shrugged and headed to the bar. The remainders exchanged another look. Ruth’s disdainful face made me cringe, so I tried to avoid eye . Regardless, she noticed my blooming love toward her brother. I couldn’t hide it. Whenever she looked at me, her smile found an edge, forced, as if her will kept it from breaking. Even her name to me sounded averse. Ruth… The ‘R’ sound cut into me when Gamble spoke her name. I leaned over to him and whispered, “Like I said before, your sister doesn’t like me much.” He nodded with a fake smile like I told him a joke. Then, he whispered back, “She doesn’t like anyone much.” As we spoke Ruth studied us with detached

interest. I whispered, “Except you.” “Despite her deficiency, she has moments of terrifying clarity. I can’t fault her for that.” Before he could say more, the door opened again and another person descended the staircase. I whispered my thoughts aloud, “I don’t like these strange men and women in our company.” Jay Em heard me and whispered back, “Nothing to worry about.” I said louder, “Who’s that hobgoblin over there?” Gamble answered. “That’s Benny Evangelist. Calls himself a ‘mystic healer.’ He gets paid ten dollars per ‘healing read,’ two days’ pay on Ford’s assembly line.” Gamble took a sip of his drink and added, “He plies his spiritual deceptions near the Eastern Market to unwitting farmers, cart owners, and Italian shopkeepers.” I said, “Really? Why would they fall for it?” Gamble eyed him. “People need to believe in something. Benny provides it. However, he has unorthodox methods that rub some people the wrong way.” I asked, “Then, why is he here?” Gamble shrugged. “He’s not part of the Rosicrucian Brotherhood like Clayton or I, but our circle has connections far outside itself.” “Does he have a medical degree?” I asked. Jay Em took over. “Nope, he uses so called ‘black magic’ and herbal medications. That’s his bread and butter, I’m afraid.” I studied the man more. “Really?” Gamble explained Benny’s story. “Rumor says Benny came from Italy around the turn of the century. Changed his name from Benedetto Evangelisto or Benjamino Evangelista or something, to Benny Evangelist. After that he claimed

to get visions from God. Not long after he published a book he dubbed ‘The Oldest History of the World’ or some nonsense.” Jay Em added, “He also took on the title of self-proclaimed prophet. Yeah, that Benny is strange.” Moxie remained silent until now. “He’s a nutter if I’ve ever seen one. Nuttier than a fruitcake at Christmas in July. I’m not sure what I meant by that, but he’s a crazy guy.” As he returned to the table Clay said, “Perhaps. But wise people often appear foolish to those who don’t understand them. Perhaps we shouldn’t discount him.” I shot Clay a raised eyebrow. Moxie rolled her eyes. Clay explained himself. “Benny may be a fool. He probably is. Some say a celestial mobile hangs by wires from his basement ceiling and he uses it in his ranting sermons. No sane man would do that. However, perhaps he sees things different from sane men.” Moxie said, “Yep. Like I said, ‘N-U-T-J-O-B.’ A real mook.” Clay motioned for us to come closer, and then he told a story. “I’ve heard that Benny once had a brother named Antonio, but the two fell out because of Benny’s occultism. Back in Philadelphia, Benny’s friend, Aurelius Angelino, ed him in his black magic. Angelino snapped in 1919. He attacked and killed his children with an ax. Angelino went to an insane asylum. Then, Benny moved to Detroit. Rumors like this swirl about this man.” Jay Em added, “Yeah. And some say if one stands at the corner of St. Aubin and Mack near his home between midnight and three and tilt one’s head the right way, one can see inside his basement window where he calls upon various deities from several religions to perform his heinous magic.” Gamble said flatly, “More rumors.” “Are these the people who dabble in magic?” I asked Gamble. Gamble protested. “No. He’s nothing like us. Those who awaken power without

eliminating ego perform dark magic. That’s what Benny does. He abuses the Art. White magic uses consciousness to quell ego. That’s what we do. Rosicrucians consecrate ourselves in service to others as a duty, as a sacrifice. Very different approaches.” Jay Em agreed. “Each person understands their own world, their own awareness, and uses that awareness however they see fit. Many perform light, some darkness.” We all exchanged glances. We returned to talking, but I noticed Kish, silent as usual, watching Benny with interest. Ruth also stared at him with those vacant eyes. I turned my attention to the rest of the room. I noticed Robert Henry, that jerk from the KKK, at another table. I asked Gamble, “Why does he hang around with your crowd. He doesn’t seem like he wields the same knowledge as the rest of your group.” Gamble said, “He doesn’t. But people with money and power flock together. If one person has a party, then through association others come. Probably the case with him here tonight. He’s not part of our order.” Kish finally spoke. “I dislike him.” Ruth said, “His soul obscures itself. I can’t see it.” Gamble appeared uncomfortable with Ruth’s words. He said, “Most people feel that way. I know the Negroes hate him. People like him inspire terrible actions.” Yes, they do. And terrible actions would later come to Belle Isle. Almost twenty years after our party, an uprising started on the idyllic island on a hot day in June 1943 and spilled over the bridge to the riverside. Nobody knows why the conflict started. Maybe the heat caused it. Maybe rumors. One said Whites threw a black baby off the bridge into the river. Another stated that Blacks attacked Whites. Believing the rumors, Blacks on the East Side filled the streets and looted stores. Blacks pulled Whites from cars and beat them, and at least one person died. Shaky news reports inspired Whites to form mobs and fight back. A confrontation developed on Woodward Avenue at Vernor. White mobs surged through downtown streets. They grabbed Blacks waiting at the Cadillac Square

street car transfer on their way home from work. They beat many. Over 5,000 people brawled in the streets and the city introduced martial law. 2,500 federal troops arrived to curtail the violence. Some Blacks barricaded themselves in a hotel at John R and East Vernor. Those inside fired on police who returned fire. The gunfight continued until several people died. Troops remained until the end of June, patrolling the city, and enforcing a curfew until a measure of calm returned. By the end, 34 people died. At that time, I didn’t know that, but the man’s politics made me nervous and the racial unrest in the city grew with each day. I said, “You have strange acquaintances, Mr. Gamble.” He agreed. “That I do.” After a few hours of idle chatter, the party died down. As the liquor flowed many people retreated to the Detroit Yacht Club including Ruth. Before long, only Gamble, Clay, Jay Em, Moxie, Kish, and myself huddled around a candlelit table in the back and a few attendants cleaned the tables. Alcohol made me bold. I asked the group, “Gamble keeps telling me about magic. Are you guys magicians or what? Prove it to me.” I downed another drink and said, “I’m waiting.” The three men exchanged glances. Someone at a different table changed the record on the Victrola that replaced the guitar player who retired. I waited. Clay spoke first. “The Orphic and Delphic oracles carried a gift for divination. According to legend they could tell the future.” I waved my hands around like I wouldn’t have it. I said, “I don’t want ancient legends. I want proof. You’ve piqued my curiosity, so I wanna know.” Jay Em took over. “Magic has a lineage. Its practice reaches far back into antiquity. As far back as Atlantis and Lemuria. All over the world ancient peoples revered ceremonial rites. Priests and shamans performed rituals to direct or heal. Hermetic thought started in Egypt and morphed into Medieval alchemy. This reached the Golden Dawn and then ed down to us.” Clay added, “It’s best to start with people one might recognize. Anton Mesmer

comes to mind. Do you know him?” I said, “Yeah. They named ‘mesmerism’ after him, right? But wasn’t he a doctor?” Clay said, “Yes, that’s correct.” He sipped his cognac. “Mesmer associated with Rosicrucians in Vienna. Rosicrucian magic is an offshoot of Freemasonry. The Pope condemned Freemasonry but magic still flourished. The Brotherhood of Luxor initiated him. Mesmer and Paracelsus, became convinced from their experiments that magnetism contained magical properties that might treat disease. Each man performed wonders with magnetism. Some say they performed miracles with magic.” Jay Em added, “Others have done the same thing—Albertus Magnus, Roger Bacon, Martin Luther…” Gamble added more people. “Agrippa, Nostradamus, John Dee…” Jay Em added even more. “Giordano Bruno, Robert Fludd, Jakob Böhme, Sir Isaac Newton, Emanuel Swedenborg…” I whined, “I get the point.” Clay finished. “William Blake, Helena Blavatsky, Aleister Crowley, and the list goes on and on.” Moxie whispered, “All people I don’t know.” Clay responded. “Yes. But all swore an oath to magic. To some, they remain obscure, but in our circles, their names carry renown. And all have contributed to humanity.” My shoulders twitched as I said, “That’s fine, but what happens at these meetings of yours?” Clay answered. “It’s a philosophical, non-religious society, open to men and women of all races, religions and social positions. Our motto is ‘Broadest tolerance, strictest independence.’” “But to what purpose?” I fidgeted with my drink. I wanted to understand.

Gamble took over. “We perpetuate the holy teachings pertaining to the mysteries of the universe, nature and humans themselves. It reveals what we can become.” Moxie said, “Sounds like a cult.” Kish interjected, “Ojibwa have similar groups for their sweat lodges and ceremonies.” Clay added, “All tribes are cults. No offense.” Kish smiled. None taken. Gamble followed that thought. “Is Christianity a cult? Or Islam? Or Theosophy?” We exchanged glances. He added, “Maybe all religions are cults, but the real question is what they do with their power.” Clay explained. “Rosicrucian philosophy dates to the mystery schools of ancient Egypt during the Eighteenth Dynasty. In those schools, initiates gathered to study the mysteries of creation. Hence the word ‘mysticism’ means ‘study of the mysteries.’” Gamble motioned for another bottle of cognac and an attendant brought it over. We all poured another drink and waited for Clay to continue. Clay took a sip and said, “Over time, study gave birth to a gnosis which spread between Ancient Greece and the Roman Empire, and then on to Europe of the Middle Ages, and to seventeenth century Rosicrucians. During the eighteenth century, close links existed between Rosicrucians and Freemasons, but the two organizations split. Today, they exist independent of each other.” Clay inhaled a deep breath, produced his pipe, loaded it, and then added, “All spiritual philosophies like Gnosticism, Neoplatonism, Mystical Christianity, and Theosophy have inspired movements in the arts and sciences like Romanticism, the Renaissance, the Reformation. It all goes together.” With frustration I asked, “But what happens? I get the history lesson. I still don’t understand how one wields magic.” Clay thought a moment, lit his pipe, took a long drag, exhaled a billow of cherry

smoke, and then said, “A ceremonial magician transcends cultural limits to understand multifaceted existence. Magicians understand more than the culture they serve. They see existence as a game, a binary between light and dark, between good and evil, between life and death. What do you think about words, Dominique?” “I’m not sure what you mean. Do you mean as writing or speaking?” “Both. Words transcend writing and speaking. Words carry frequencies and vibrations and the magician knows this.” I nodded. “I follow you.” He continued. “People scoff at magic because they don’t understand its significance. If they could realize how much it controls their lives, they might think about it. Magic is the art of controlling energy. If people don’t understand how magical energy works, then they’re controlled by it. If people don’t understand the power of words, then masters control them.” Gamble looked at me and said, “We’re meeting on Thursday, the 19 May at the Masonic Temple, if you’d like to see a peek and maybe learn more. Unfortunately, they won’t allow you into the sanctum when we perform the ritual, but perhaps seeing the place’s grandeur might help you understand what we do.” I frowned. “Why can’t they let me witness the ritual?” Jay Em said, “Part of our power is the egregore, or group mind. Alone on our own magical journeys, we carry less power, but when we focus together, like in our order, we access a more powerful reservoir of spiritual energy. One has to be initiated to the egregore.” I frowned again. I thought about it and said, “Why is it a secret?” Gamble said, “No one will ever believe what we say. Our rulers indoctrinate people into the physical world by design. I tried with so many people close to me and none have ever entertained the idea. I suppose if someone came to it on their own, like you did, I’d help. It’s a terrible realization but people are far too ingrained into culture to entertain real magic. It remains a secret to protect people.”

I mumbled, “Yes, I guess I understand.” I tried to hide it, but they read my disappointment. After a time, we broke off into smaller units and whispers. Eventually, Gamble and I moved and sat at a candlelit table near the back. After several minutes of silence enjoying our drinks and staring at the candle, he broke the quiet with, “I’ve been thinking about something.” Shadowy forms danced on the wall as I fiddled with my purse. I murmured, “What?” “Perhaps your dreams are your subconscious trying to break through to your conscious mind to see magic.” “Explain.” He put it into words. “It all comes down to anamnesis, the divine self communicates through the daemon.” For a third time, I said, “There’s that word again, anamnesis. Will you tell me what it means? And what of this demon?” Like a sage, he ignored my question and asked a different one. “When you were a child did you ever have an imaginary friend?” I nodded. “I used to have a spirit I named Mee-mee, but that’s just childhood pretend.” He said, “I never believed such nonsense as a child. I was too sober, but that’s why it took a long time to find it.” “Find what?” “The Holy Guardian Angel.” I frowned and said, “Like the Holy Ghost?” “No. Back further, to the Greeks and before, perhaps into antiquity.” He paused and added, “We’ll talk about it more. It’s difficult to explain at this point in

time.” I frowned again, as if to say, “Sure we will. That’s what you say about everything.” I changed the subject. “Speaking of your childhood, did you have an ambition as a child?” “Ambition for what?” “I don’t know. Silly dreams. Like becoming a magician.” He frowned and thought about it until he said, “I wanted to be a world traveler. I wouldn’t say I’ve accomplished this. I’ve been around the country and to Austria and England in Europe. China for business. That’s about it.” “What’s stopping you from seeing more? You have money, right?” I asked. “I’m not sure. Maybe I haven’t found the right travel companion.” At that moment, with the candle blazing in front of us, I wanted him to kiss me. He flashed me a smile, turned away, and said something offhand. The candle lit his face from below making him look sinister. Then I said something silly, and he laughed but all the while we danced around the inevitable. Neither wanted to move first. Neither wanted to risk it. So, we waited. Looking back, we wanted it to happen there. Maybe love made us afraid. Maybe fear made us need more time. Whatever it was it was beautiful. Astonishing in its hesitation. Attractive in its inevitability. He whispered to himself. “This could be something.” Like always, I said, “What?” “You know.” “I don’t. What?” He shrugged and said “A thing. Something…” I leaned closer to him. I knew what he was getting at but I wanted him to say it.

He stammered more until I said, “Do you mean you wanna kiss me?” He said, “I don’t want to presume anything.” I nodded and turned away. I whispered to myself more than him, “I don’t wanna spend my whole life presuming that someone never had the guts to kiss me.” His hand touched my shoulder. My head turned. I waited. His other hand came to rest on my other shoulder. I did nothing. I waited. With great force, he whirled me around to face him. We locked eyes. I read his ion, but I showed disinterest. Conflicting emotions ed over his features. He leaned forward as he pulled me closer. The shadows danced on his face like tiny primitives around a fire. His eyes twinkled in the firelight. I raised my lips toward him. His lips moved to mine. We hesitated an inch from our goal. I warned, “I give myself away. This frightens me.” His body lunged forward and our lips met in fiery ion. The kiss started tentative with gentle explorations, but soon our mouths roiled in heat. Terror at what just transpired stabbed my heart like a dagger. As fast as the kiss happened, I ended it by pulling away. I backed up with my heart racing, surveyed the few people in the space to see if they saw, and then mumbled, “I need to go air myself out.” I averted my eyes from him and added, “I’ll see you around.” I turned and left the speakeasy in a hurry. Dawn’s light crept over the horizon. In a panic, I headed back to the yacht club. I’m not sure why, but I instructed the desk to call a taxi for me. I left the island more torn than ever.

24 September 1976

Iplodded through another corridor. An explosion erupted from a T-junction decimating everything within the three halls except me. I paused waiting for more. Anticipation ended as a massive amorphous creature lumbered out of the billowing smoke. The nebulous thing mutated into another horror. Then, it changed into a lion. A bulbous goat’s head sprouted from the body, protruding from the lion’s anterior like cancer. A scourging tail ended in a fanged snake’s head as the beast lunged forward with menace. Fire and brimstone filled the gloom. I stood before the creature terrified but steadfast. Without warning, a bronze shield and a short spear with a lead tip appeared in my hands. I raised the spear and braced the shield. The nebulous horror moved through the room toward me. The floor below my feet changed from white to a tiled black and white checkerboard. Words reverberated from behind the creature—“Nothing rests. Everything moves. Everything vibrates.” A raw gold nugget appeared upon an oak pedestal behind the beast. I needed to reach the gold but how? I woke from the nightmare and sighed with relief. I rolled around in my sweaty sheets trying to banish the images from my mind. It was obvious to me; the fearsome creature personified my doubts toward falling in love. After the Belle Isle trip, I spent the rest of April and some of May avoiding Gamble. He came into Sixes a few times but each time I ducked out or had someone divert him long enough for escape. Our budding romance frightened me more than I thought possible. Bewilderment seethed inside me. If I crossed from magical ignorance to understanding it, I would emerge a different person. But my hunger for an answer remained. For over a month, I debated with myself, hemmed and hawed to Moxie, and avoided the inevitable fear his ideas instilled in me. With a foul mood plaguing me I opened my door and trotted down the stairs without regard for my neighbors—to hell with the busybody and the mute. I hit the street to hail a newspaper from Ernie. I wanted to see how terrible the world sank since the previous day. I got the paper and climbed back up the stairs. I

needed Prudence to confront me. In my mood, I’d tear her face off and eat it. I reached the top of the stairs when I noticed the note tacked to my door. I looked around. Was it from Prudence? Was it my Chaldean neighbor? Was it from Gamble? If so, how did he enter the building? I opened the small sheet of paper and it read: Thursday, 19 May 1927

Dearest Dominique, Perhaps you’ve been avoiding me because of what happened at Belle Isle. I hope not. More answers await. Perhaps more time together. I yearn to see you again. Please come to the Detroit Masonic Temple in the Cass Corridor at six o’clock this evening. If you wish to , I understand. Mr. Gamble

I assessed the letter. Emotions ran through my mind, but consternation rang loudest. I entered my flat and tossed the note on the kitchen table. I retreated to the balcony and sat down. Black Bottom bustled underneath but its cacophony couldn’t rouse me from my thoughts. Ashe rubbed her body against my ankle as I read the note again struggling with the contents. Would I go? Should I go? After an hour of deliberation, temptation won. I caved. I needed to know more. The taxi dropped me at 500 Temple Street, at the Detroit Masonic Temple. The Masons completed the building the previous year and the idiosyncratic, castlestyle five-story structure made big news around town. Detroit had a long history of fraternal lodges. Old buildings sported names carved in stone like “Odd Fellows Hall” or “Loyal Order of Moose Lodge.” Detroit men loved their clubs with one in five belonging to one or more secret societies. I assessed the large building wondering what revelations waited inside. Cars ed by me in the street and vendors tried to hail me as I approached the

entrance. Then I saw him. Gamble stood near the doors. He nodded a greeting as I approached. His outstretched arms presented the building like he showed off an expensive product. He said, “This is where it all happens.” “Where magic happens, you mean?” “It’s where the spirit gets lost inside matter and we petition its power.” I complained, “I’m here against my better judgement. Show it to me, so I can leave.” A nervous laugh came from him. He said, “You should know by now it’s not that simple.” “Why not?” “Many reasons. One is the Rosicrucians are men.” “Then why am I here? What does that mean, anyway? Women won the right to vote. Why can’t we some stupid fraternity?” My mood swam in the mire. He tried to calm me down with his hands. “Not that. There’s an order for women. It’s called the Order of the Eastern Star. If you’re interested in what you see here, I can set you up with them.” “You push us into our own club, but we can’t be part of yours.” He sighed. “Again, it’s not like that. Many societies, even the Aboriginals, have initiatory rights for men and women. These initiations never mix. They’re customized for each sex. Men can’t enter the woman’s induction either.” What he said made sense. My demeanor shifted from anger to embarrassment. My voice dropped as I murmured, “Oh, I see.” “What happens in the sanctuary stays there. It’s a sacred vow. If I told you what happened inside that room, then I’d break the oath with my brothers. I’m sorry. I’ll go in but you can’t come.” He paused and then dropped his voice lower. “However, I can’t stop you from staying outside the inner door and listening.”

He winked and added, “But do what you want.” I nodded, still perturbed by the notion that the two sexes couldn’t mix, but I accepted his explanation. He took my hand and squeezed it and said, “I won’t be too long. It’s not a full ritual. It’s an initiation. I wanted to show you the building to illustrate our strong dedication to magic. Why would we put this much effort into it: all the wall carvings, the money, all the pomp, and the oaths? If it isn’t real, why would people do this?” I rocked back and forth on my heels. “Maybe it’s one of those scams where folks make you think they’re rich only to steal your money.” He sighed and said, “Does it look like we need money? I assure you nobody steals anything around here. These people fight for honesty and peace. I’m not saying that other fraternities, other orders, don’t do that. But I know these men and I vouch for them. They’re authentic.” Men milled about the lodge’s door. A few women dotted the crowd—no doubt the wives of some participants. Jay Em, Clay, Victor, and the St. Martens stood chatting near the door. Jay Em saw me and waved. Over Gamble’s shoulder, Victor approached. Gamble caught my eye-line, turned, and saw Victor. He said, “Just in time.” I nodded my head. Victor arrived and said, “Dominique, nice to see you this evening. I never expected you’d come here.” He turned to Gamble and said, “Are you responsible?” Gamble nodded but remained silent. I chimed in with, “He exposed me to it, but my curiosity keeps bringing me back.” Victor said, “Curiosity, eh? You know what they say about that damned cat.” “Yeah, I heard that one before.” That time he nodded and studied us with an odd expression. It wasn’t jealousy but something like astonishment. He realized Gamble and I might be more than friends. Without thinking, I blurted, “Yeah, we’re close. What of it?” I regretted my outburst. He looked surprised, but his amused smile made him

appear in control. Victor said, “I assumed your Halloween dalliance and that Belle Isle thing were leftovers from that club you attend. What’s it called?” He snapped his fingers twice. “Hot on All Sixes, right? I didn’t realize you two became so close. And I never thought Gamble would expose the order to you.” Gamble put his hands out as if to calm a wild animal and said, “Now wait a minute, Vic. I’m not exposing anything. She’s curious about magic. That’s all.” Victor cackled and said, “Make sure she doesn’t drown.” His comment annoyed me but something about it rang true. I looked to Gamble for his reaction but his face went blank. I expected him to have an irritated expression, or at least a sign it bothered him, but he stood stone-faced. I returned my attention to Victor. “Don’t worry, Mr. Shelton. I’m an excellent swimmer.” I said “Shelton” like I tossed his surname in the trash. I threw him a peculiar expression, but it said challenge not allure. Victor bowed and then said, “With that, I’m going inside.” He turned to Gamble and added, “I’ll see you in there, my friend.” After Victor departed, Gamble said, “Don’t worry about him. He likes to mess with people. He means no harm.” “Tuberculosis means no harm.” Gamble nodded and laughed. “Yeah, that’s true. You have a point.” “What an arrogant man. I’m not sure I like him much.” “Few people do. To level with you, I’m not too fond of him either, but he’s my brother in the order. I must tolerate his shenanigans. He seems to like you, though.” “He can go suck a bag of lemons and eat dirt for all I care.” Gamble’s other friends approached us. We exchanged greetings. After some small talk, Clay said, “What brings you here this evening, Dominique?”

I shrugged and said, “Oh, Gamble wanted me to see the temple. It’s fabulous.” Clay smiled and said, “It’s the largest masonic temple in the world.” “Really?” He nodded. “Oh yes. Most certainly.” I looked down. Clay held a leather book with a symbol of a Calvary cross with a rose in its center. I thought of Gamble’s ring. I looked at all the men and noticed they wore similar rings. I couldn’t believe I didn’t notice it at Belle Isle or at Garrick’s. I bit my lip, lost in thought, then I said, “I wanna know more about your order. Is there anything you’re permitted to tell me?” They exchanged glances. Clay took a deep breath, thought a moment, and said, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to reveal some history.” “I’m all ears.” I shook my head back and forth like a dog. They laughed. The older man began: “It all started with a legendary figure called Christian Rosenkreuz in the fifteenth century. As a doctor by trade, he discovered esoteric wisdom on a pilgrimage east. Some say he studied with Persian or Zoroastrian masters. Records show the movement arose in Europe in the early seventeenth century. Many orders have existed throughout history and locale, but in America we’re called the Ancient Mystical Order Rosae Crucis. AMORC for short.” “Wow! It’s that old?” I asked. “It may be older. The alchemist Michael Maier said its origins date from Ancient Egypt and to the mysteries of Eleusis and Samothrace, the Magi of Persia, the Pythagoreans, and all the way from Arabia. This might be legend but the architectural symbolism exists to reinforce his claims.” “Is it a part of Freemasonry? I’ve heard of that fraternity.” Jay Em interrupted, “All esoteric lineages connect. The Scottish Rite

Freemasonry, the Golden Dawn, the Brotherhood of Luxor and of Light, the Knights Templar, the Ordo Templi Orientis, and the Rosicrucians all come from similar roots.” Gamble added, “Christian Rosenkreuz is important to our order, but the real lineage begins with Hermes Trismegistus.” “Hermes who? You mean like the god?” Clay continued, “No, not the god. Hermetic scholars attribute fifty books to Hermes Trismegistus. Some speculate that most burned at the Great Library of Alexandria, but three major texts carry the main Hermetic doctrines: The Corpus Hermeticum, The Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus, and The Perfect Sermon, sometimes known as The Asclepius. All ideas about Western magic comes from these principles.” A bell rang. The crowd entered the building. Everyone but Gamble retreated to the structure. I said, “Do you have to go?” “Not yet.” I said, “It all seems so confusing. None of it proves magic exists. Once again, all I hear is history. I don’t think I understand this mystery of yours. I’m more of a Percival than a Lancelot, I guess.” “But that’s why you’ll find it. The Mysteries reveal themselves to the holy fool not to the one driven to greatness by greed.” I nudged his side. “Are you calling me a fool?” He waved his hands and said, “No. That’s not what I meant. You always take my words so literally.” I sighed. “Why can’t you tell me what magic is in plain language? I’m growing impatient.” He looked to the ground and said, “I’ve sworn secrecy. Besides, we can talk of history all day, but the reality of magic remains experiential.”

I frowned. He kept speaking. “Will and imagination work as a cooperation, as a balance. If one focuses purely on will, one falls into the torture of earthly pursuits. If one loses themselves in imagination, one falls into purposeless stupor. If one integrates the two, however, then magic ensues.” Anger gripped me. I said, “What’s your goal with all of this? What’s the goddamned purpose? I’ve had an earful of your conundrums, double-talk, and invitations to nowhere.” He looked hurt. He glanced at the last man entering the building and said, “I’m sorry you feel that way. I don’t wish to provoke you.” “Well, you have.” “My goal in life is to serve others. That’s why I’ve made the oath. We strive for the miracle of the One Thing.” My frown grew. He continued. “As above, so below. Microcosm and macrocosm.” Fury welled up inside me. He persisted with, “Unification and sublimation.” My anger reached a boiling point. I clenched my fists. He said, “Alchemy yearns for the soul’s perfection, the Magnum opus, the Great Work. Like your dream today.” What? Astonishment gripped me as I murmured, “How did you know about my dream?” He fiddled with his ring. He said, “It’s the Chimera, an offspring of Typhon and Echidna. It’s connected to guardians like Cerberus and the Hydra.” My eyes widened. I said, “But how could you know?” He explained, “Homer and Hesiod said Bellerophon rode the Pegasus to face the

Chimera in battle. The warrior hefted a large block of lead and mounted it on a spear. He flew straight at the Chimera and lodged the lead inside the monster’s throat. Fiery breath melted the lead, and the Chimera suffocated. It’s an image drawn from alchemy. All the things I say hold meaning. It may sound like gibberish but it’s not.” “But how did you know?” I asked. “The fires melt the lead, and it transmutes to gold. One has to defeat the guardian to transform the gold into The First Matter.” He shrugged his shoulders, turned, and entered the building. As he disappeared, I glimpsed his eyes. In that single knowing glance, magic lived, and I understood. I sat on the pavement dumbfounded. All the women left the area, and I became alone. A few seconds ed as I tried to discern how he knew about my dream. The doors to the lodge closed. I stood and ran to them. I opened one door slightly. An empty foyer greeted me. I moved through the space and headed to a set of double doors. I tried them. Locked. I strained to peer inside but the tiny gap between the doors stopped me. I put my ear to the wood. Clay’s booming voice directed someone as their ritual started. He said: “Put on your Rosicrucian apron. Arise and light the candle on your left. After doing so, repeat the words, ‘May this light, symbol of the Great Light of Cosmic Wisdom, spread its radiance amid darkness and illuminate my path.’” The man repeated the expression. Clay spoke again. “Arise Postulant, place the tip of your right index finger in the water. Trace a cross upon thy body.” Silence ensued. After a few seconds, Clay added: “Place your right index finger in the water again and trace a circle in the center of thine cross.” I waited several moments for more. Suddenly, the door opened, and I fell back. I

glimpsed a rectangular room with black and white checkerboard tiles and a raised altar in the center. A series of four torches surrounded the altar. Frescos of ancient Egyptian deities, symbols of roses and crosses, measuring tools, et cetera covered the walls. Clay exited the room and helped me to my feet. The door shut behind him. He smiled. His expression showed mischief. Without a word of explanation or chiding me for listening, he said, “Symbols penetrate the world. All symbols exist for us to see. We only know the context based upon where we find ourselves. Don’t let your blindness ignore their significance.” He paused. “We’re going to a seance tomorrow, if you want to see what opposes magic. To understand something, one must know its opposite.” I nodded my head in astonishment. He pointed for me to go and re-entered the room.

26 September 1976

On the following day, I informed Marie I couldn’t work. Clay scheduled the seance for midnight. He told me the witching hour held special significance for occult practices because the veil between the material and spiritual worlds drew thin during that time. Curiosity occupied my thoughts as I met the others by the streetcar stop. After quick salutations, our group walked in silence through Etta Wriedt’s neighborhood. As we ventured to her house in silence, I considered the woman’s claims at mediumship. If it was real, what did it mean for magic? I could explain away Gamble’s chance meetings and psychic postulations as luck, but if that woman gave proof of spiritual existence, my entire outlook might change. Clay broke the silence. “Henrietta Wriedt claims to be clairvoyant and clairaudient. I’m not sure what to expect from her.” The older man’s thoughts matched with mine. “Do you think she’s real?” I asked. He produced his pipe and packed it as we walked. He considered my words. Then, he said, “William Barrett and Arthur Conan Doyle think she’s a genuine direct-voice medium. According to Doyle, deceased friends communicated with them and gave evidence of their identities. They spoke as in life and gave names and indisputable facts. I read Doyle’s book cover to cover. Many cases turned out to be frauds. I don’t accept it though until I witness it for myself.” I said, “Why not?” Gamble broke his silence. “Events like these are easy to fake.” Jay Em added, “Yeah. Some people claim she’s a ventriloquist. I heard she performs 25-cent palmistries across town too.” Gamble moved ahead of us looking for the woman’s address. Clay explained

more. “Dr. John King gave detailed s of her mediumship. References say she’s a Detroit native, but she told King she hailed from New York State, moved to Ohio at an early age, and then later moved to Detroit. In 1910, a neurological illness disabled her and doctors stated a terminal diagnosis. Despite this, she recovered and gained even stronger psychic abilities as a result, so they say.” “Really?” My eyes widened. “Yes. Strangely, her native dialect is Yankee English, but she’s known in her trances to speak French, German, Italian, Spanish, Norwegian, Dutch, Arabic and other languages.” I walked ahead and met Gamble’s pace. Our proximity provoked sexual feelings in me. I banished them as I focused on the task. I said, “Gamble, do you think she’s a fake?” Gamble frowned and said, “Maybe. Not sure.” He pointed at a house in the distance. We slowed down to match the group’s pace. Jay Em said, “People have debated spiritualism over the years. In the past, Houdini and Doyle even ended their friendship over a bitter spiritualism debate.” Clay agreed. “Most certainly. Mediumship inflames the spiritualist versus atheist debate. Is there such a thing as a spirit? If spirit exists, then God does too.” As usual, the St. Martens remained silent. Victor had business, so he refused the offer. Moxie leaned over to me and said, “It spooks me. Why did you make me come here?” I leaned toward her ear and whispered, “Me too. And I don’t know.” Clay heard us speaking. “There’s no need to worry. I doubt she’s genuine.” I said, “So what is a seance? What does she do?” Absently, Jay Em said, “It’s a ritual involving summoned spirits or demons. It depends on who you ask.”

Moxie whistled and said, “Creepy.” Uncharacteristically, Philippe spoke up. “In our tongue it means a ‘sitting’ or ‘session.’” His wife’s vacant expression added nothing to his comment. Then, we came upon it. A foreboding house at the street’s end. Our group studied the two-level home with fascination. Tangled landscaping appeared unmaintained and missing shingles dotted the roof. Perhaps the tenants had other obligations to maintain. We crowded around the porch looking at each other for guidance of what to do next. Clay took it upon himself and ascended the cracked steps. He stopped on the porch and glanced back at us. For a second, I glimpsed fear. I’ve never seen a haunted house, but the place nailed the stereotype. Clay raised his fist to knock, but before he could rap on the door, an old man opened it quickly. He surveyed us, nodded, and said, “Seance?” His word seemed like a statement rather than a question. We nodded in unison. The old man let us inside. He said, “Etta will entertain you directly.” We exchanged more glances as we noticed the interior of the house needed work too. The man didn’t notice our appraisal. Instead, he ushered us into a large space without a word. The scrying room waited empty for its master as we entered and sat around a circular table that dominated the room’s center. A silk burgundy cloth with paisley designs covered the table. A single candle rested in the middle. Dark crushed velvet curtains blocked out the moonlight. Cobwebs nestled in the corners. Everything sold the fantasy. As I strolled into the hallowed space, a chill overcame me. The man motioned for us to sit. A few minutes ed with us waiting in silence. A sudden knock at the door scared Moxie, and she grabbed my hand. The old man shuffled about and then the sound of the front door opening filled the room. A few words sounded in the hall, and another man walked into the room. The old man introduced the new attendee. “This is Mr. Summerisle from the newspaper. He’ll be ing tonight’s session.”

We exchanged pleasantries and the studious little man in tweed sat next to Moxie. Moxie said, “So what brings you here, Mr. Summer-island?” “That’s Summerisle. The Grand Rapids Herald wants to run an article on Wriedt. I’m here to nab the scoop.” I studied him. He didn’t appear much older than me and his nervousness made me wonder about his greenness. Maybe the newspaper gave Summerisle the assignment to get rid of him, to give him something to do. After a long wait, Henrietta Wriedt strode into the room with authority and acknowledged each person. Her imposing body—overweight in some places, frail in others—carried dominion over her space. An antique and soured quality in her eyes frightened me. Moxie leaned over and whispered into my ear. “She’s a spook. Can we leave?” I shook my head back and forth in silence but my hand grasped hers. I murmured, “Not yet.” Wriedt moved about the room readying her tools without a word. Our group exchanged inquisitive glances as she ignored us. I studied her. Wriedt’s head appeared glued to a doll’s body. Her hair stood wiry, middle parted, and piled atop her head in a steel-wool bun. A cracked forehead crushed her face. Cunning eyes assessed every person as opportunity. Her button nose sat above a grim mouth that made her pursed lips and weathered lines appear witch-like. As she moved, I assessed her accouterments and style. Armless wired spectacles sat on the bridge of her nose precariously, a chain kept them from escaping into the night. Weighted earrings kept her grounded. Her utilitarian black dress recalled a past where spinsters wore virginally high collars. Even her boots looked tight. Laced so definitively, it seemed as if her ankles might burst from the seams. She lit an incense cone and polished a trumpet-like instrument. From time to

time, she coughed because of suffering from bronchitis or neuritis. She looked like an addict but which spirit caught her? Without warning, she stopped her preparation and said, “It’ll be one dollar each, please.” I gestured to the instrument and said, “What’s that?” She answered matter-of-factly. “It’s a megalophon, a tin speaking tube. Used to amplify the dead.” “Oh.” I muttered and glanced at Moxie. She looked more frightened than ever. The medium sat at the round table’s only empty place. Our circular placement recalled Arthurian knights, but she seemed more Morgana than Sacrificial King. We agreed without words. We exchanged glances and placed our money on the table. She gathered the dollars one-by-one. Moxie squeezed my hand. Wriedt spoke as she looked from one person to the next. “Everyone must believe it’s possible to communicate with spirits if you want them to approach. If even one person remains a skeptic, the psychic power weakens.” Gamble and Clay exchanged glances. She added, “Please use ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions. Better results come from simple questions that elicit simple answers. I’ll ignore long-winded, braggart ones. Spirits don’t communicate the way humans do. They’re more finicky.” I glanced at Gamble, and then back to the woman, and considered the differences between them. The surrounding Rosicrucians carried a mysterious energy but honesty and purity beamed from them. Yet, something rotten festered inside the woman. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but foulness and deceit came from her eyes. They all practiced so-called magic but their energy came from different eggs. Etta raised her hand from the table and she looked to each of us. Her expression made me uncomfortable like she knew something about my past—a terrible decision made or sin committed. An eerie breeze blew through the open window, disrupting the hall’s candlelight and causing shadows to dance across the wall. A chill ran through me.

Etta started an automatic musical clock. After doing so, she stated, “Strong light hinders communication. When you’re ready, I’ll extinguish the candle.” We nodded. She blew out the light. Perfect darkness ensued. A moment ed before my eyes adjusted. Moxie leaned over and whispered, “It scares me. All kinds of creepy stuff might happen. What if I pee my pants?” “Hush. Nonsense,” the medium scolded. “Everyone grasp hands and concentrate.” We did as instructed. After a few minutes, Etta whispered, “Dr. John Sharp, are you there?” Nothing happened. Clay told me on our walk that Dr. John Sharp acted as her spirit guide. The man came from Glasgow, Scotland, in the eighteenth century, then traveled to America as an infant, and died in Evansville, Indiana as an apothecary farmer. Wriedt asked again, “Are you with us, John?” Again, nothing happened. Wriedt asked a third time, “Can you hear me?” The medium’s silhouette sat in concentration—blacker than the surrounding dimness. Without a word, we held hands and waited in the darkness for something. After a few moments, the smell of magnesium filled the air. I squeezed Gamble’s hand, and he squeezed back letting me know he also smelled it. Strange noises came from the horn. Pitter… Patter... After a few seconds, the magnesium smell faded. We waited for something, anything.

Then, a voice spoke. “Yes… I am ... here.” Moxie made a gurgling noise like a child trapped in a horror show. I hoped to God she didn’t pee her pants. Wriedt said with calm measure, “John, do you have a message for us?” Knock. It startled me and Moxie yelped. The sound didn’t come from the table because our hands rested on the surface. It must have come from somewhere else. Perhaps the old man made it from the hall. We waited. Moxie’s palm grew sweaty in my fingers. A few more seconds… Knock. It came from the room’s opposite side. We froze. After another knock, a low voice whispered, “Who’s… there…” I looked to the medium, but she remained silent. I almost cracked a knock-knock joke, but I stifled the urge. A muddled feeling crossed the room. Did she use ventriloquism? Did a real spirit speak? Was this a con? Wriedt finally spoke. “It’s me, John. Do you have a message for us?” Seconds ed. Then, the same voice murmured, “Lost…” Wriedt spoke to the group. “Great defeat looms. Someone lost something very important.” We waited for more but it didn’t come. After several minutes of silence, I said,

“Is that it?” Wriedt’s voice boomed through the room. “Hush, girl!” Before anyone could reply, that disembodied voice said, “People should… have courage ... and be kind…” Shock choked the breath from me. I couldn’t believe it. My mother used to say that exact phrase. How could she know? It took all my will to regain my breath. In a meek voice, I whispered, “Mother, is that you?” Wriedt shushed me again and said, “Don’t interrupt. You’ll banish it.” With resolve, I held back a thousand questions. Time ed. Silence continued and tension filled the room. More time ed. But the spirit never answered. Wriedt said, “They’ve departed. It’s too late.” I said, “What? That’s it.” Wriedt ignored me and said, “Thank the spirits for coming.” I wanted to say something more, but no words came. The medium allowed our group a few moments to retreat from the spiritual realm into the present moment and then lit the candle. Immediately, Clay said, “What’s your game Wriedt? Do you think we’re buying this foolishness?” I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the light. I looked around the room. The reporter’s face looked ashen. Moxie concentrated on the candle. Gamble appeared thoughtful. Jay Em and the St. Martens looked skeptical. Wriedt beamed a crooked smile and said to Clay, “We all believe what we want,

sir.” Wriedt stood and motioned for us to leave the room. We followed her into the foyer and stood in a semi-circle as we assaulted her with questions. “How did you do it? Was that my mother?” I asked. “It’s not how I do it, child. It’s how it comes. I have no control. It just happens. Sometimes it comes weak. Sometimes it comes strong. But it always comes.” I repeated with urgency, “Was that my mother?” Gamble placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “Did your mother say those things?” “It was exact. How is that possible?” Wriedt stated in a sullen voice, “I don’t know. The spirit world works in mysterious ways.” Gamble looked to Clay. “I question it, but I’m open to possibilities.” Moxie said, “It scared me something fierce, but I didn’t pee.” Jay Em turned to Clay. “What do you think?” Clay paused a moment and then said, “Strong powers exist in the metaphysical sphere. One might communicate with spirits. Although, I believe it comprises parlor tricks or simple communication with the medium’s own subconscious mind.” Gamble nodded and shifted on his feet. He looked to me and then to Clay. After another moment’s hesitation, he said, “There are powers beyond our comprehension. One might touch these powers, harness them, or at least, call them.” Clay acknowledged my shaken mood with an understanding expression and said, “What are your thoughts, Dominique?” I looked to Gamble and Clay with uncertainty. I mulled it over for several

seconds, until I said, “I’m not sure.” Wriedt went into an ading room. The old man came from it and said, “It’s time to leave. It exhausts Etta. Her work takes a lot from her.” He ushered us from the building. On the street, we parted ways with the reporter and he walked off with hurried purpose. To this day, I’m curious whether he published a story about the event, but I never saw one in the papers. As we stood there, I considered what happened inside. “She has theatrics. I’ll give her that. But maybe she channels spirits. Is it that crazy of an idea?” Clay and Gamble laughed and nodded in agreement. Jay Em and the St. Martens moved to the street. Clay turned to me and said, “Yes, you’re right, Dominique. It could be possible.” Clay turned to Gamble and said, “What are your thoughts?” Gamble looked up at the moon and mumbled, “Beats me.” Years later, with books provided by my handlers, I researched Henrietta Wriedt. Like us, people held split views on her spiritualism. The Irish poet William Butler Yeats claimed Wriedt’s powers were fraudulent. As did Norwegian physicist Kristian Birkeland who took part in investigations organized by the Norwegian Society for Psychical Research. He discovered the megalophon created noise because of particles of metallic potassium that met moisture. It explained the psychic movements. Debunkers assumed that Wriedt performed ventriloquism to generate the spirit voices; a hidden telescopic aluminum tube projected the voices. Some people believed her powers were authentic. They heard the voices speaking candid thoughts in the cadence of loved ones. Some saw luminous forms, ethereal beings that glided across dark rooms, and even ghostly dogs that materialized and barked. Vice-iral William Usborne Moore, author of the book The Voices, endorsed her mediumship as genuine. John S. King, William and Florence Barrett, Oliver Lodge, Arthur Conan Doyle, Charles Tweedale, William Thomas Stead, Count Chedo Miyatovich, and Colonel ER Johnson all experienced unexplainable phenomena.

But I just don’t know.

27 September 1976

Acorridor opened to a river bank. I stood along the edge and studied my reflection in the water. My youthful face and childish eyes exemplified my need for insight. I turned my head and gazed down the river. The waterway meandered like a green dragon slithering toward some unknown oblivion. Magic flowed through my mind, but I couldn’t tame the beast. What was it? How did it work? Without warning, a magnolia spun downstream with the swirling current. I watched with fascination as the blossom approached me, hit the shore, bounced off a rock, and flowed down the river. I glanced back and a second flower came into view, and a third behind it. I watched as the flowers ed by me and spun down the river. I looked back again and several more flowers floated toward me and then ed. Over millennia, endless florae moved beyond my location. Then, I saw it. Floating down the river, ominous, a pale figure drifted into view. The body churned in the water. Limbs rolled around appearing to cling to life, but then flowers poured out the woman’s mouth frozen with rigor mortis as the corpse ed by me into nothingness. “Earth to Dominique. Do you want another Brandy Alexander?” Gamble’s voice broke me from the vision but my thoughts lingered on my mother and the medium. Was that my mother’s corpse in the dream? He snapped his fingers in front of my face. I returned from my reverie and said, “What’s up?” “Where d’you go? I lost you for a minute.” I looked around Sixes. Gradually, my current situation came to me. We sat at a table in an alcove at Sixes with the curtain half-drawn. Two days had ed since Henrietta Wriedt’s house. Customers circulated near the alcove’s opening, but the corpse’s frozen mouth and the medium from two days prior occupied my thoughts. “Do you want another drink or what?” I mumbled, “I just had the weirdest experience.”

“What happened?” I tried to articulate the feeling. “It felt like dreaming but I wasn’t asleep. It was like I saw into time, like I became separate from temporality. Does that make sense?” His eyebrows raised as he said, “You had a vision?” I shook my head. “I’m not sure. It never happened before so I’m not sure if one would call it a vision.” “What did you see?” His voice sounded shaky with eagerness. Over the next few minutes, I relayed the details. He nodded at certain places, made eureka faces at other moments, and when I mentioned the corpse, his eyes widened. When I finished, he said, “I’m not sure about the dead body. Usually, these elements carry some allegorical purpose.” I stared at his lips as he spoke. What did Etta do? Or better yet, what did Gamble do? He brought me into a world I didn’t understand but its power and mystery beckoned me. These feelings left me uncertain, but they grew more tangible the more time spent with him. As I considered my situation, Annabel Anders walked by the curtain opening and freed me from my thoughts. Our eyes met, and she threw me a smirk as she walked past. Eyes staring straight ahead, I said matter-of-factly, “I hate that woman.” “Who? In the dream?” Gamble lit a cigarette. “No, Annabel Anders.” He took a drag and said, “You don’t seem like the type to hate anybody.” I shrugged. “Everyone’s entitled to hate one person, aren’t they?”

“I guess... I suppose you’re right.” Yes, I loathed Annabel. All these years later, I still carry ill feelings toward her though she’s probably long dead. More times than not, I have a genuine sympathy toward people even if I dislike them. I try to have empathy. But as time ed, people exhausted my patience. Personality can be a fiend impossible to manage. When a person meets another individual, charisma often conceals negative behavior. As one gets to know them, however, flaws become clear. As the waves of our daily lives crash into each other, repetition makes these flaws plainer. After a time, the flaws became impossible to ignore. And eventually, as one experiences the pure personality it smothers the charm. After seeing it, reality can’t hide behind the fabrication. People argue, struggle to exert dominion over each other, all to confirm their own delusions. Looking back, I did it many times in those younger days. I did it to Annabel, and she did likewise. I mumbled to myself, “Beautiful and horrific at once, we revel in elegance and shadow.” “What’s that?” Gamble took another drag and looked at me quizzically. I glanced at Annabel again and said, “Can you accept the shadow in another person?” He didn’t quite understand. “Sometimes we must.” “But for how long?” Gamble shook his head and changed the subject. “Hey, I want to show you something else about magic.” “Like the medium? That spooked me. I’m still trying to shake it.” “This is different. I want to show you something more active. It might help prove magic.” “I’m not sure I want it proven anymore.” He laughed. Then, he grabbed a pencil from the table with one hand, snatched a used dance card with the other, and started scribbling a sentence on the back. I

watched him wondering where this might lead. After writing a sentence, he laid the pencil down and said, “I’ll teach you something few people know.” My eyebrows raised. He added, “You need to figure out your desire first. After you know that, you articulate it in words.” He slid the paper in front of me and in his scrawl, it read: DOMINIQUE DESIRES TO KNOW MAGIC. “Will it work if you don’t use my real name?” I asked. “Yes, it’s the intent. It’s the focused energy behind it.” “I’m not sure what my desire might be.” That’s what I told him but I knew: I wanted to see the green dragon from my dream, so it might lead me to my mother. I also wanted this man. Each day, Gamble became more desirable. Finding the dragon was an impossibility, so I knew it couldn’t come true. But my hunger for Gamble might flourish that night if love allowed. He continued. “Words are magical. Why do you think it’s called a spell?” I laughed for a moment. I thought about it and understood his meaning. “I’ll show you how to make a magic seal called a sigil. The magician acknowledges a desire, he lists the symbols and arranges them into a glyph. Using gnostic techniques, he reifies the sigil and then, by force of will, hurls it into his subconscious where the sigil works unencumbered by desire. It creates complexes in the unconscious that connect to the collective subconscious.” I grimaced. “You hurl a thought out into the ether and the image does what?” “Many things happen. You can also make magic squares. You convert the names of spirits to numbers and place them on a grid. Lines connect the locations. This forms an abstract figure that creates a forceful telesmatic image.” “It sounds hard.” “It’s easy but powerful. It’s yantra magic.”

“Okay.” My response didn’t amuse him. He added, “After you write the desire you have to break it down to its elemental parts.” On the dance card, he scratched out a bunch of the letters with the pencil. Then, he made a list next to the sentence. It comprised the letters: DMNQ DSRS T KNW MGC. “Eliminate the vowels so that distillation occurs… like in alchemy.” Then, he rearranged the letters until they formed a symbol. “Make the sigil with as few lines as possible. Once the image takes form, it binds the desire.” I studied him as he finished the symbol. It looked like this:

Could this work? I doubted it, but I humored him. “Now that I have the symbol, I need to charge it. Once I’ve done this, I can use whatever way seems most intuitive to charge the sigil. Burn, bury, drown, et cetera. Here, I’ll burn it.” He placed the dance card to his cigarette, and it burst in flames. After a second, before it could hurt his finger, he threw it on the ground and stomped it. Then he said, “Now we wait.” “Until when?” He put out his cigarette. “Until the magic happens.” With a smile, I said, “I’ll be waiting a long time.” “Could be. Some people wait forever for what they desire. Some wait mere minutes. That’s the funny thing about the universe. It has a sense of humor.” I grabbed another dance card and jotted my desire on the back. I WANT TO SEE A GREEN DRAGON. I laughed to myself. An impossible wish to be sure. Suddenly, Marie ducked her head inside the curtain. “Are you two okay in here? Need drinks?” Gamble said, “Two more Brandy Alexanders, please.” Moxie’s head peeked behind Marie and said, “I still can’t believe that ghost house. That mumbo-jumbo scared me something fierce.” Gamble said, “It was rather disconcerting, but I’m still not sure of its validity.” Moxie said, “It seemed sure as shit to me.” Marie chided, “Moxie! Language.” My friend shrugged. “Sorry… Marie. Anyway, I didn’t like it and I’m never going back. And I suggest you steer clear too.”

Gamble and I laughed as Moxie disappeared into the crowd. Marie shrugged and departed. Gamble and I sat in silence as we waited for the drinks. I looked down at the table and our pinky fingers rested an inch apart. An idea popped into my head; I hooked my pinky around his small finger. Startled, he looked down at the hook. He glanced up at me. I gave him a soft smile meant to disarm him. He returned it. He shifted his gaze to beyond the curtain, out to the dance floor. Gamble never pulled his finger away. Lonnie returned with a tray of drinks and said, “Hey now.” He put the drinks in front of us. His eyes went to our hooked fingers and then up. He nodded with an “anything else?” expression. “Thanks, Lonnie.” I said. “Lonnie, could you get us some fruit too?” Gamble asked. “I’m hungry.” “Might could.” Gamble handed him a large bill. Lonnie smiled and said, “Sure could.” Then, he disappeared. We sipped our drinks in silence. Through the slit in the curtains we watched people dance. I said, “Watching other people dance is rewarding. I love it.” “Really?” I laughed and said, “No, it’s terrible. I hate it. But sometimes my mind drifts to weird stuff and I have daydreams.” “What weird stuff?” “Did you hear about the Bath School massacre? It happened outside Lansing. Some corrupt school official wired a truck with explosives and he blew up a school. He killed dozens of children. That’s why we’ve got to watch out for Irish Catholics. They do crazy things in the name of religion.” “I doubt it was because he was Irish Catholic. Maybe he was just crazy.”

“Maybe.” “Anyway, it’s morbid. What’s some less morose, weird stuff you think about?” I looked down at our entwined fingers. “I don’t know. The past… The future… I regret being a taxi dancer.” “Why?” “My parents wanted me to think of a career, but I only thought about the present. I didn’t like other people’s aspirations for me.” “So, you had no ambition?” “No. I had dreams. Like I said, I thought about becoming a ballet dancer. At one time, I also wanted to be a writer,” I said as I took a sip. He slid his finger along the glass’s edge. “Well, what happened?” I shrugged. “Nothing. I write folklore sometimes, but it’s difficult to get published especially as a woman.” “Maybe I can help you. I know some people at Sacred World Publishing. I could get them to look at it. That’s Clay’s publisher.” I shrugged again and said, “Maybe.” Silence ensued. People danced as the music swung. I broke the quiet. “Did you do anything weird as a child?” He thought a moment and said, “When I was a kid, I dreamed these little scenarios where I played army with stick figure soldiers on a sheet of paper. Is that weird?” “Not especially. What’s important to us can never be too weird, can it?” “That army game was important to me.” I withdrew, looked at the dancers, tapped the table with my free finger, and said, “When people are young the open future makes things transitory, but when we

grow up and mature the opportunities dry up and we know ourselves better than we did as children. All the mess solidifies. It’s sad when you think about it.” He nodded and said, “Yes, I suppose it is.” As the small talk faded, and our minds drew blanks, we sat in uncomfortable silence. I looked at our fingers again. We never pulled away. Nothing else happened. Nobody spoke. After a few minutes of awkward silence, Gamble finally said, “I have an idea. Let’s play a game.” That wasn’t the move I wanted. Suspicion entered my eyes as I asked, “What kind of game?” A Machiavellian smile revealed his intentions. “It won’t be that bad. We ask each other questions and the other person must answer them.” I put my finger in my mouth to mimic vomiting. He giggled. I rolled my eyes and said, “Truth or dare? Sounds tiresome.” He smiled again. “It might be, but you haven’t heard my questions yet.” His body language perked up as he pulled his finger away, clapped his hands together, and rubbed them like he wanted to start a fire with a twig. I looked down at my lonely finger. “Have you ever done something terrible to someone?” His voice brought me back from loneliness. My eyes widened. I thought about it; it was a serious question to start. I frowned. In a declaration meant to astonish him, I said, “I cheated on my teenage boyfriend with his best friend. I’m not proud of it, but I was young and stupid. We ran the streets, and it just happened.” His eyebrows raised in incredulity. I added, “Just so you know—If I’m ever in love, I’ll commit. I wasn’t in love with him, I guess.” I expected a scolding, but it never came. Instead, he said, “Your turn.” “Two can play at serious stakes.” I rubbed my hand together. “Okay. When was

the last time something crushed you?” “Just about every day since my father died. I have a lot of regret toward it.” I nodded. I empathized with his remorse. I carried baggage too. He said, “My turn. Besides cheating on your boyfriend, what has made you ashamed?” I stared at him while he spoke. He didn’t notice, but I watched his little mannerisms: the way his eyes twinkled or his fingers fidgeted on his cigarette case. My eyes moved to my lap, and I murmured, “Stealing to eat.” I raised my voice. “I did that in New York after I left my foster parents. Other things happened, but I’d rather not get into those.” “I can see why it bothers you.” I ignored his reply. “My turn.” I paused and then continued with, “Have you ever had your heart broken? I mean torn out, crucified, burned, stepped on, and spit at as it thumped its last beat.” A serious expression crossed his features. He peered through the curtains, struggled with himself, and then answered, “Yes, but not from love.” More information hid within that answer, but I left it alone. He went for the jugular. “Do you believe in love at first sight?” Our eyes met. A tender, tongue-tied moment followed. I tried to say something, but the words caught in my throat. We searched our eyes for allurement. Temptation descended on us and I waited for him to make his move. Without breaking eye , I whispered, “Yes.” I looked deeper into him. “But it never happened… to me.” We sat in silence for a time. Our eyes never moved. I searched his soul for something to grasp, for some purchase. His eyes bore into me and I allowed the exposure. Several minutes ed, and I expected Lonnie to interrupt us with

fruit but he didn’t. I trumped Gamble’s question. I leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “When… did you… last… have… sex?” He turned his head slightly. His mouth touched my cheek. Anticipation mounted. Yearning drew us together. His lips slid across my cheek and went for my ear. He whispered, “Longer ago… than… you might… think.” In tandem, as if by telepathy, we pulled away from each other. We avoided eye for several seconds, until he said, “Do you want to get out of here?” Staring at the dancers, I said, “Where?” “Anywhere.” “Sure.” He took my hand and said, “Follow me.” I nodded. We stood quickly; Gamble threw money on the table. We exited the alcove and left Sixes in a hurry. Arms around each other and lust in our hearts, we tumbled into a taxi. Gamble barked an address, and the car took us across town. We remained silent during the ride but excitement built as streetlights lit the cab as we ed them; each flash created an erotic ambiance. As we rode, my head fell to his shoulder and our fingers intertwined. In no time, we arrived in front of the Fort Shelby Hotel. We exited the taxi and I gasped. I never visited a more opulent hotel in all my life. We entered. Lavish décor greeted us. Gamble threw money at several people. With a big tip, the bellhop whisked us to our floor. As we ed guests and the service, Gamble seemed to know everybody. A part of me wondered about this. As we walked to our room I said, “Am I the first woman you’ve brought here?” He looked startled at the question. “You expect the worst. I know this place because of business. Clients often stay here.” I nodded with a wry smile but wondered. We entered our room. I threw my handbag on the bed and looked around. He tossed his coat there. Anticipation filled the space. Next, I pounced on the bed

and our things flew into the air landing a few feet from it. The promise of bliss filled my thoughts. I grabbed the brochure off the end table and thumbed through it. This place had the most amenities I’d ever seen. I almost couldn’t believe it. Most places I frequented were rundown holes. I loved the room, and it made me adore this man even more. It showed he wanted to impress me. I liked that feeling. He sat down in the chair in the corner; it looked homemade and lush with mahogany and velvet. The wardrobe across from him had Art Deco embellishments carved into it and lots of brass inlays. “I know you like music so I had the maitre d’ bring this in before we came up.” He moved to the room’s corner. That’s when I noticed the Victrola. He put a record on and then set the arm on the spinning disk. The music started.

Shaking the blues away, unhappy news away If you are blue, it’s easy to Shake off your cares and troubles Telling the blues to go, they may refuse to go But as a rule, they’ll go if you’ll Shake them away

“I know this tune. It’s ‘Shaking the Blues Away’ by Ruth Etting. It’s a wonderful song,” I said. He nodded. Then he grew serious as he revealed, “Nobody thinks this will work, do they?” I shrugged. “Moxie does.” He nodded again. I stood and went to the window and cracked it. Night air came in and relieved his anxiety. I stared out the window. Would this lead to something pure? How could it work with our difference in stations? How could

it work with my past? I heard nothing from him. What was he doing? After a moment, his breathing sounded behind me. His footsteps vibrated the floor as he lurked closer. I waited. Seconds came and went. I waited longer. My heart quickened. I stared ahead pondering when he’d touch me. More seconds ed. I waited, knowing this romance rang true despite what people thought and what my past meant for it. Finally, his fingers rested on my shoulder blade. The sudden intake of my breath surprised me. My heart pattered away. He moved closer. I whispered, “I know this is right.” His breath touched the back of my neck. It aroused me more than expected. A strong fire burned in my heart and spread through my body in a blaze. I needed him to ravish me. But that wasn’t his style. He wouldn’t succumb so easily and make this affair meaningless. He wanted magic, and he’d have it. I leaned my head back as his face pressed into my neck. He inhaled my sweet Colgate scent and I wished for more expensive perfume. His Brilliantine hair oil and Fougère Royale cologne hit my nose as his head moved. Our breathing increased and matched a rhythm unique to us. I raised my hand; his fingers left my shoulder and grasped my dainty wrist. A lascivious electricity ed between us. His nose inched up my neck behind my ear, stopped, and his lips pressed against my neck with a tiny kiss. His ion etched deep into my secret self. I sighed for more. He heard my lament, and it made him mumble something incoherent

into my neck. I tilted my head to offer more of it. He trailed down kisses to my exposed shoulder blade. Molten need overtook me. I wanted to ravish him, but I used all my willpower because I didn’t want it too easy. We belonged to each other, but I didn’t want him to know it, not just yet. Our bodies maneuvered into a position where we kissed deeply for several heartbeats. His lips slid around with alluring technique, my mouth opened further, and his tongue entered. I accepted it. Before long, my lipstick painted his face and our mutual quintessence filled the night with carnality. He scooped me up with his strong arms and carried me to the bed. We rolled around osculating until the record finished without warning. We stopped kissing. Neither person broke the kiss, but in tandem, our eyes went to the player. We ignored the silence and fell deeper into lovemaking. His hands roamed my body. With insatiable yearning, I let him remove my dress. I tore his shirt open. Buttons fell to the floor. I broke from our kiss. Embarrassed, I breathed, “Oopsie.” He smiled. “I’ll buy another.” One by one, our shoes fell to the floor. He removed my brassiere and undergarments like a craftsman—not an easy task in the twenties. I pulled his undershirt off in one motion. My hands ran through his dark chest hair and the rippling muscles underneath. We kissed again with fervid yearning. Our bodies rolled around naked until lips touched breasts and nimble fingers found prohibited areas of our bodies. Before long, he entered me and we made love, slow, unwavering, with an eagerness to please one another. Ecstasy filled the better part of the night until I reached the most intense orgasm of my life. With a wail of conquest, his love filled my womb a second after. We lost ourselves in elation and fulfillment. Minutes ed in lazy rapture as we caught our breath. More time faded into the past. Panting, I whispered, “I hope you don’t think… less of me for this. These days… women are rather independent but some people still think… we should wait until

marriage. If I love someone, that’s enough for me.” “I could never think less of you.” He paused. “It was great, wasn’t it?” I smiled, “Indeed… it was.” We came down from the fervor with slow breaths. Our bodies entangled on the mattress but our eyes stared out the window into the night. After a time, we rose. Gamble moved to the phone. I used the bathroom while he called the desk. When I returned, he said, “They’re bringing up something special for us to celebrate.” That piqued my curiosity. He produced his hip flask and took a sip of an unknown elixir. It seemed to brighten him. He said, “Don’t worry. We’re not drinking Jake. That would be something wouldn’t it?” I nodded in agreement. Jake’s claim to fame was Jamaican ginger, a medicine made of pure alcohol sold in stores. People drank it to get kicks, but it came with nasty side effects including paralysis that could last for months or perhaps forever. THAT would be something. I said to him, “Well, you wouldn’t wanna have any Jackass Brandy either, would you?” He said, “No. I don’t suppose I would.” A moonshine brewed in Virginia and made from peaches, Jackass Brandy caused internal bleeding, but most people didn’t realize its danger. I praised the gods he didn’t choose either. I said with a smile, “You know, these days, since Prohibition, drinking has become downright lethal.” He nodded and said, “It sure has.”

A knock came at the door. Gamble answered. The maitre d’ entered the room and placed a tray on the end table. Gamble slid him a handsome tip, and the man disappeared. I glanced at the tray. A stainless-steel spoon in a triangular shape with many intricate openings and an unusual glass with a small reservoir in the bottom, an upper chamber, and a round base sat next to a green bottle and a tiny tincture vessel. I didn’t recognize these items. I said, “What’s in the bottle?” He chuckled. Then, he said, “It’s something special. Some people call it The Green Fairy, la fée verte in French. Others call it The Green Lady or The Green Goddess.” “It’s a liqueur?” “Not really. It’s a spirit. They call it absinthe.” “I’ve heard of it, but never tried it. Is it good?” “It’s wonderful for many reasons, but I improve it.” “How so?” Gamble lifted the tiny vessel. “What’s that?” “It’s extract of opium. Powder dissolved in alcohol. Doctors call it laudanum. If you add a few drops to a glass of absinthe wondrous hallucinations ensue, the enhancing effect makes many things more enjoyable. Including you know what.” “Is that why you drink it?” “I drink it because it helps me see the deeper realms. Parisian artists and writers drink it. Many famous authors from the past—Baudelaire, Verlaine, Rimbaud— used it.” I nodded, but he kept going.

“Artists like Toulouse-Lautrec and Van Gogh. Big personalities like Oscar Wilde, Aleister Crowley, and Alfred Jarry found pleasure in its arms. Even Mary Lincoln took laudanum daily. Coleridge based his poem—“Kubla Khan”—on a laudanum fever dream. Ben Franklin and Thomas Jefferson imbibed it when coming up with ideas. As you can see, it has quite the pedigree.” “Yes, I guess so. Is it dangerous?” “Life is dangerous.” I nodded. He had a point. He raised the glass. “This is a Pontarlier glass—named after the French town that housed the first absinthe distillery, at least that’s what Emilienne said. The special bubble near the bottom shows how much absinthe we need.” Gamble placed an absinthe spoon with its fork-like stems on each rim. Then, he rested a sugar cube on each spoon. He poured the liquor over the cubes and filled the small wells. He struck a match and lit the sugar cubes on fire. “Let the sugar burn. Heat caramelizes the sweetness and helps it melt into the liquid. With extreme care, like it’s the most important of rituals, I pour ice cold water over the sugar and into the glass.” The water and absinthe combined into a milky amalgam. He smiled as it appeared. He said, “That’s the louche. It’s French for ‘opaque.’ It happens because of ingredients in the absinthe react to water.” He presented a glass to me and said, “Smell.” I moved my nose over the glass. An aromatic bouquet wafted from the cloudy louche. A mixture of anise and fennel herbs hit my senses. He closed his eyes. “Do you smell the fennel?” “Yeah, it smells superb.” “The liquor’s effect comes from wormwood. Artemisia absinthium, it’s where it gets its name.” “What does the laudanum add?”

“Have you ever smoked opium?” “No.” “It makes the senses attuned. It adds that and euphoria.” After we drank the laudanum mixture, we retreated to the bed. Gamble lit a Lucky and took a drag. Trepidation filled my heart. I’ve done nothing like this before and palpable fear gripped me. Several minutes ed but nothing happened. We continue to drink some low-grade whiskey from Gamble’s hip flask. After a few more minutes, he said, “We’ll have another absinthe in a while. It’ll speed it up.” “When will I feel it?” “I’m already feeling it, but I’ve done it many times. Pros react different to those new to the game.” I nodded. “Pros? How many times have you done this?” He shrugged. “Not sure.” I said, “If it’s my first time will it take longer?” “It might. Everybody’s different.” As soon as he answered, a light euphoric wave washed over me. It seemed like only the beginning. Soon after, another wave hit and deliriousness followed. Absolute contentment made my head swim. My heart soared. Nervousness overwhelmed me. Unsure if experiencing this much joy was a good thing, the next wave revealed a rapturous ocean. Realization that each wave produced more pleasure made the coming third, fourth, and a fifth waves scarier. I didn’t know if I could handle that much pleasure. I laid back on the bed and braced myself. Gamble said, “Relax. It’s coming isn’t it?” “Yeah, it’s coming. Will I see anything?”

“That depends on many factors: dosage, imagination, perception, et cetera. My first time I saw a vision I can only describe as an ethereal dragon. It lashed around green and foreboding.” As the substance took hold, I whispered, “The sigil might come true.” He turned to me and said, “What?” “My sigil desire, the one I wrote on the dance card, was to see a green dragon like in the river from my dream. I didn’t know we’d be doing this tonight. Is that magic?” He beamed a thrilled smile at me and nodded. I took his hand and clenched it. He added, “In alchemy, the green dragon or lion, represents the transition into the philosopher’s stone. For me, this was a potent sign. You may see or experience your own symbols, but that’s up to the divine intelligence.” I waited. The third and the fourth wave hit almost simultaneously. The bed seemed to swallow me and I almost left my body. Concern left me. Movement remained possible, but I didn’t want or need it. My mind focused on everything and the pleasure sensations increased. I grew accustomed to it quicker than I thought possible. Did I need more to feel it again? I looked over to Gamble. His empty, relaxed expression made me see that opium had become his addiction. Did I just become an addict too? Gamble bolted up. He raised his hand, turned it parallel to the floor with knuckles down. After a few seconds, flickering green fire ignited from his palm. The flame grew as reality unraveled into irreality. A line between existence and nothingness blurred. How did I not see it before? How did I not know? Inside the fire, I stood at the river’s bank. Floating down the river, ominous, a pale figure drifted into view. At first, the person looked alive as the river churned around it. Flowers poured out the dead woman’s frozen mouth as the corpse ed into the smoky oblivion of the Green Dragon. The beast turned to me—its maw wide open, ready to devour my heart. Words flowed from the fiend—“Duality. Polarity. Everything has opposites.”

Candlelight flickered about the room and the sounds of the streetcar came through the open window urging me back to mundane reality. Without emotion, I said, “Do you know what I want more than anything?” In a lazy drawl, he whispered, “What’s that?” “Just for someone to love me as I am… with all my flaws. I have so many secrets. I have so many sides of my personality. It’s exhausting. I can’t bear the load.” “Like what? What secrets?” I focused on the room but my vision blurred. I turned my head and stared out the window into the night. A streetlight’s greenish nimbus caught my attention and Jesus Christ’s crucifixion entered my drugged mind. A pensive feeling seduced me. I whispered, “Just things I don’t tell people. Things better left unsaid.” He tried to focus on my words but murmured absently, “Sounds agonizing… to carry all that alone.” Fighting the dope’s influence, I focused on Jesus. I said, “All people become lost in pain or guilt. That’s part of the human condition. All life is suffering, isn’t it?” He thought a long time as I ran my fingers through his chest hair. In my state, it resembled a tangled forgotten wood. Finally, after a long time, he said, “Yeah, I suppose it is.” We laid in the bed and held each other as we rode milder and milder waves. A thought darted into my mind. Without considering whether I should say it, I blurted, “Gamble, what was your first kiss like?” Gamble reached over to the nightstand for his pack of smokes and grabbed one. He lit the fag and took a drag from it. He thought a moment, took another drag, held it, and exhaled a smoky puff into the ceiling. Dragon smoke filled my thoughts. He turned to me and said, “It was clumsy, but nice—the bee’s knees until you.” He took another drag and whispered, “What was yours like?” I stared at the ceiling as I related my tale. “We rushed mine. A boy and I laid on

a wooden bridge spanning a small creek. I heard the water trickle by as we stared into the stars that appeared one by one as dusk turned to night. The boy hesitated even though we foresaw the inevitable. Finally, his mother called from his house. We panicked because he had to answer. He yelled to his mother that he was coming. Then, he turned to me and kissed me. Short and simple but nice. Then, he darted into the forest back to his mother.” A thought popped into my mind but I worried about telling him. After an internal debate, I said, “You know, I’m fascinated with you.” “Really? How so?” “I watch you. People flock your way and you wait for them to engage. Nobody I know does this but you. You don’t need validation. You’re thoughtful and it shows in your energy.” He said nothing, took another drag, lit another cigarette from the first, and smothered the butt. After a long time he said, “I want to plunge the depths of your soul, to dive in. I fear that once I go down there, I may never find my way out. Is that terrible to say?” More smoke left his mouth. He pursed his lips long in thought as the smoke rolled upon the ceiling. He added, “Love is a fragile flower. Easy to kill, but deep in mystery.” I added, “Delicate until the end.” He nodded. I breathed, “Ever since you kissed me, I’ve come alive.” We fell into each other’s arms and made love several more times trying to find the depths of our worship.

28 September 1976

Our hotel affair enflamed the summer. A twenty-one-year-old inventor named Philo Taylor Farnsworth invented television as Gutzon Borglum’s Mount Rushmore began. The world changed around us but our ion never faltered. In our hotel sanctuary, days satiated with sex turned into excess-filled nights at Sixes. My dream visions increased as we partook of the laudanum more. We met most afternoons because of nighttime taxi dancing. But on my off hours, those romantic interludes stretched for days as we made love or chatted about offbeat topics. We ordered food and ate in bed. We made love to intimate parts of our bodies and minds. All the while, Gamble’s sister grilled him on where he went his days, and for a reason I’ll never understand, he kept our affair from her. Ruth’s presence haunted our intimacy like a phantom. Moxie never told a soul. People at Sixes asked, but I never said. By summer’s end, our fling reached a fevered pitch. It became harder and harder to keep up the lie. Sneaking around weighed heavy on us. Mad love made us find excuses to return to our refuge—to gaze inside each other. As the days ed, our love grew and yearning almost split me in two. My heart ached when absence separated us. Our adoration reached for heaven, but like most things in life, it couldn’t last forever. Most days, I arrived through the hotel’s rear entrance to maintain our privacy. Sometimes, I entered bringing some fruit or a snack. Other times, he ordered a three-course meal from room service. Lust made us unconcerned with making the bed or picking up clothes. Sometimes, the drapes remained closed for days at a time. On occasion, I asked how much the room cost, but Gamble shooed away the question. Other times, he offered to give me a stipend so I could leave Sixes, but I always refused. One afternoon after a long session of love-making, we laid entwined on the bed, sheets on the floor like a discarded burial shroud. Gamble’s fingers ran along the curve of my exposed thigh as he asked, “Where did you get this scar? I paused before answering. My time in New York turned into a mystery box that

he kept trying to solve. With reluctance, I said, “A mugging in New York when I was a teen.” “Someone stabbed you?” “They needed money. Don’t we all.” He nodded, but the comment made him uncomfortable. He said, “These days, what things do you spend money on?” “Perfume and cinema. And my books. Gotta get an education somehow.” “Is that what the mugger wanted, an education?” I laughed. “No. It was two street kids. Funny thing is I was as poor as them but they didn’t know.” He accepted my lie, nodded, and said, “New York is a rough city. Never wanted to go there.” “Yeah. It’s foul.” I didn’t like this talk. I changed the subject. “I have a question. I’m curious. Why do we never go to my apartment when we meet?” He shrugged. “We’ve christened this place. We should stay here. Besides, your neighbors will talk.” He had a point, but I didn’t let it go. “Who cares if they talk.” “I don’t want my sister finding out.” I nodded, left it alone, stood up, strode across the room, lit a candle and said, “By now, you must know I prefer candles over electric lights. Did you know that fella who invented the television lived in a house without electricity until he was fourteen?” Gamble chuckled. “That’s interesting. I never saw you as someone who lived in the past. But yes, I noticed.” After what Gamble told me about Edison’s elephant, I became even more skeptical of these contraptions. Often the power that surged through the wires

aroused something deep inside me, like a sixth sense or a secret feeling that sensed the evil current. I stared into the flame. Unfocused, my voice came. “Aren’t candles magical?” He shook his head in the affirmative. I added, “That’s what we’re trying to practice, right?” He stared at his Lucky and mumbled, “Charlatans practice magic; sages know it.” I finished lighting a second candle and said, “What?” He took a drag and said, “It’s something Alphonse Louis Constant said, or something like that. I can’t the exact quote.” “Who’s that? A friend?” “No, not a friend. A great magician from long ago. In his writings, he’s referred to as Eliphas Levi. The quote means there’s a line between doing and knowing, but it’s an unfathomable crevasse, difficult to cross.” I returned to bed and peeled an orange. I handed him a section and said, “I heard another rum-runner got busted the other day. Part of the Little Jewish Navy, I think.” As I ate a few slices, he prepared the laudanum mixture. Fear of addiction ran through my head but Gamble didn’t seem to care about such things. Sometimes, I ed on the ritual. On that day, I did. I never knew what to do when he drank the concoction alone. It overtook him and he leaned back as if falling into nothingness—a euphoric smile crept across his face but something deeper, an anarchic demon, reached him. As a patch for his pain, that green smile shielded him from others as he solved the riddle deep inside. He whispered, “Only the dose… makes the poison.” “What’s that?” “It’s something Paracelsus said. He’s the man… who discovered that the active

ingredients… in opium were more soluble in alcohol… than water.” After he rode the waves to their conclusion, he whispered, “Tell me more about you. I want to know about these secrets.” His statement made me nervous. I shifted on the bed and said, “I’m not sure what to say. My mom was French and my dad was an English-born German. I finished the 9th grade, but that’s as far as I wanted to go.” “That’s not what I meant. Tell me about your dreams, about the things that make you tick.” “Well, I’m a take charge gal. Always have been, but you know that. I’m still thinking about that dream with the river and the dragon.” “What about it?” He shifted on the bed and lit another cigarette. “I think the woman was my mother. I feel like she’s not proud of me and my choices.” He said, “Maybe she came because she loves you.” “Is that why she appeared as a spooky corpse, to prove it?” He thought a moment and answered, “Perhaps. Maybe that’s the universe saying it’s time to overcome these obstacles, to slay that dragon.” He changed the subject. “What turns you on? I want to know.” I looked at him and answered, “You. Intellect. Mystery. Questions without answers.” He nodded. “What turns you off then? I looked at the sunset beaming through a slit in the drawn curtains as I said absently, “Being judged.” I placed my hand upon his chest and added, “Dying alone.” I bit my lip as we shared a silent moment. I confessed, “I must leave for work soon. The sun’s going down.”

He nodded and took another drag from his cigarette. The ash trail looked like a spent snake. He said, “Where is this going, Dominique?” “Where’s what going?” I understood what he meant, but I didn’t want to answer. “You know. Don’t play dumb because you’re not.” I shrugged. He looked at me. “What are you afraid of?” “You don’t seem to fear anything.” “I fear not living life to the fullest. Vincit qui se vincit. He conquers who conquers himself. Mediocrity is a hell I don’t want to trap me.” I said, “Truth be told, I fear abandonment.” He thought about it deeper. “I fear losing my sister to her madness.” In nervousness, he flicked his cigarette case open and closed. I asked, “Is that special to you? I always see you fiddling with it.” As if on cue, he stopped flicking it. “It’s my most treasured possession. It belonged to my father.” I grabbed the necklace around my neck and said, “If I could only save one thing from my burning apartment, this would be it: my mother’s festoon necklace, or maybe my Victrola.” He laughed. “At least you have priorities.” I laughed too. “Yeah. A girl needs to know what’s important in life.” I never answered his initial question, but I changed the subject. “Where does your family come from?” He didn’t miss my detour but answered anyway. “Lancashire, Northern England. But they moved to America when they married. Where were you born?” I said, “Hamburg, . My birthday is coming up. It’s the first of October.”

“How old?” “I’ll be twenty-one. And you?” “Let’s just say I was born around the century’s turn. I grew up on Detroit’s Eastside.” “When’s your birthday?” I asked with curiosity. “It doesn’t matter much.” “It does to me.” His eyebrows raised. “Why?” “Because I wanna know.” “What difference does it make, if this is a fling?” Anger took hold of me. “Is that what this is, a fling?” He said, “I don’t think so, but I never get a straight answer from you.” I turned over in anger. My back to him said more than words. I grabbed my book from the nightstand and pretended to read. He placed his hand on my shoulder to quell my anger. He said, “Are there any good quotes?” Tersely, I answered, “‘It is justice, not charity, that is wanting in the world.’” He laughed, nodded, and then said, “That’s a good one. William Blake said it best for me. ‘He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.’” For a moment I went silent. I didn’t want him to win. After a few more seconds, I said, “That’s beautiful. Never heard that one.” “It’s good.” “Yes, it is.” I paused and then got a sudden idea. “Hey, do you wanna bathe?”

He looked at me and our eyes met. We understood what that meant. We rose from the bed naked and headed to the bathroom. In the small tiled room, he ran the water. After a few minutes the bath filled. I stepped into the clawfoot tub first. After a few seconds, he followed. Our bodies barely fit as the water rose to the brim. I nuzzled my face into his neck. My anger from earlier faded away as I realized how much I adored this man. Gamble soaped my body as I closed my eyes and enjoyed the attention. He started at my neck, worked his way to my breasts and stomach, and ended at my feet, which sat on the tub’s edge. He studied them. After some time, he whispered, “You have delicate feet for a dancer.” “I guess so, but they’re calloused and my ankles are too strong. It’s the hours. I’m self-conscious about them.” “Well, you shouldn’t be.” He caressed my upper arm. Still facing away, I said, “ when we made love for the first time?” He kissed my shoulder and said, “Yes.” I kept going with my thought. “And do you when I said that I never experienced love at first sight?” His kisses trailed up my neck. His musky smell aroused me. He whispered in my ear, “Yes.” “Well, I lied.” He pulled away startled. I turned toward him, stared him in the eye, and said, “I had it… with you.” We kissed deeply. Lips melded. Bodies merged. Hands roamed into forbidden areas. Before long, he entered me and blissful sex followed. It lasted only a few

minutes, but it ended in the most ionate kiss. We pulled away from it to regain eye . He whispered, “I love you.” His fingers ran through my wet hair as he thrust into me. I looked at his lips and whispered back, “I love you.” I buried my face into his clavicle. My lower lip ran along its edge. I whispered into his skin, “It’s a madness I can’t shake.” The moment hung in the air. After a few seconds, I added, “I love you because of your authenticity.” His mouth pushed against my wet hair and the words he uttered countered my praise. “I love you because you’re bold.” I giggled sadly. My lips moved to this bicep, and I whispered once more, “Fortune favors the bold, but it never favors me.” I paused. “I’m optimistic but beat down.” My voice cracked as I added, “I’m looking for a break.” He looked at the laudanum bottle across the room and said, “Sometimes, I’m too focused on my pleasure.” He thrust deeper into me as we neared orgasm. Almost simultaneously, we climaxed. After I caught my breath, I murmured, “Aren’t we all.” I looked back to the window, but the sun disappeared. Autumn crept on the horizon like inevitability. The mood changed as we neared the end of our first year knowing each other. I wanted to stay in that room forever, to hold him, to feel his body, but as we all know, life defeats want.

29 September 1976

Elmwood Cemetery rested at 1200 Elmwood Street on Detroit’s Eastside. The wooded grounds contained a flowing creek and low hills. We entered through a large stone entrance with its many jagged peaks and wrought-iron gate. In those days, before the many uprisings that plagued Detroit in later years, they left the gate open late into the night. As we walked through the calm grounds, we held hands in the dark. We ed many monuments, headstones, and statues on our way to the cemetery’s pond. Gamble carried a picnic basket, and I held an umbrella in case of rain. “Why are you taking me here?” I asked. “Two reasons. First, I want to visit Margaret Mather’s grave. Second, I told you about the tarot and tonight is the perfect night for a reading.” “Perfect night?” I asked as we descended a hill. “Yes, the spirit world comes closest to the physical over the next three calendar days. Devil’s Night, the thirtieth of October, begins the cycle.” To this day, Devil’s Night fascinates me. It uses many names in different cities around America, names like Holiday Mischief Night, Cabbage Night, Damage Night, Beggar’s Night, Trick Night, Corn Night, et cetera. Irish immigrants brought over the tradition of the mischief night with the fairies and goblins of their homeland, but the United States morphed the evening into soaping windows and toilet papering trees. It grew into an excuse for young anarchists to break windows or damage property. It was the trick to Halloween’s treat. In the Roaring Twenties, Detroit handled the holiday in its own way. Kids rang doorbells, egged cars, dumped rotten vegetables in the street, and set fire to dung-filled bags. As the city declined after the sixties, people avoided going out after dark on the day before Halloween, especially in the more dangerous neighborhoods because of grand scale arson and robberies. Some Detroit residents set fire to drug-dealing houses as vigilante justice, accusing the police

of not solving the city’s problems. In the twenties, life was more innocent. I changed the subject with, “Who’s Margaret Mather?” He considered the woman, then said, “An actor with a tragic life, but her soul speaks to me. Like most artists, people considered her crazy but eccentric seems more accurate. Her story fascinates me.” I skipped ahead of him and said, “She sounds interesting.” We turned down the trail and headed past a mausoleum. We bolted through the headstones as we gazed up at the moonrise. As we hurried Gamble delivered her life story. “Her real name was Margaret Finlayson. An Ontario native, she became the most controversial Shakespearean actor of the 1880s. Margaret even played Juliet in New York at the Union Square Theater.” We descended another grade as I growled into the cold night, “The night wind whispers to me. Can you hear it?” I meant to provoke spirits, but nothing happened. I laughed. Gamble frowned. A few hours earlier, we finished another laudanum ritual and the effects hadn’t worn off yet. By the time we entered the graveyard, I blabbed away, high as the moon. With an airy voice, Gamble continued his tale. “Her acting style rubbed people the wrong way, but her beauty and physicality endeared her to others. Critics found her too rude and arrogant, particularly in the later performances. Once, she even played Lady Macbeth.” I listened but sometimes he annoyed me when he went on these diatribes, like he forgot I stood next to him. Like usual, he droned on. “Playing Joan of Arc became her crowning achievement. At the end, she suffered from a chronic illness. She fell unconscious during Shakespeare’s Cymbeline and died that evening in 1898. They buried her as Juliet like an angel in a white gown.”

A thought popped in my head. “I know! That’s why you like her. She reminds you of your sister.” He frowned and anger crept into his eyes. By his lost expression, I realized the thought never occurred to him. After a few seconds, he calmed to finish his tale. “I became infatuated with her after stumbling across a photo in the Detroit Public Library. Something about her image spoke to me. After, I discovered Elmwood as her burial site. I come here sometimes when I need to think.” His story ended as Gamble stopped me in front of the woman’s grave. “This is it. We’re here,” Gamble said as he sat down his small picnic sack. He produced wine, cheese, crackers, and a small bundle. He opened the blanket and set it on the dewy grass. Then, he placed the wine, cheese, and crackers on the blanket. We looked at each other for confirmation, nodded in agreement, and then sat. I lit the candle he thoughtfully included. Then, he unwrapped the small bundle. From the fabric, he raised a deck of cards to the moonlight and said, “And here are the cards.” He studied his prize possession as he explained, “The Rider Company published the Rider-Waite deck in 1910. Illustrated by Pamela Colman Smith from the instructions of the mystic A. E. Waite, they stand as the best tool for divination. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” He splayed the cards out in a fan like a stage magician. Like a brat, I snatched them from his hand and assessed the cards one by one by candlelight. Their design reminded me of French medieval tapestries. Stylized, cartoony pictures illustrated different states of pain, pleasure, and indecision. Sky blues, blood reds, stark yellows, and pure whites filled the strong black lines of the cryptic images. Yeah, gorgeous in spades. I handed them back. He said, “In Europe, the deck was all the rage back in the day.” I scowled, again like a misbehaving child, and said, “I heard negative things

about tarot cards. Do you think you can read my future?” He looked me in the eye. “That’s not their purpose. Too many hands define the future. Too many hearts have their will.” “Then, what do they do?” He paused a moment deep in thought and then responded. “They bring out a connection between the universe and the subconscious mind. The cards act as a spineless book. As one shuffles them, they represent every stage in life. Cards fall as a cooperation between choice and destiny. You make a choice by the cards pulled. Destiny provides certain replies. It’s a tool to communicate with the universe. The present moment grows from the past’s death. It’s an intuitive method.” As an afterthought he added, “The tarot helps us build our soul.” “People say they’re demonic. Haven’t you heard those stories about the Ouija board? I hope it’s not like Etta’s house.” He laughed. “That’s preposterous. They’re only evil if they’re used for evil. Talking boards have a history beyond Christianity. The Greeks used them and the Egyptians. It’s another way to communicate with the divine. A tool—no more, no less.” This time, I laughed. Feeling uncomfortable, I said, “I’m nervous to see what they’ll say.” He chuckled. “Well, it’s always a surprise, but a welcome one. Don’t worry. They won’t tell you about your future children and falling into the Big Sleep. The cards don’t work that way.” In those days, we called death “the Big Sleep.” He handed the cards to me. “Shuffle them.” A strange tingle came from the cards when I accepted them as if they held secrets. I looked at the cards. Fear overcame me as I handled them like one might handle a feral animal. He said “Oh, come on. Mix them.” I did as he commanded. At first, I shuffled them, unsure of myself. After the animal failed to bite, I did it more vigorously. After several moments, I handed

them back and said, “I’m done. That’s enough.” He accepted the cards. He slapped them down one by one in an unexpected arrangement. The first card landed in the center. Then, he dealt a second card that crossed the first perpendicularly. Next, he dealt four more around the first card to form a cross: the third card to the left, the fourth to the right, the fifth above, and the sixth below. Lastly, to the cross’s right, he dealt four cards in a straight line. These went from the seventh card, up to the tenth card at the pillar’s tip. About a decade later, I discovered that people called the spread the Celtic Cross, the most popular arrangement for tarot readers. At that time, however, it seemed mysterious and pagan, and I didn’t quite trust it. After the placement, he studied the cards intently. He communed with them for a long time as I grew nervous. What did he see? He murmured to himself. I strained to hear better. Then, he said, “Oh, that’s not good… Oh my.” I tittered as I looked to him and then the cards. “What? What’s the problem?” He shook his head and mumbled, “It’s… It’s so…” “What? What is it?” “Oh my goodness. I can’t believe it. I’m not sure I should tell you.” “What?” I barely contained myself as I grabbed his shoulder. He faltered. Then, he fell over laughing. “Nothing. There’s nothing. No problem. I’m just messing around.” I slapped his arm in exasperation. “You rat!” He laughed again, and I punched his arm once more but with little force. “Seriously, do you want to know, or what?” he teased, but he knew I did. I nodded my head vigorously.

He smiled again, pointed to the first card, and said, “The first represents the present moment. It’s your current state of mind. The Five of Wands. Wands always represent energy and pushing forward. But the Five stands for strife. Tension and arguments become present in your life.” I stared at the card. Five men held large wooden wands brandishing them in the air. The menagerie broadcasted relaxed conflict. I said, “Go on.” I looked at the next card. Seven cups hovered in a cloud as a shadowy person with their back to the viewer looked at the chalices. He said, “The Seven of Cups crosses the Five of Wands. The second card represents your immediate problem. The problem that’s in the way. The whole spread hinges on this card. You might lose yourself in your imagination with too many options. It’s a debauched fantasy without escape.” The card’s meaning eluded me but I motioned for him to continue. The next card held a large yellow star with six smaller white stars surrounding it. A nude woman held two cups and poured one into a pond. He continued. “The third card is the past. It represents the events that led up to the present situation. There was hope. The star represents optimism, spiritual love—renewal. An abundance of joy and new beginnings.” “That’s good, right?” He shrugged and said, “Too early to judge.” He took a sip of wine and then added, “This card represents the next step.” He pointed to the fourth image of a man hanging crucified on a Tau cross. “The next few weeks or months. It doesn’t look too good. The Hanged Man means stagnation. A difficult decision faces you.” “Oh no. What can I do?” He motioned for me to relax and continued the reading. “The fifth card tells of the Above. It represents what you’re working towards. Thankfully, it’s the High Priestess that hovers there. This means to dive into intuition. Let inner

revelations guide you.” I chewed on a cracker and looked at the card. A white priestess stood between two pillars: one black with a white B, and the other white with a black J. A yellow crescent moon rested at her feet. Deciphering what this all meant became maddening. As if reading my thoughts, he said, “The B stands for Boaz. The J stands for Jachin. The twin pillars of Solomon’s Temple. They represent our light and dark halves.” I nodded, but it made little sense to me. “This next card reflects the subconscious realm. It goes much deeper into the core foundation of your problem. The Below rests at the base of the matter. It’s what you must do. The Hermit beckons you to know thyself, to embrace solitude, to understand archaic wisdom.” An old wizard held a lantern. I shook my head. “What hermit? I don’t understand any of this. Is that Clay?” He said in an emotionless voice, “No, it’s the Hermit like Hermes Trismegistus. It means you.” He pointed to the next card. “The seventh card gives advice. You must do this to solve it. Judgement becomes a rebirth. The universe calls you somewhere.” On the card, several people stood in burial plots with arms raised to the sky. A large cherub blew a trumpet. I squinted my eyes in confusion. All these symbols seemed inconsequential. He ignored me and carried on. “The eighth card is the external influence or outside forces. Sometimes they help and sometimes they hinder. The Page of Pentacles stands for curiosity with vigor. A messenger will arrive.” A pageboy held a pentacle aloft, but a message about what? “The ninth card is your hopes and fears. The Knight of Swords fights for the underdog. It’s decisive but also impulsive.”

“It’s good to fight, right?” I said as I stared at the knight riding a white horse with a sword wielded high. “Sometimes.” He caught my eye and added, “The last card is the outcome.” His eyes moved to the final card. He frowned as he looked at the card. I peered at it too. A farmer stared at a bush with seven pentacles growing from it like fruit. I could hardly contain myself. “What is it? What does it say?” “It says… Oh dear.” “What?” “It says… you have to kiss me.” I rolled my eyes. “If you don’t tell me what this last one says, I’ll gouge your eyes out with a cracker.” He smiled, chuckled, and then grew serious. With a dour expression he said, “The Seven of Pentacles means failure. It’s about missed opportunities and discontent.” A troubled expression furrowed his brow. I stared at the card as my spirits dipped. That wasn’t what I expected. I always thought typical readers said things like, “You’ll have three children, live to a ripe old age, and love happily ever after.” I didn’t expect his intellectualism and unnerving interpretation. It all became so dramatic. I whispered, “How can the cards know?” “It’s not the cards. Like I said, the cards act as a spineless book. Its story changes depending on the person and where they stand in life. Archetypes represent the trials of living in the world. A god, or universal intelligence, or complex system —whatever you want to call it—arranges the cards through your subconscious mind’s connection to the universal consciousness like a telegraph wire.” I frowned and tossed a half-eaten cracker on the blanket. “That seems like a leap.”

“No, not really. Think of it as a relationship between child and adult. A child has limited awareness of the adult’s world. An adult can influence a child by giving them a certain book or instruction. This is the same.” “It’s different,” I said. “It’s the same. The tarot acts like a language that the divine intelligence communicates through. Think about it. If you don’t know the symbols, you can’t read the cards. You can’t read the language. However, if you know the language, as I do, then the cards speak. It’s just like handing an English child a book from India. They could never read it. Same for the Tarot.” “That sounds plausible but there’s no way to prove it.” He sighed. “If you learn more about it, you’ll see the proof.” “Maybe.” He got irritated. “Why would I believe it? Do you think I’m foolish?” His irritation caught me off-guard. “No. It’s not that. It’s just that it’s too much to process.” He ignored me and kept speaking. “I assure you. I’m far from foolish. I’ve researched this for several years. It takes a certain awareness to understand its complexity.” Anger hit me. In a raised voice I said, “So you’re saying I can’t see it. I don’t have that awareness. I’m not… complex enough.” He exhaled as if frustrated and said, “No, that’s not what I meant. I just introduced it to you. Understanding esoteric tools takes time. My journey started right before my father died. It’s been years of devout studying since.” I didn’t want to let the argument end. Keeping the bratty attitude, I said, “That word devout carries religious connotations.” He sighed, placed his hand on his forehead, and said, “I suppose, but this isn’t religious at all. It’s more science hid behind superstition.”

“So it’s like Etta Wriedt?” “No, that wasn’t science. That was tomfoolery.” With an edge, I relented, “Okay. Whatever you say.” I stood, and he said, “What are doing? Where are you going?” “I’m leaving.” He looked annoyed and said, “Why?” “Because I’m ready to go.” As I proclaimed it a third familiar voice said, “Hello, you two.” I whirled around. Benny, the potion man, stood near a gravestone looking flustered. Gamble said, “What are you doing here so late, Benny?” Benny looked around with a paranoid expression and said, “I’m visiting my cousin’s grave. What else would I be doing?” Gamble made a strange face. Benny added, “Anyway, I got to get back home. See you two later.” We bid him farewell, and he disappeared. We packed up our stuff in silence. Our fight had ended but neither of us wanted to concede. On the way home, in the roadster, Gamble said, “Benny’s an immigrant. He came from New York, from out of town. He shouldn’t have a cousin buried at Elmwood.” I said, “Why was he there then?” Gamble glanced in his rearview mirror and itted, “I’m not sure.”

30 September 1976

Another corridor led to a horrific sight. A frosty linen shroud floated over the dark knolls and tangled branches of the Elmwood Cemetery as the moonrise beamed above. The wraith descended upon me. I stood my ground. Fear surged through my body but the horror didn’t sway my resolve. The spirit entered me. I struggled to run but I couldn’t move. A gorgeous red rose appeared in my left hand. A golden crucifix materialized in my right. I raised them in the air and combined the spectacular objects to shield me. As the ghost recoiled from the Rose-Cross, a zephyr roared, and the linen blew from its ghastly face to reveal… Ruth. Did her face appear behind the linen? I couldn’t be certain. Details of my half-forgotten dream flooded my mind, as I leaned against the most distant corner of Sixes. The speakeasy’s Halloween party raged around me as the early hours of November approached. The dream’s details morphed through my imagination. Was it her? Besides the dream the tarot reading from the previous night also weighed on me. My time with Gamble challenged many preconceptions. Not understanding the occult forces at work frightened me. I scanned the roaring fête for acquaintances, for anything to take my mind away from its problems. Costumed partygoers engaged in pedestrian distractions while my worries ran through my mind; some ate donuts from strings as others bobbed for apples. Candelabras filled the room with a wavering light. An old man in the corner played eerie music on an out-of-tune viola. Like Gamble said at Elmwood, All Hallows’ Eve brought the spirits closer to the material world, and it added to the room’s surreal atmosphere. As Ruth’s distorted face played though my imagination ontological forces frolicked around us. I felt them. Shaking my head, I banished Ruth’s face from my imagination as Kish and Moxie emerged from the crowded dance floor. I greeted them with a sodden gesture. Moxie’s outrageous Pagliacci clown costume made me howl with laughter despite my gloom. Three pompoms lined her front, a frilled collar too large to be functional, and a three-feet tall pointed hat made her appear sillier than a

traditional clown. Rosy circles, diamonds over her eyes, and white greasepaint completed the foppish get-up. I snickered, took a sip of my drink, and said, “You look either adorable or ridiculous. I can’t decide.” In a drunken slur, Moxie said, “Thank yah, kind lady. You look fabulous yourself in that sour mood of yours.” I inspected my witch’s costume with its homemade black gown and bent conical hat. I held up a straw broom and said, “I almost forgot I wore it.” I laughed, regarded them, and added, “It isn’t much, but it’ll do.” Moxie yelled to the dance floor, “I love Halloween! It’s the cat’s—meow, meow, meow.” I agreed. “Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it?” I turned to Kish and said, “Halloween isn’t very Ojibwa.” Kish shook her head in the negative. “No, but we believe in roaming spirits. This time, like most seasons, feels sacred to my mother’s people. I understand the white man’s need for a celebration so I take part. Don’t forget half of me understands.” We laughed. I appraised Kish’s unexpected attire of red fleece pajamas. She held a papier mâché mask of a jackass close to her hip. She constructed the strange thingamajig. Her artistic skill, ideas about totems, and thoughts on metaphysical power flittered through my thoughts. Before I considered it further, Moxie chimed in with, “Ojibwa shwibawa. Let’s have shots!” Nobody could deny Moxie’s exuberance, so I bobbed my head in agreement. My clownish friend sprinted to the bar to fulfill our alcoholic covenant. I glanced at the clock. It neared the Witching Hour—the perfect time for a toast. Wriedt’s seance and the spookiness of the experience flooded back to me. As if by cue, a woman with devil horns and raggedy doll make-up approached

Kish and handed her a taxi ticket. The two women crossed the room and entered the dance floor. Nodin stared at his master with a watchful eye. I took it as my sign to follow Moxie. She reached the bar ahead of me. Moxie chatted with some customers while Marie mixed our libations and poured shots. Moxie turned her attention to Jack, a guy from across town. I peered down the bar. A crêpe paper banner hung over it centered above Marie. I studied the long flag: two black cats rested on the edge of a witch’s cauldron and a stout witch cackled, “Halloween Spooks! Halloween Fun!” Marie gestured for Lonnie to break up more ice. He did so. His pick sent tiny ice crystals flying. A second after the fresh ice hit the glass, Marie handed us the drinks and shots. I said, “Hey, Lonnie.” “Yas,” he replied with a nod. “How’s the night going? Busy?” I asked as I grabbed my drink and the shot. “My dogs are barking fierce.” He shook his head back and forth like he’d seen it all. Marie leaned over and said, “It’s a busy night, isn’t it?” “Yeah.” I gave her a smile. Lonnie added, “It’s a Ginny Gall up in here. Shit for brains come in here and pitch a fit.” In the South, a Ginny Gall meant a suburb of Hell and he wasn’t lying. I never saw the place so busy. Moxie snatched her drinks and said, “Lonnie, is it those rich fellas?” He nodded his head like a pelican and said, “They come in here beating their gums. Crying about the bad times. Rich white people give colored folk a hard time.” I said, “I’m sorry, Lonnie. I am. They don’t know better.”

He laughed and said, “You get what you get, so don’t throw a fit.” I smiled and pointed at a man at the bar’s end. “Was it that guy over there, Robert Henry?” I leaned in and whispered, “He’s an awful fella, he is. Some say in the KKK.” He shook his head like the first time and replied, “Nah, not that peckerwood. It ain’t him. Just selling buckets of juice this evening. Busy as West Hell.” “West Hell?” I asked. Lonnie said, “It’s another suburb of that spooky place I won’t mention again.” I nodded. Moxie and I downed our shots. We thanked Marie and Lonnie and wandered away from the bar. The two of us strolled over to a less crowded area. I scanned the gathering again looking for Gamble because he said he’d attend. “Who ya looking for?” Moxie asked absently. She took two large gulps of her Sloe Gin Fizz. I spun to face her. “Nobody.” “Uh-huh,” she shot back with a sly wink. “What?” “Nothing,” she said. “I was just wondering when the fella might show.” “He’s not my fella.” “Uh-huh.” A smirk accompanied the same sly wink. Her expression said wonders. That’s when I noticed him from the corner of my eye. Not Gamble… but Benny Evangelist. Dressed in plain clothes, the potion man stood across the room eyeing us. His abyssal stare seared into Moxie. He appeared drunk. His mannerisms seemed impatient like a frayed knot. A crazed expression swept over his face as he recognized me. His arms clenched as he moved through the crowd. Before he reached us,

someone spoke from my side. A man’s muffled voice said, “Hello, Dominique. Nice evening, isn’t it?” I turned to see a tallish man wearing a masquerade cloak with a large skeletal mask and plumed cavalier’s hat. I searched the man’s eyes. “Gamble, is that you?” He slid the mask to the side and said, “Yep, it’s me. In the flesh as it were.” He laughed as his hand went to my lower back. Then, Benny’s strange voice bellowed over my shoulder, “Gamble, my friend, have you talked to Louie?” I twisted. Who’s Louie? Gamble never spoke of him. Gamble’s hand left my back. He turned to Benny and replied, “Yeah, I got in touch with him last week.” Again, I thought, I don’t know anybody named Louie. Benny said, “All right.” He paused and waited a long time until he spoke again. “Well, I heard different, but if you say so.” The strange man threw us one more peculiar expression, saluted to Moxie, and then faded into the crowd from which he came. Moxie said, “That guy’s a creep, a walking shiv.” I looked to Gamble and whispered, “I don’t like him either. There’s something wrong about him.” Gamble said, “He’s harmless. He’s nothing but a charlatan like Wriedt.” I searched the crowd for signs of the potion man, and then I said, “He practices magic like you, right?” Gamble shook his head. “No, not like me. My order demands strict rules and a scholarly approach. Benny’s all mumbo-jumbo and nonsense. He’s more a sorcerer than a magician. Paracelsus once said something like, ‘Magic carries

wisdom, and there’s no wisdom in sorcery.’” “It’s weird to see him two nights in a row,” I murmured in a pensive voice. “Did he follow us?” “Last night wasn’t the first time I’ve seen Benny as of late. I think he’s been watching me.” Gamble produced his cigarette case, flicked it open, and grabbed a fag. “Why? What for?” I asked. A few drunken lovers crashed into us and disappeared back into the multitude. Gamble, dropped the cigarette, frowned, gathered himself, produced another Lucky, and said, “I don’t know. It could be anything. Maybe he’s jealous of my magical progress. Word gets around in our circles. It could be something else.” “Like what?” Gamble held his thought a moment and then said, “Gambling debts.” “Gambling debts. What gambling debts?” He shrugged. “I play roulette sometimes downtown over at Tommy’s and at the 2 Way Inn over on Mount Elliot. I’ve been losing as of late, but they know I’m good for it.” Maybe I wasn’t the only person who had trouble following them. Before I could consider it more, I noticed Jay Em and the St. Martens standing across the way. I waved at them. As they approached, I ired their costumes. Jay Em sported a Negro League Detroit Stars baseball uniform—a political statement because the major leagues banished the Blacks. In those days, the Motor City loved baseball. Negro League ballparks read like a map of the Great Migration: at one end, places like Jacksonville, Atlanta, and Hot Springs, Arkansas; at the other, Pittsburgh, St. Louis, Cleveland, and Detroit. The St. Martens wore fancy ball attire and Venetian masks. Philippe’s silver Bauta Barocco mask had a square jaw, large chin, and no mouth. It covered his face and gilded knot work lined the outer edge. Emilienne’s Volto Barocco white and gold-lined mask had a simple style. It guaranteed anonymity to those who hadn’t made acquaintance, but their French-ness and gait betrayed their

identities. Jay Em exclaimed, “This party has become a bore. We’re heading over to the Detroit Club.” I said, “What’s that?” In his thick French accent, Philippe answered, “The club caters to exclusive people. Bon temps.” Jay Em added, “It’s over on Cass Avenue. They have four bowling alleys, several dining rooms, a billiard parlor, a wine cellar, and even a barbershop. It’s quite lavish.” Gamble whispered in my ear, “Many high-ranking Freemasons and Rosicrucians appear from time to time.” I frowned and whispered back, “It sounds dreadful, like I’d be right at home.” He shrugged. “It might be fun.” I threw him a sour expression. “I don’t understand this obsession of yours with these elitist organizations.” “Great power comes from learning from those more informed than oneself. Can’t you see that?” “I guess so. But how do you know they have anything to offer? Black Bottom’s criminals have taught me it’s better to have visible power than to exert it. Maybe these guys have nothing to give. Maybe you’re wasting your time trying to move up their ranks, especially if they aren’t letting you. It’s just common sense.” “I suppose you’re right but it’s hard to it.” I pulled him from his friends and added, “Why do you want it so bad?” “If I learn more about psychology and magic, then perhaps I can help my sister with her psychosis. It’s a dream, but I must try. Wouldn’t you?” “Do you think it’ll help her?”

“Perhaps.” I groaned. “Well, I’m still not convinced magic is real. I wouldn’t put all my stock in it.” Frustration crossed his features, and he whispered sternly, “I’ve taken her to doctors and tried everything. Thinking creatively might help.” I raised my voice. “Or… she may never again be the woman you knew.” “I don’t accept that.” He slammed his fist against the wall. Eyes turned in our direction. His friends noticed his agitation but remained in their circle chatting. I placed my hand on his shoulder to calm him. I whispered, “Well, you should. Sometimes in life things can’t move backwards. I know that firsthand.” “Yeah, maybe. But it’s too much pressure.” Without thinking, I blurted, “She’s not your responsibility.” His friends looked again, as my comment hung in the air, until it hit the ground hard. Losing his patience, Gamble snapped, “Whose responsibility then? If I can’t help her, who will?” “That’s just it. Maybe you can’t help her. Maybe it’s just life, like my parents dying. I couldn’t do anything about it, and I now have to live with it.” He thrust his back into the wall with annoyance. He lit a Lucky and took a drag. A large plume of smoke traveled to the ceiling. He turned his head away from me in disgust. “Did I say something wrong?” I asked. He remained silent. “If I said something wrong, I apologize.” He remained aloof, got fed up, and strode to the bar. Embarrassment overcame me as I noticed his friends eyeing us. I flashed a meek smile their way. Out of the crowd, Annabel approached Gamble. They engaged in conversation. I

maneuvered closer as nonchalant as possible. I approached the bar’s other end. Jake, a fella I danced with on occasion, sat flipping through a book. Since the party raged around him, I found this odd. I started a conversation. “Is that a new Bogie Book?” Jake regarded me. “Yeah, sure is.” I leaned into him to see the book’s interior. The Dennison Manufacturing Company published these Halloween-themed craft and party books filled with ideas for decorations and costumes. As he flipped through some pages, I feigned interest but I listened to Gamble and Annabel’s conversation. Annabel said, “You don’t come in here too often. Some lass got your attention?” Gamble murmured, “I don’t like big crowds is all.” “Then, why come here on Halloween, silly?” “Dominique invited me.” Her voice lowered as she said, “Oh her. I don’t see you together much. Is she just a friend?” Anger welled up in me but I contained it. Gamble didn’t answer right away. My heart burned with fury. After a few seconds he said, “Yeah, I suppose we’re just friends.” His answer hit me like a blow. She raised her hand in the air as if she won the lottery, laughed like a maudlin comedian, and howled, “Then buy me a drink… you silly… handsome man.” My attention left the book as I watched my guy purchase that floozy a drink. Wrath brewed inside me. Before I reacted, a voice came from behind. “Dominique, my darling, is that you?” I turned to see Victor Shelton swaying drunk. His eyes leered at my breasts like they turned into meat pies on a deserted island. He slurred, “I haven’t seen you… in a long time.”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy.” I spoke to him but my attention remained on Gamble and Annabel. “What have you been doing?” “Nothing special. Just the same old stuff.” Victor placed his whiskey on the rail and said, “Dominique, why haven’t we gone… to a movie… or something more familiar?” Startled by his forthrightness, I said, “Victor, I’m not that kind of girl.” “No, you’re hearing me… all wrong, all wrong. We should go to one.” I glanced over at Gamble and Annabel chatting and laughing. Annabel placed her gloved hand on Gamble’s shoulder and leaned into him. Her breasts touched his arm. I looked at Victor and said, “What movie?” Victor shrugged. “Any kind.” “Can I think about it, Victor? I have a lot going on.” “Okay, sure. In the meantime… can I buy you a beverage?” “Whatever floats your boat.” Victor bought us drinks as I considered his proposal. Gamble and I didn’t have exclusivity. We never discussed it. Maybe our relationship was less serious than I thought. I scanned the room deep in contemplation as Victor chatted with Lonnie. People played games such as the pumpkin ring-toss and apple bobbing. Back then, bobbing for apples involved women marking their fruit before tossing them into the tub. The men bobbed to find their future romantic matches. Why couldn’t it be that easy? I heard Gamble say, “What’s going on here?” I turned toward him. Victor placed his arm around my shoulder. Victor said, “Nothing. What does it look like?” Gamble returned, “It looks like you’re trying to steal my girl, Vic.”

Victor laughed in a drunken slur. “The lady can choose…” The surrounding people tensed. Gamble’s drawn voice said, “Victor, you’re my friend… But you’re walking on thin ice. Don’t be a creep.” Victor just smiled and repeated, “She can choose… I’m just providing her with more opportunities.” Gamble’s face changed to surprise like somebody struck him. His disbelief reminded me of someone who didn’t know a mortal blow landed. Before either man said more, they lunged at each other. Sixes erupted into action as the two men landed blows. Off-duty police tried to get in the middle. Nodin barked at the two men as Kish tried to stifle the dog’s outburst. After the scuffle ended, and people pulled the two men apart, blood dripped from Gamble’s mouth and Victor groomed a black eye. With sudden remorse, I wanted to leave. People would judge me, so I stayed in silence unsure what to do or to say. Marie spoke first. “We don’t allow roughhousing in here. If you boys continue to have a problem, I won’t allow you back.” She shot a glance at me. I gave her a weak smile that said, “I’m sorry this happened, but I never intended it.” She gave me a disapproving glare, but it broke quickly. Moxie came and touched my shoulder and Kish also approached with Nodin trotting at her side. The music stopped. People mumbled comments like “that will end the party” or “that was weird” or “rich guys always do so-and-so.” Frank Edwards tried to get the truth by asking questions like who started it, who was at fault, et cetera, but they each told different stories. As if the evening couldn’t get any worse, Ruth entered the building fumbling around as if struggling to return to the living. My linen shroud dream replayed through my mind. As she stumbled about, she seemed to consume energy from everybody around her. She flocked to her brother and glared at me. One by one, all the rich folk exited the party. Taxi dancers and a few stragglers remained

behind. Ruth said, “You love having men fight over you, don’t you?” Her cynical, unearthly smile tore into me. I said, “It’s not my fault. Boys will be boys.” She smirked, but the gesture appeared false. She said, “Girls will be girls too.” “What are you implying?” I asked. She shrugged. “Girls with low self-esteem often want men to fight over them. That’s all.” Rage overcame me but I stifled it. Through gritted teeth I spewed, “You have serious mental problems, don’t you?” She appeared startled. A realization spread over her expression. “Gamble never told you what happened. Did he leave the most exciting part of our story out?” Exciting part? I asked, “What are you trying to say?” “Nothing. I’m merely curious that my brother would withhold that much information from his lover.” Confusion gripped me as I stared her in the eye. “He told me about your illness and why you’re creepy.” “It sounds like he never told you what happened. They talk to me, you know… the faces behind the bricks. Before the accident, I never heard them. They never spoke. I can thank my brother for hearing them.” Anxiety crept over my heart as her words chilled me. What did she mean by accident? I didn’t know what to say. Before I could manage anything, Ruth turned and fled into the crowd. Exhausted from what transpired I slumped into a bar stool as I watched many of the guests leave. Halloween’s jovial spell came to its conclusion. Marie came over and asked, “What’s the matter? You look down.”

“It’s nothing,” I said pretending happiness, but she saw through it. “I’m not angry with you. But if you want my advice, leave Gamble behind before he drags you down. He’s a dangerous fella. Most rich guys are. They don’t play by the same rules as you and me. Back in the day, I knew a gal who ended up in a ditch after dating rich. I’d hate for that to happen to you.” I nodded in defeat. “I suppose you’re right, but he’s a special guy.” Marie nodded. She waited a moment and then said, “He’s got you doing that laudanum, doesn’t he?” Her matter-of-fact expression revealed her intelligence. I looked around to see if anyone heard. Thankfully, nobody had. I asked, “How do you know about it?” “It’s my job to know about people. Information comes in handy.” My eyes widened. She waved her hands around and said, “I won’t turn him in or blackmail him. It’s good to have insurance with powerful people. One can never tell what they’ll do if cornered.” “Yes, I suppose so.” “You got too good a heart, darling,” she said. If she only knew behind the scenes, she wouldn’t say nice things about me. She added, “Your problem is you have too many secrets.” My eyes fell to the floor, and I said, “Doesn’t everyone?”

1 October 1976

Ruth recoiled before me with her withered face a gruesome death mask. Her menacing shadow loomed over the entire maze’s black and white tile floor. She raised her boney finger to her lips. Derision crept across her rictus slash of a mouth and it transformed into an eerie smile. After a moment, she lowered her finger and opened her mouth wider than possible. From the darkness, a creature sprouted from behind her teeth. An eagle’s face lunged forward. The beast’s giant wingspan struggled to unfold as the creature exited her mouth. A lion’s body, tail, and hind legs ended with an amorphous eagle’s head and talons. The monstrosity lunged for me. I withdrew in fear. A single talon scratched my face. A flash of light erupted from the wound. Then, only darkness. The beast blinded me, but I heard the words—“Everything flows with tides, out and in. All things rise and fall.” Christmas carols came from shiny black player pianos throughout the J.L. Hudson Company, a retail department store on Woodward Avenue. Gamble and I walked through the toy department. Decorations dazzled our eyes as we strolled down each aisle in silence. We wandered around observing children running from one display to the next, begging their parents for Christmas contraband like Raggedy Ann dolls, Snakes and Ladders games, and Crayola crayons. People basked in the holiday cheer of the winter solstice, but our thoughts lingered miles apart. Ever since the brawl on Halloween bitter fights persisted. Neither person wanted them, but they came. Neither person acknowledged the signs, but we understood the causes. Reoccurring dreams of his sister haunted my nights. In some, she morphed into horrific monsters. In others, she tried to kill me. I hated his sister, and he hated my secrets. Neither of us had children, but Gamble wanted to purchase things for the orphanage near Black Bottom. While we strolled through the store looking for presents, I contemplated on whether to tell him about my dreams. We walked past a dollhouse aisle as I confessed the most recent nightmare’s details.

He pondered the dream. I studied a pink wooden dollhouse as I waited for his insight. Finally, he said, “The creature sounds like a griffin, half-lion and halfeagle. One, king of the land. The other, king of the sky. In heraldry, it’s the Christian symbol for divine power, a guardian of treasure.” “How does that relate to your sister?” I asked. “I’m not sure. It might reference our relationship. Griffins mate for life. If a partner dies, then the survivor never searches for a new companion.” I inspected an expensive boudoir doll designed to sit on its owner’s bed. As a gorgeous object, the creators didn’t make it for children. A mysterious quality about it drew me to inspect the toy more. Absently, I asked, “What about the blinding?” He noticed my fixation on the doll. He touched my shoulder. “Do you want that?” I shook my head and said, “No. It’s too expensive and I have no use for it. You didn’t answer my question.” He made a peculiar face and said, “In esoteric thought, a griffin’s claw has medicinal properties. Its feathers restore sight to the blind, so I’m not sure why the opposite effect happened.” I continued to study the doll and said, “This doll reminds me of your sister.” “In what way?” he asked. “It’s beautiful and wooden, but it costs too much. It’s lifeless. Dead, but it keeps up appearances.” He sighed and stated, “Is that supposed to be a joke?” “Not really.” He nodded as if my comment didn’t affect him, but as he moved away from me to inspect a Little Daisy, Model 20 BB rifle his body language read differently.

Gamble whirled back toward me and said, “Have I ever mentioned H. H. Schultze?” “Not that I . Who’s that?” “He’s a brilliant man. I’ve corresponded with him for several years. We discuss the finer points of ceremonial magic. He lives in Los Angeles, which has become a hotbed for magical thinking as of late.” “How did you meet him?” “At a book conference of all places. We were at an esoteric publisher’s booth. We struck up a conversation about Aleister Crowley. He met the man a few years earlier in Europe. I grilled him for several hours over coffee. I mentioned Crowley’s brief time in Detroit.” “Crowley’s that fella you always mention, the magician?” “Yes. I heard of Crowley through my lodge and I’ve been trying to get his works, but they’re very difficult to get. I exchanged addresses with Schultze, and lo-and-behold, I received a signed copy of Crowley’s The Book of Lies in the mail a few weeks later.” I moved to appraise more dolls as I stated, “That’s considerate.” “Ever since that moment we’ve discussed the finer points of esoteric philosophy as pen pals.” “Did you ever meet him again?” His expression became disappointed but cagey. “Yeah, once, but I plan on heading out west to California soon to pay him another visit.” I frowned. “What do you discuss in your letters?” “We talk about rituals and synchronicities. Ceremonial practice and how it affects our lives. He’s well read on the subject, and in some ways, he’s more my teacher than Clay could ever be.” He paused and winked. “But never tell Clay that.”

“No, definitely not.” “We talk about friends and pen pals. I even mentioned you.” “What did you say?” “I told him you’re curious about magic.” “Really?” He nodded. “Yes. And he studies cults.” I frowned again. “Why does he do that? Cults are dreadful things.” “He’s fascinated with group-think, with the egregore. He also thinks we can learn much from cults.” “Like what?” Next, he frowned. He fiddled with another toy and said, “Well, most religions are cults, albeit accepted ones. We glean ceremonial ideas from their rituals and practices.” I sighed. “I suppose you’re right. But aren’t Rosicrucians in a cult?” A red shape caught my eye. “Hey, look. Santa’s over there.” I steered us toward the Santa display near the rear of the store. He turned to the man in the red suit. He shrugged dismissing Saint Nick. Instead he explained, “Schultze estimates that four-hundred cults are active in Southern California. hips number in the hundreds of thousands.” “Are there any in Michigan?” I asked as I pulled him toward the line waiting for the big red man. He relented, but I knew he thought it silly. He continued with his cults. “The House of David up in Benton Harbor. I suppose Benny’s group acts like a cult. He holds a mass in his basement. I find it fascinating but I’ve never been.” “So you’re gonna go to California to a cult?” I continued to drag him. “No. Never. That’s not my style. I prefer liberty over servitude. I did, however,

meet and learn from several people while I visited last time, but there’s a difference between fraternal societies and personality worship.” We stopped in front of the meandering line. I frowned at the queue and asked, “Is that the only thing Schultze offers? Jeez Louise, this line is long.” He ignored the queue and instead continued his train of thought. “Like I stated before, he’s a Crowley scholar. He knows a lot about Leila Waddell too, one of Crowley’s lovers. An accomplished musician and a writer herself, she studied the occult, took mescaline, and performed the Rites of Eleusis with him. Waddell became his most powerful muse.” “She sounds like an interesting woman.” “Yes, she was.” I changed the subject. “This is all interesting, but we need to discuss something.” I paused, and as an afterthought, I added, “Your sister is a problem.” He sighed and looked the other direction. “She’s my sister.” “I know but she hates me.” “She doesn’t hate you. It’s just that she’s protective of me and she doesn’t like to share.” I barked, “She’s not your wife, for Christ’s sake.” “No, she isn’t. I know.” “Then, why does she act like one?” “I don’t know. Since her illness, it’s just the way she is.” He tried to change the subject by saying, “Well, what about you? You have all these secrets that you won’t tell me. How do I know you’re telling me the truth about New York? Maybe you’re cheating on me.” Anger overcame me. “I’m not cheating on you. Do you think I’d do that?” “No, but you never explained much about your past in New York. Every friend

you have works at Sixes. Do you have any old friends? You mention nobody, ever. You have days where I don’t see you and you don’t say where you’ve been. What should I think?” I thought about it. Time ed. Silence descended on the conversation, until I said, “Gamble, we all have secrets.” “Not like yours. I know nothing about New York except that your parents died, and a thief knifed you once. That’s it. It was several formative years of your life.” “What about your vow to the order? What happens behind those closed doors? That’s a secret, isn’t it?” “That’s different.” “How on earth is that different? People have secrets. Everybody does. How are your secrets more important than mine?” He didn’t answer. He pretended to look at a Knickerbocker Teddy Bear and moved away from me. I grew angry as rage boiled in my heart. Out of anger, I said, “You’re a coward. You let your sister control your life.” He spat back, “I’m no coward. I face things most people would never dream of —including your precious secrecy.” The air filled with tension. Our conversation took a sudden turn into dreadful territory, but it was too late. We waited at the end of the Santa line in silence. My spirits sank and his feelings seemed indiscernible. After several minutes, I said, “So where do we stand?” He stared at the ground, fidgeted with his snack, and then said, “I don’t know. Where do we stand?” I grew angry. “I thought we had something. I thought this was special. Now, I don’t know.” “It is special.” “More special than your sister or Annabel?”

He sighed and said, “Where do you get the brass to say such a thing? I can’t abandon my sister. She needs me. And as far as Annabel, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” “Ruth doesn’t need you. She needs a doctor. She feeds off you like a succubus.” “No, that isn’t true. She wouldn’t. Trust me.” I said, “How can I trust you when you lie about everything? If you’re lying to Ruth , then maybe you’re lying to me.” “I don’t want to lie to anybody. I didn’t ask for this.” I bellowed, “You didn’t ask for it, but you didn’t turn it away either.” “I know. Every day I regret what I’ve done. I regret sneaking around.” Anger raged within me. “You regret this?” He sighed once more. “That’s not what I meant. I just don’t enjoy lying.” “Then tell her, or leave me. You can’t have both.” “Why not? I want you. But it’s complicated. You don’t understand how difficult Ruth is. You just don’t understand. I take care of her and she needs me.” “And what if I need you?” He stared into space with no answer. I waited in line behind him, though a few feet back. I turned my head away with displeasure. Terrible thoughts filled my mind. Why can’t he tell her? It’s going nowhere. It can’t. He’s chained to his sister’s psychosis. I should have never involved myself with him. Marie warned me. Gamble pleaded, “Come here… please.” “No.” But it came like a croak. He glanced back at me. I caught his eye but looked the other way. I added, “You don’t understand what you’re putting me through, do you?” He searched his feelings. “I’m not trying to hurt you. Do you realize the burden

it’s been for me?” “Why can’t you level with her? What will it hurt?” He tried to turn the argument around by saying, “You have all these secrets, but you never tell me them. It’s like trying to pry a door open with a noodle.” “There are things about me you won’t understand. And you’re changing the subject.” I paused a second to gather my thoughts and added, “You and your libertine ways. You’re a dope addict and you’ve tried to make me one. Did you get that from Crowley?” “I’m in control.” I said, “How can you talk of control when you’re addicted to laudanum?” “Complete knowledge of oneself is difficult to attain, but I’m trying. I’m trying hard.” I nodded, but I didn’t believe him. He turned away from me and revealed, “I didn’t want to tell you this—under these circumstances—but in two days I’m leaving for Los Angeles.”

2 October 1976

Today, my handlers brought letters from my stored belongings. Memories of the past returned as I went through them. Like sentimental talismans that revive our secret selves, minutiae appear when one least expects. While rummaging through a desk or a box, a photo or a letter materializes, and it delivers an overwhelming nostalgic surge. Feelings—the good, the bad, the suppressed— overflow one’s thoughts with reminiscence. A snapshot transports the viewer back to a singular moment. A letter brings back a lost beloved’s voice making them alive in the present. Still, memories become whatever we wish eventually, but time erodes memory like a river cutting through a mountain. Time never lies. And love is the antithesis of time. While time moves forward, love compels us to stay where adoration began, to cling to it. Each force remains a mystery humanity will never reconcile. Both provide revelation. Both torment us with loss. Both produce regrets. Repeatedly, we relent to them. People often say destiny has a plan. I’m not sure I agree. For me, it’s a strong wind against a house of cards. It tears lives asunder. It breaks down what we build like a tide that cleans a beach of debris. In and out, it moves. As it retreats, we consider, plan, and build. As it rolls in, destruction ensues. As it retreats again, we stand awestruck as it pulls away the people we cherish. Each time, our hearts erode with the retreat. By the end of 1927, I imagined Gamble leaving me forever. However, I couldn’t have been more wrong, but that didn’t make it any easier. When love leaves, it steals our essence, that furtive energy that becomes difficult to replenish as time moves forward. Nothing compares to it. Nothing fits. Love binds us as time tears us apart. The more impossible the love, the stronger the cure needed to overcome it. The more time needed to forget, the more lies we invent to ease pain. Gamble sent me many missives from his time in California. Each illustrated his love and his yearning to see me once again. I still his eyes from those last moments in Hudson’s—fiery and empathic, sweet yet hard. There’s one thing I know for certain: he never looked at anyone the way he beheld me. After

the tussle in Hudson’s, I thought our eyes would never connect in that special patois again. I always intended to love him despite the setbacks. Did he feel the same? These letters, say he did. But life has a way of dismantling our best intentions. If only I had confessed my secret sooner.

Monday, 16 January 1928 Los Angeles, California Dearest Dominique, I miss you terribly. I miss our long talks of magic and mystery. I yearn for your luscious body against mine. Despite my homesickness and my longing to be next to you, I’ve kept busy. Schultze and I work to dig deeper into what magic offers. I’ve learned so much from him about occult philosophy. In our off days, we explore Los Angeles together. It’s a wondrous city filled with marvels, but there’s too much artifice. Last Tuesday, we even ventured to Santa Monica, west of downtown Los Angeles. Palisades Park surrounds Santa Monica Beach, with views over the Pacific Ocean which reminded me of Lake Huron. It was a magnificent day, but it made me homesick. Thoughts of Belle Isle and our wonderful trip made the rest of my day filled with sorrow. Our kiss under the fountain still fills my thoughts with yearning. I try to divert these thoughts by studying like a monastic. Schultze introduced me to many books on magic. I became fascinated with the sigils of Austin Osman Spare from his ‘Book of Pleasure.’ Another of his works, ‘The Focus of Life,’ has also intrigued me. In my free time, what little I have, I devour the works of Edgar Allan Poe, which

as you know, Baudelaire ired, and he ed his influence on to Mallarmé and Verlaine. One day, I want to visit with you and experience the wonders that Philippe and Emilienne speak of so often. Like you, Schultze doesn’t trust electricity, so I read by candlelight. Every time I light a candle, you enter my thoughts. I’m reminded of last year at the Fort Shelby. Sometimes I even smell oranges and I hear our song. Around the dinner table, Schultze and I debate anarchism. As you know, I’m in favor of individual free choice, and the moral responsibility that comes with it. Schultze carries different ideas that veer towards communism. But not in the usual sense. He respects Karl Marx but Schultze has his own ideas. We argue. I embrace Godwin’s ideas that idealistic liberalism comes from absolute sovereignty. Reasonable competence determines correct living. The individual remains most important. I refuse conventional government. We should build small self-sustaining communities and reject social institutions. They carry too many categorizations, preconceived ideas, and they stifle creativity. Schultze’s communistic ideas are intriguing but they’ll never work. I keep trying to get him to read Max Stirner’s ‘The Ego and Its Own,’ but he keeps turning me down. His loss, I guess. Two days ago, I met some intriguing individuals. If you venture out this way, look them up. First, Alice Bailey is an expert on meditation, healing, and spiritual psychology. Her work fascinates me. She claims to dictate her writings from an invisible master she refers to as “the Tibetan.” In many respects, her work resembles Madame Blavatsky of Theosophy fame. Bailey founded a meditation center called the Arcane School. It provides educational correspondence, meditation instruction, and guided study based on her writings. She also owns a publishing company called Lucis Publishing. She’s an incredible woman and I’m certain you would get on with her. The second person I’ve been talking with is a chap named Manly P. Hall. He’s a respected lecturer and esoteric scholar. He told me he’s working on a massive tome that’s an encyclopedia of ancient knowledge. It will catalogue the most practical elements of classical idealism, Hermetic teachings, and Rosicrucian symbolic philosophy. He has this idea for a research society that will publish works on magical theory. His secretary, Fay, gave me ideas of places to visit around town. He’s even given me signed copies of his books ‘The Lost Keys of

Freemasonry’ and ‘The Initiates of the Flame.’ He’s a mystifying man but I’m sure you would find him intriguing. He reminds me of Clay, but much younger. Schultze has shown me what it means to be a magician. He has wisdom far beyond his years and he seems to know what’s right for me. He has helped sort out my feelings toward my sister. When I return, I’ll tell Ruth to leave us alone. I’ve made my mind up about it. If you’ll still have me, I would love to be yours. I can’t live without you and I count the days until my return. Yours truly, Jonathan Gamble Blackburn

3 October 1976

The Fourth of July 1928 came and went. Almost six months ed, several long months of letters, but not resolution, no finality. Once or twice, we talked on the coin-operated phone booth at the Fort Shelby, but it cost me a fortune even for a short call. Our whirlwind romance sputtered to a halt. Throughout Gamble’s letters, he professed his love, repeatedly. His written endearments became repetitive without the joy of speaking or physical , and they gave me false hope. I still loved the man but distance made my affections fade. Time ed with me in a somnambulant state. Hangovers plagued my days because I drowned my sorrows most nights. I ed Prudence in the hall and barely spoke to her. I didn’t want to deal with her nosiness. I traveled with my head down, eyes to the pavement. A few times, I ran into Sgt. Joseph and delivered my envelopes. I stayed present at work but my heart wasn’t in it and people knew. Marie became more cross with me as my dancing suffered. At the end of the shift, I drowned myself in absinthe and laudanum—one of Gamble’s drug s made sure. I didn’t, however, have Gamble’s fortune, so I struggled to pay my bills and feed the dragon. Defeated, I wanted out, to break my habits, but I didn’t know how to do it. Questions ran through my head. Would he ever come back? Did he leave because of our argument in Hudson’s? Why has it been so long? I couldn’t think straight. My heart emptied. The city changed at a rapid rate. Elites erected many buildings including the Guardian, the Fisher, and the Fox Theater. Even Hudson’s got an addition. The Ford River Rouge Complex in Dearborn became the largest integrated automobile factory in the world. Many important events came and went without my lover next to me. Disney released the landmark Mickey and Minnie Mouse film Plane Crazy. Authorities electrocuted murderer Ruth Snyder at Sing Sing. Jean Lussier jumped from Niagara Falls. But my thoughts dwelled on him. Was he ever coming back? Did he still love me? Moxie tried to help, but her pep talks did little for my mood. One evening at Sixes, she had enough. She pulled me aside. I followed her to an alcove, and we sat down. She drew the curtain.

Bluntly she said, “It’s done. Move on.” I croaked the words, “I can’t.” “Why not? He’s just a fella. He’s no Valentino or anything. Other guppies swim in the sea.” “Melody, guppies are freshwater fish.” “They are?” “Yeah, they are. But you don’t know him like I do. Mysterious things remain hidden about him. I think I’m addicted to him. It’s his mind. It’s the way he sees things. He opened my eyes to something indescribable and I want more…” My voice cracked. “But I can’t have it.” “Yeah, and now he’s gone. Is he ever coming back?” “I don’t know. He said he was.” “It’s been six months. Don’t you think it’s time to move on?” My eyes fell to the table. I couldn’t look her in the eye because her truth judged me. In those days, six months wasn’t long. Transportation moved slower. If people went on a trip, it became a long haul. Instead of agreeing with her, I said, “I can’t let go. It doesn’t matter if it’s six months or six years. There’s nobody like him and our connection binds me so. Even with him on the continent’s far side, I feel it. I dream about him almost every night. I’ve been drinking so much to forget, to banish him, but he always comes back.” She frowned. “That’s because you won’t let it die. Let go. It’s eating you alive. I see it.” “Yeah, I know. You’re right. I’ll try.” I turned my attention past the curtain into the room and stared into space. After many moments of contemplation, I said, “Maybe I should leave Detroit.” Moxie’s eyes widened. With a deep breath, she asked, “Is that the best thing? You have a good gig here. Where would you go?”

I tapped my finger on the table as I thought, and then I said, “Probably not to the ocean. No guppies there.” I elbowed her, and she frowned again. I said, “I guess I could go to . I have a cousin who lives there. It would cost a lot, but I’ve always wanted to go. I don’t know.” Moxie thought about it a moment and then said, “If it’s what you have to do, I’ll it. I can’t lie though. I’d be sad to see you go. You’re my best friend.” We hugged, and I said, “You’re mine too. I love you, Moxie.” The following evening in my lonely apartment, I prepared the laudanum in silence and despair. I needed withdrawal, from him and his dope but I couldn’t. Each addiction controlled me. I considered allegories that mirrored my struggle with my addictions; Pinocchio’s Land of Toys, the place where boys and girls act as they please without recrimination, but it’s a grotesque pleasure prison; Peter Pan’s Marooners’ Rock, the most dangerous place in Neverland, where Pan faced impending death by drowning, as he couldn’t swim or fly from the sea that rose around him. I felt trapped and empty. I arrived at what Saint John of the Cross called The Dark Night of the Soul. I fell into a spiritual crisis with a psychic transformation toward union with the universe, or God, or whatever one wants to name it. I never considered myself religious, but spiritual iconography appeared in my drug visions. Did God speak to me through these hallucinations? I’m not sure, but hours ed as I stared at an empty wall or out at the night sky from my balcony. Messages from the universe countered Gamble’s absence. A phrase he said in a letter popped up in my daily life. For example, Gamble might mention an animal he saw and then it came in a dream. Or maybe I read about an occultist on a Friday, and then Gamble mentioned it in a letter the following Monday. These coincidences became disconcerting, but they intrigued me more. Magic became real for me. Tangible. I have no explanation for these occurrences, though I’m certain they happened. Meaning existed within them. One might say I read into these happenstances with too much importance. But one might also say that the experiential connections happened and the correlation between them rang true. It became a conundrum I couldn’t solve. Gamble changed me, I knew it, but I became lost without his presence, his guidance. All these synchronicities grew difficult to process. I needed him. In many ways. I yearned for his return but the days ed and the letters came with less frequency. Did he forget me? Was it

over? I had no answers. Even my body called to him. I yearned for his chest pressed against mine—the way he touched me. His assertive caress always made me crave more. I missed his assuredness. I ached for his kisses and eye . A void stole the warmth I once felt—a dissatisfactory emptiness that made me see how hollow my life had been before our meeting. Some nights, I thought of him with reverence. Other nights, rage took me and I cursed his name into Zeus’ high home. Before I banished him from my life forever, I received another letter. In it, he mentioned one Max Heindel, a Rosicrucian author. In 1907, Heindel traveled to Berlin with a Dr. Alma Von Brandis, who had been for months trying to persuade him to attend lectures by the occultist Rudolf Steiner, the founder of Anthroposophy. The pair sat in on several speeches by Steiner. Heindel even interviewed Steiner a few times. According to Gamble, a spiritual being came to Heindel one night and identified itself as an Elder Brother of the Rosicrucian Order. A dweller of the inner worlds, the Elder Brother gave Heindel information that went beyond anything the man might imagine. The being gave Heindel instructions on how to reach the etheric Temple of the Rose Cross. The spirit also claimed that twelve etheric Elder Brothers gathered around a thirteenth who acted as the order’s invisible leader. These great adepts belonged to human evolution but advanced beyond rebirth. Heindel called them the College of Invisibles. Reading about the College of Invisibles gave me an idea. I prepared my normal drug mixture, ingested it, rested on my bed, and then tried to relax. I put myself in a trance meditation like Gamble instructed me to do several months prior in the Fort Shelby. I let go of my conscious self and waited. My breathing became regular. As I breathed… I counted four seconds in. Held my breath.

And then exhaled four seconds out. As I did it, my heart calmed. I did nothing but breathe. After many breathing cycles, the room faded away. The more I breathed, the more I relaxed, and the more I transcended material reality. Before long, my etheric body separated from my physical form and my spirit hovered above the bed. I moved in the air toward the window—the astral body flew as I let go of material concerns and floated away. In a flash, I appeared in Gamble’s room. He sat at a table. Candlelight provided a dim glow as he stuck his nose into a thick book. I tried to get his attention, but he ignored me. He couldn’t see me. I floated above him around the small room. How did it happen? A sharp pain erupted in my hand. Many phantom needles pierced my skin. I snapped back into my material body and woke. The piercing pain of my hand asleep woke me and ended my astral projection. The following day I received a telegram from Gamble that read:

Almost finished with work. Should be home in a month. I hope you’re still around. Love you.

4 October 1976

Afew more months ed in heartbreak. I experimented more with astral projection. I also tried my hand at psychographs, or automatic writing. I put myself into a trance and let my unconscious guide the pencil. After many failed attempts to Gamble with each method, I gave up. Yearning for more magical instruction, I tried to the Order of the Eastern Star, but only women with specific Masonic relatives could become . Sometimes, Gamble’s circle came into Sixes but they didn’t want to instruct me because it might infringe upon their friendship with the man I lost to California. My despair reached a new low. I never felt that way. Despite opioids being difficult to quit, I left laudanum cold turkey and moved on with my life. During my comedown, one question plagued me. How long had it been since our hearts convened? Each day, the answer gnawed at me. Love left an ugly mark. My feelings toward the man I loved ran the emotional gamut. Adoration. Worship. Confusion. Hatred. Defeat. Regret. Hope. Expectation. One couldn’t deny his impact on my life. He was my signpost, my Psychopomp, but most of all, my magician. He offered a crossroads, a fork in the road. Had I avoided it, what would I be today? Surely not the woman I became. After my withdrawal period and in a fit of heartache, I agreed to a blind date that Marie set up on the first of September. The man lived in Hamtramck; a Polish community close to Black Bottom. Polish immigrants flooded the area when the Dodge Brothers plant opened in 1914, so the area contained many Polish stores and restaurants. I met the man, Szymon, at a small rathskeller under a gentleman’s boarding house on Yemans Street. The place served dill soup, mushroom soup, roast pork, the occasional roast chicken, and sauerkraut. I entered the restaurant and regretted my decision. Szymon raised his hand at a back table against the wall. It was unnecessary because his demeanor gave him away. I ed him with reluctance. An orangutan with little manners, the brute sat across from me devouring his chicken and dill soup.

Between soup gulps, the man used his thick Polish accent to say, “What do you do for a living?” “I work at a café.” “How’s that?” “It pays.” After a few more slurps, he nodded. “What do you do for kicks?” “I don’t know.” I paused and thought about it. “I read. For the last two years, I’ve been studying magic. It’s fascinating. Recently, I devoured Madame Blavatsky’s Isis Unveiled. It was rather compelling. Astral projection and psychographs have been my focuses as of late, but I—” He cut me off. “Magic? You mean like Houdini?” My heart plummeted like a cut elevator. I caught it before it hit the floor but my thoughts went to my first conversation with Gamble. The hobgoblin would never understand. I mumbled, “No, not like Houdini. I mean real magic.” I stared at the bar wishing for this to finish. He continued eating his chicken. In between pulls of meat, he said, “There’s no real magic. Everybody knows that.” “But what if it could be real?” He slurped away at his drink, and then after said, “Nope. No way. It’s impossible.” “What if I could prove it to you?” “Fat chance.” “What if we made a wager?” I asked. “Nope. I’m not taking your money.” His expression made his stance obvious. The conversation ended. I felt drained. Gamble and I had a unique relationship; the brute would never understand.

Gamble brought up magic because he understood my openness to new ideas even if I didn’t understand that about myself. His hands tore the bones apart as his mouth sucked gristle from the carcass. Again, I locked eyes on the bar to not spill my lunch. As I gazed at the bartender polishing glasses, my thoughts drifted to my departed lover. How could I go on without him? Gamble’s effect upon me created a tempest in my heart. His time absent made me nauseous on good days and sobbing to my heart’s end on bad ones. The troglodyte who sat before me confirmed I needed a man of Gamble’s quality in my life. After a few more minutes of his grotesque munching, I stood and said, “I’m sorry, Szymon. I don’t think this will work.” I dropped money on the table, climbed the stairs, and exited the restaurant. I hit the pavement and sprinted down the street glancing back like a criminal fleeing the scene. After a block, I slowed to a forced march for a few more blocks. After turning a corner, I peered back to see if Szymon followed, but I didn’t see him. Then, I heard a voice behind me and my heart sank. I turned. Relief washed over me as I realized it was Victor Shelton, not the troglodyte. “Hey, Victor. Long time no see.” “Yeah, I haven’t crossed paths with you for a while. Ever since that incident at Sixes, I’ve tried to avoid the place. I guess it’s been almost a year now, hasn’t it?” “Yeah, about that long.” He frowned, glanced down the street, and asked, “What have you been doing?” “Nothing much. Just sticking to myself.” “Have you heard from him?” “A little but not in some time.” “I feel guilty about that fight. I was drunk. It isn’t in my nature to do something

of that sort. I’m sorry.” “It’s okay. People often do things they don’t mean.” “I suppose. Hey, would you like to get some tea with me? I’m on my way there.” “Ah, I can’t Victor. I’m on my way home. Maybe some other time.” By his eyes, he understood that Gamble’s presence lingered despite his friend’s absence. As Victor nodded and strolled away, I never felt such heartbreak. I wanted to retreat to my house and drink that green concoction, to fade away and not think about it. Gamble’s precious laudanum beckoned to me, and I needed its wisdom. After that meeting with Victor, my mind went into dark places. The next few weeks became hellish. Thoughts of killing myself plagued me daily. At work, I faked normalcy, but inside, I faded away. I didn’t know what to do. For weeks, I sat in my bed and stared at a wall. Hours ed. Tears came. My thoughts drifted. Sometimes, when I got the will to eat, I tried to make food but soon hunger left me. My health wasted away until Moxie intervened. She came over one day and pounded on my door until I answered. My neighbors yelled irate tirades at my walls because almost thirty minutes ed before I answered the door. Prudence would give me an earful the following day but I didn’t care. When the door opened and Moxie saw me her look confirmed my suspicions. I had become a mess. Holding a wine bottle and oranges, she barreled past me into the kitchen and started making food. She tossed an orange to me and said, “As your doctor, I prescribe vitamin C.” “I’m not hungry.” She frowned. “Tough. Eat it anyway. I’m making some eggs. You like scrambled, right?” I ignored her question as I plopped down into a kitchen chair. As she toiled away before the hot plate, I stared at her. I considered my secret and how it would affect her when she found out.

As she cooked the eggs, I fiddled around with some Mahjong tiles, a game I hadn’t played in months. After several minutes of silence, she spoke. “So, are things any better?” “What do you mean?” “You know damn well what I mean. Jesus Louise, has your head become a cabbage?” I didn’t want to talk about it. Instead, I said, “Has Jay Em been in? I saw Victor. It’s been a long time.” “Yeah, I saw Jay Em a few times. Wow! Victor’s still around?” “Yeah. So what’s going on with you and Jay Em?” She sighed. “Nothing. We’re just friends.” I gave her the eye. She reiterated, “Just friends. I promise. We come from different worlds. If it ever became more, it would be dangerous. He’s too nice of a fella to bring that upon, no matter how I feel about him.” I nodded my head. “Yeah, it’s weird when people feel one way, but they can’t do what they want. Society imposes too many walls.” “Yep, too many pricks judging each other.” My eyes widened at her profanity; she rarely used words with that much punch. She ignored my reaction and added, “I like him. We dance and catch up, but I don’t think it’s meant to be.” She paused, scrambled the eggs, and then added, “Have you thought more about leaving?” I bit my upper lip as I measured my words. “Not just yet. It’s in my mind but I wanna see things play out.” “With Gamble?” “You know me too well, Moxie.”

“I’ve known you a few years. We’ve been through a lot at Sixes.” I nodded. “Yeah, we have.” I changed the subject. “Do you know that guy, Benny?” “The Italian guy who thinks he’s a cult leader?” Moxie asked. She considered it a moment, and added, “Yeah I think so. He comes into Sixes, right? He’s the creepy one.” “Many creepy guys go there. But yes, I think that’s the one I’m talking about.” She stirred the eggs more. “Why do you ask? Did he get fresh?” “No, but I see him around. Almost too much,” I said as I produced two plates and set the table. “Is he following you?” she asked. “Not sure. Gamble told me a lot about him. He seems off his rocker. It’s strange. Since Gamble left, I keep seeing him everywhere. Something tells me there’s a connection. Maybe Gamble had business dealings with him. It’s like Benny watches me to see if Gamble returns. It makes me imagine dark thoughts. Maybe Gamble left for other reasons.” Moxie’s eyes widened as she said, “Do ya think Gamble got into something shady?” I shrugged and answered, “I’m not sure. He never talked much about his business dealings.” I paused and deliberated on whether I should tell my friend. I decided I should. With concern in my voice, I said, “Moxie, this is between you and me…” I walked over to the balcony doors and shut them. Then, I came back to her and whispered, “Gamble smuggles opium into the country from Asia. He makes a laudanum drink whenever he gets the chance. Maybe Gamble made a deal with Benny he can’t deliver. It’s just a thought.” She nodded her head again. “That would make sense. He’s been gone a long time. To be frank, the only reason he might leave you was if he was in danger. He cared about you. You could see it in his eyes.”

I broke down in tears. She turned the burner off and rushed over to me with a hug. As I fell into her arms, I couldn’t hold back the flood any longer. I bawled until we sat on the tile floor holding each other. Eventually, exhausted from worry, I fell asleep in her arms. I woke the next morning to find a roasted chicken in my refrigerator and more fruit on the counter. I also discovered a note. It read: “You better eat because you’re exhausted. Don’t come to Sixes tonight. I’ll talk to Marie about it. And that’s that. No ifs, ands or buts about it.” I did as she instructed. I slept most of the day. That night a disturbing vision visited my dreams. Near the maze’s center, I approached a large house at the apex of two corridors. The comfortable home, painted green with a wide front porch, turned portentous as the clouds moved overhead. I climbed the front steps and knocked on the old door. Nobody answered. I tried the lock. The door moved as I touched the handle. It creaked as it swung wide. With trepidation, I entered the house. Inside, I searched for life signs. After examining many rooms, I entered an office. Then I saw it. Behind a desk, a headless man with his hands folded in his lap as if in prayer sat still in ghastly repose. His severed head rested on the floor near his feet. Without warning, the mouth opened and said the words—“Chance is but a name for law not recognized. Many planes of causation exist, but nothing escapes the law.”

8 October 1976

On Wednesday, 5 October I traveled to the State Theater on Woodward for a picture matinee. Loneliness and misery threatened to bury me so I needed to leave my flat. The German director F. W. Murnau released a picture called 4 Devils. The film starred Janet Gaynor, a favorite actress of mine. I obsessed over Murnau’s Sunrise ever since the previous year, so for the first time in many months, excitement filled my heart—at last an inkling of some emotion other than grief. 4 Devils would bomb at the box office. Oblivious to its failure, I entered the same auditorium where Gamble and I chanced into each other. The empty theater hinted at the film’s fate, but I didn’t care. I sat in my usual seat, Row G, Seat 12. His ghost called from behind me but I ignored it. After a few minutes staring into space, the title card flickered to life on the screen: “William Fox Presents. 4 Devils. F. W. Murnau Production.” With little fanfare, a flashback ensued to the childhood of four orphans in a circus. An old clown raised a pair of brothers and a pair of sisters until the four became adult trapeze artists known as the Four Devils. The circus atmosphere interested me. Sometimes, I considered ing a circus, but I didn’t have any applicable skills. After ten minutes setting up the circus life, a wealthy lady entered the plot and caused trouble when she made advances on a brother named Charles. As a result, Charles spent more time away from the trapeze act. One fateful day, unfocused from his romantic nights with the moneyed woman, Charles tumbled down falling on the security net. A sister, Marion, played by Janet Gaynor, became distraught because of her secret love for Charles. Intending to win him back, Marion made her way to the rich woman’s villa for sinister purposes. Eviscerated by where the story headed, I couldn’t bear more. It hit too close to reality. I stood, grabbed my handbag, and sprinted out the empty theater. I made for the exit in tears. Reflective and sullen, I lingered outside thinking about that early conversation with Gamble in the snow. Cars ed on the street as I imagined myself as Marion, envious and swinging, lost in time, with an

infatuation for a lover who never loved me. Unsure of what to do, I spotted Uncle Jack. He waved to me. I moved toward him sniffling into a hankie. He said, “Hey there.” His body language illustrated uncertainty. I replied with exhaustion, “Hey Jack. How have you been?” I wiped my nose a final time and ran my tongue across my top lip as I considered what to say. He noticed my dour state but said warmly, “I’m excellent. I’m alive. I have a decent job while others don’t. I’m fine.” I nodded. An awkward moment ed. Part of me wanted to head home, but another part didn’t want to be alone just yet. I struck up small talk. “Have you heard about Richard Byrd leaving New York for the Arctic? Isn’t that something?” “No, haven’t heard. But did you hear about that hurricane that took all those innocents down there in Florida? It’s a damned shame, it is.” I shook my head exasperated. I muttered, “There’s so much death in the world, Jack. Why are we even here?” He rolled his lips, pursing them between his false teeth. He thought a moment and said, “Not sure myself. Why do I wake up each day? Been doing it for sixtyaught years. I guess it’s habit. Things go round in circles but stay the same.” “That movie hit me hard, Jack,” I said with candor. “You don’t like the trapeze?” “No, it’s not that. It just resonated with me. Too close to home, you know?” “You’re going through hard times.” His answer sounded like a statement and a question. “A little, Uncle Jack. A little.” He nodded and said, “What’s bugging you?”

“You see right through me, don’t you?” He wiped the ticket booth window with a cloth in silence as he waited for me to explain. “Someone I care about left. I’m not sure if he’s coming back.” I shook my head in doubt. His cloth stopped, and he said, “Oh, now I see.” “It’s silly. It shouldn’t concern me so. I’m a young lady. Other men are out there waiting.” “Can I tell you a story?” “Yes, of course.” “A long time ago when I was in my late twenties, I caught sight of a gorgeous young lady at a restaurant across town. Her smile fit mine, if you understand. Loved her from the start. Too chicken to talk to her. A friend intervened. Long story short, I fell for that woman hard, but we were young. After two precious years, we broke up. Neither person knew what we had. Now, almost thirty years later she never leaves my thoughts. Always there, but always gone.” “What happened to her? Why didn’t you try to get her back?” “I did. A few years later I found out she married. It broke me something fierce but I couldn’t do anything. Ten years after that, I heard she died. It left me hollow. Still am in some ways, but it also lined me with gold. Best two years of my life. And they never go away. That’s the funny thing about memory. I’m glad I still have part of her.” Tears welled up again. I pushed them back. He continued. “Love leaves a gooey mess. Life’s short. Some things never last. But then one wonders: Did I do everything I could to keep it?” “I love him. What should I do?” “Is his love worth keeping?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I think so.” “Then, I’d wait longer. What would it hurt?” I looked to the street. I felt foolish telling the man my concerns. He smiled and said, “Wait here a sec. Be right back.” He wobbled into the theater. After a few minutes, he returned with a small bag of caramel corn. He handed the bag to me with a smile and a wink. “On the house.” I smiled back and accepted his gift. “Thanks, Uncle Jack. This is just what I need.” I turned and started my walk home. Waving with gratitude as I left the theater and the old man behind, the incomplete movie played out in my mind’s eye. Its second half wasn’t essential to understand the ending; the tragedy paralleled my own. As I walked and munched on the corn, Romeo and Juliet’s misfortune ran through my thoughts. Doom waited for Gamble and I. Like Tristan and Isolde did all star-crossed lovers come to tragic ends? These thoughts troubled me as my eyes looked far down the road. I yearned for snow to make heartbreak complete. Thinking about those crisp years of early adulthood brings up our naivety, and a freshness exists in a love not yet jaded by the world, that unadulterated melding into the other person. It carries purity but a predictable fate looms large. After that, weakness reveals its ugliness and complicates matters. It’s simple watching a motion picture. A movie’s narrative has a linear payoff, an ending. Real life, however, doesn’t. Yes, one dies, but one also lives on in memories and through photos and letters. That yearning goes on through eternity. Thinking about the film, I never got to see the ending on television or in the cinema. Authorities presume all versions of the 4 Devils lost. Over the years I became infatuated with the missing ending. After much research, I found the surviving screenplay. In it, Marion wanted to die with Charles. At a net-less performance, Marion needed to throw the trapeze to Charles, but she swung herself instead. It threw him off balance and they fell to their deaths. Rumor states the final film version had Marion throw herself to what she believed to be her death. She survived the fall and won over the remorseful Charles. Love conquered all. They lived happily ever after. The End.

I prefer the screenplay version. As I walked that fateful autumn, the sky grew dark and leaves rustled around me. The rotting smell brought nostalgia back for the costume parties at Harrick’s and Sixes from years prior. Walking along the same streets that Gamble and I first walked after Flesh and the Devil made me long for the past. That day acted as a dark mirror of that spontaneous meeting. Pensive thoughts overwhelmed me. I ed people laughing and shouting, enjoying their lives. Seeing it, melancholy crushed me further. I looked to the sky. A storm brewed to the east. Tornado season happened in that time of year and the sky looked dreadful. I turned a corner trying to stick near the street lamps that flickered to life as the wind jostled my hair around. On a whim, I decided fresh apples might do me well. I headed over to the Eastern Market to grab a bundle. Even if I couldn’t eat them in the next few days, I could make them into a pie. I crossed town. Market stalls appeared on each side of St. Aubin as I neared the market. I stayed near the street lights as day turned to night. One never knows when a creep might appear. As thoughts like that drifted through my head, I caught sight of a shadowy silhouette near the market area’s back end. The mysterious figure stood under one lamp with a cigarette in hand. I stopped dead in my tracks. We stared at each other for a long time. Gamble? I looked around. Alone on the street, fear became tangible. At first, the man did nothing. He stood motionless. After a moment of assessment, he took a step forward out from under the lamp and a disembodied voice proclaimed, “Genevieve, isn’t it?” My face went pale. How did that shade know my name? The answer to the question never came, and even all these years later, it unsettles me. I said, “The name’s Dominique. You must have the wrong person.” He laughed to himself with a curt gurgle as if the action bored him. The sinister shape said, “No, that’s not your name. Yeah, that’s what people at Sixes call you, but that’s not your name. Does Blackburn know you lied to him?” Nervousness flowed through me as the man stepped from the back light. Surprise overtook me as the mystic Benny Evangelist stood before me. I said nothing but my eyes darted around looking for escape if I needed it. He raised his gloved hands in a relax gesture and said, “I’m not here to hurt you. That’s not

my style, kiddo. You might have the wrong idea about me. I’m interested in inscrutabilities not taxi dancers. I have children for Christ’s sake. Do you think a man with a family would do something unsavory to a lone woman on the street at night?” The way he said that made it seem like a rhetorical question but he wanted an answer. I spoke. “I don’t suppose you’d wanna hurt your family. I’m in a rush, Benny. Is there something I can do for you?” He repeated that gurgled laugh and said, “Yeah, there’s one important thing. Tell that man of yours we’re looking for him.” “He’s not my man. In fact, he left town almost a year ago. If you’re looking for him, I would check Wyoming. He told me that when he broke up with me.” Benny eyed me with suspicion. After a few seconds flicking the match stick around in his mouth as if deep in thought, he said, “Okay, fair enough. I wouldn’t wanna lose my head over it. I’ll be seeing you somewhere down the line.” He saluted, pivoted, and took off in the opposite direction. The breath I held for the previous few minutes released with alleviation. Exhaustion gripped me and I wanted to get home as fast as possible. I watched him disappear into the night. I murmured to myself, “Gamble, what did you get yourself into?”

9 October 1976

Halloween arrived and with it another party at Sixes. The celebration raged around me but I couldn’t stand it. Like many things in life, Sixes didn’t seem right. I sat in the room’s far corner to avoid dancing. I needed the money, but I didn’t feel it tonight. My mind drifted and my heart pined over Gamble’s absence, so I sat in a wooden chair and people-watched. Per usual, partygoers filled the speakeasy dressed in many costumes. Bohemians made theirs from scratch. In those days, stores didn’t provide many manufactured costumes so people made them from old sheets. On the obverse, socialites paid their tailors to make theirs from lush fabrics. One noticed the difference, and the revelation made me gloomy. Sixes illustrated how society divided itself. Bohemians, the underprivileged, lived more through direct experience, to enact ritual by creating things because they must. Socialites, the privileged, hoarded the money but more wealth pushed them away from reality. More than any time in my life, I hated rich people. Everything seemed like a lie: the socialites in the room, the past two years and departed love, my so-called friendships with those people. That’s what I got for batting out of my league. Earlier in the evening, Moxie said, “Come to the party. It’ll be good for you.” But after I sat in the room a while, I regretted it. Outsider feelings oppressed me as I studied the people partying. The socialites resembled carnivores, and the bohemians were prey. I banished the observance and noticed Marie arranging a treat table of soul-cakes and fruit punch opposite the dance floor. Marie loved European history. Soul-cakes harkened back to at least the fifteenth century. People visited houses and accepted the cakes as substitutes for the dead or in return for soul prayers. Spirits ran amuck and impersonating these spirits protected oneself from them. Marie used words like “guising” and “Hallowmas” when she spoke of the holiday. These glimmers of her European heritage made me wonder more about her home country. I finished two glasses of punch but I needed something stronger. I went to the bar to coax a cocktail from Lonnie. Lonnie said, “Hey girl, you all right?”

“I’m fine. Can I have my usual?” “Yessum.” He prepared the drink as I leaned against the bar. From across the room, I saw Annabel approach me. Before I could escape, she said, “I don’t suppose that man of yours is ever coming back, is he? I will it… I’m not too surprised.” I threw acerbic eyes at her and said, “First, he’s not my man. Never was. We were just friends. Second, it’s none of your damn beeswax.” She nodded with a smile but her eyes turned icy and foul. “No, it’s not my business. But it makes me happy to see you at odds with life.” I scowled at her but remained silent. What came next surprised me to my core. “I know about your little envelopes, the ones for Detective Frank, Sgt. Joseph, and that other guy. What are they, blood money?” I didn’t need to answer, but I did. “I help Marie deliver pay-offs for the bar. You know that.” She shrugged. “Yeah, but I’ve seen you deliver them in Black Bottom on Thursdays. The problem is I’m sure they weren’t from Marie because her bribe happens on Tuesdays. Why do you need to bribe the police?” Nothing came to mind as a reply. Lonnie placed my cocktail in front of me. Instead of answering, I turned my back on her and walked away from the bar. From behind me I heard, “Ta-ta for now, honey.” As I walked away my blood boiled, and I resisted the urge to turn around and deck her in the puss. Under my breath I muttered, “You are terrible.” I downed my cocktail in one gulp, sat down, placed the empty glass near my boots and wallowed in self-misery. In disgust, I decided one more punch might help my funk, so I stood and moped to the refreshment table. Around me, I noticed my fellow dancers enjoying their holiday, but I couldn’t. I poured another glass, snagged a soul-cake, and returned

to my corner chair. I sipped at my glass as I twirled the cake with my fingers. I lost myself in thought. What should I do with my life? Should I leave Detroit and get away? Leaving seemed like the best option. As I contemplated my situation, I crumbled the cake in my fingers and the pieces fell to the ground next to my boot heels. A muffled voice said, “You dropped your treat, miss. Soulcakes are precious.” As if waking from a dream I snapped out of my reverie, looked around, and then noticed the person who spoke to me. He wore a tuxedo and a plain black mask. I glanced at him and said, “It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t hungry anyway and I have little soul to lose.” I turned away and assessed the dance floor. I didn’t want to talk to a random. Moments ed with me in silence as the rat-tat-tat of jazz music intensified. Then, the masked man’s voice came again. “You look upset.” Without looking at him I said, “No. Not upset. Just thinking.” Another moment ed in silence. In that instant, my yearning for Gamble ended. Emptiness replaced it. Startled at the revelation I tried to move somewhere else, to get away from the masked man. I wanted solitude. Before I accomplished it, his fingers wrapped around my wrist. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you thinking about?” I didn’t pull away but my gaze stayed fixed on the dance floor. I said absently, “How sometimes a person changes and things that seem enjoyable become tedious.” His fingers never left my wrist. “Life becomes tedious when one isn’t moving.” A bitter laugh came from me. With my free hand I made a sweeping half-drunk gesture at the socialites on the dance floor. “Yeah, the rich always say stupid shit like that.” I retreated from him with a step away but his fingers moved higher and closed around my arm. As soon as I recognized his strength I knew. I spun to face the masked man. I stared into his eyes—searched them. He stood there motionless, silent. Seconds ed without a word. I whispered, “Is that you?” The eyes behind the masked softened with sorrow as he said, “If the universe

wills it.” Slow and with purpose, the stranger let go of me. His hands moved to the mask. The man untied the guise from behind. The mask fell. Gamble stood before me. I shook my head. Laughter surrounded me but it sounded like disembodied voices. Somehow, I knew the hilarity came from me but seeing him made me starry and far away. It stunned my faculties, and I stared at him as my head shook back and forth. I whispered, “I almost can’t believe it. The audacity you have showing your face in here. You’ve been gone for...” He finished my sentence with, “A long time.” Without thinking, my hand slapped his face. The blow shocked him but he regained his senses, his calmness. I regretted the act immediately. “I’m sorry. I... I don’t know why I did that. I…” “I deserve it.” “Where have you been?” I hit him in the shoulder but the blow meant nothing. “Why did you stop writing?” A second blow meant even less. “Why are you here now?” His hand caught the third half-hearted strike, and we moved closer to each other. “It’s complicated. I want to explain everything to you, but it’ll take time.” I scowled. “I don’t know if I have time for explanations. I don’t have…” His eyes went to the floor and whispered, “Yeah, I thought that might happen.” His voice became louder as he gained confidence. “I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry. There are reasons I left and I should come clean about those reasons but I

can’t do it here.” His eyes darted around the room. I scowled but my anger faded. He continued. “By the look on your face I’m certain you don’t care anyway, so I’ll leave. If you change your mind or if you have second thoughts about what we had, you can call on me.” “No. I don’t know.” “Listen.” His eyes scanned the room. “I’m in a lot of trouble and I can’t stay here long.” His fearful expression conveyed that someone might recognize him and he didn’t want it. “Is somebody after you? What have you done?” “I can’t explain right now. I must go. But before I do, I want you to know I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry.” With that, his mask slid down and he backed into the crowd. I stood there in disbelief. Confusion turned into concern. One part was ecstatic to see him. Another part was furious as conflicting emotions surged within me. How could he leave for that long without an explanation? I watched him leave, and I headed back to the bar for one more necessary cocktail. Lonnie said, “You look like ya done seen a ghost.” “It seems I have.” “Was it that fella? He’s back, ain’t he?” Lonnie slid my usual in front of me. “Yeah, he’s back. And I don’t know how I feel about it.” “If I were a betting man, and I am, I’d say you’re happy about it.” A weak smile crept across my lips. “Maybe, but I wouldn’t make that bet.” He shrugged and strolled away to help another patron. I downed my drink. Marie came and asked, “Need a shooter?

“Probably.” She nodded and grabbed a bottle. She poured a healthy shot for each of us. We acknowledged each other, grabbed the tiny glasses, toasted, and then downed them. “Happy Halloween,” she said but her voice sounded tired not celebratory. The last cocktail hit me hard and drunkenness overtook me. I leaned against the bar unfocused. Moxie’s voice came from behind me. “Aren’t you gonna dance?” I raised my hand and waved her off without turning. I didn’t hear another word from her. After several minutes of gathering myself, I turned and saw her dancing with a fella. Annabel chatted in a corner with a wealthy man. Kish bobbed for apples with some ladies. And the rest of the taxi dancers plied their trade. In a drunken haze, I ducked out and stumbled home. During my journey, Gamble’s sudden appearance, the eccentricities of the rich, my relationship with friends and the secrets I tried to keep from them, played out in my mind. But most of all, that question repeated through my thoughts: What did it mean for my future?

12 October 1976

Afew weeks later, after many curt phone calls, we agreed to meet at Elmwood Cemetery next to our picnic pond. November’s crisp winds blew through the trees and impermanence filled the air. Off in the distance burning leaves created a nostalgic atmosphere, and it inspired me to think of simpler times. I arrived at the pond to see Gamble sitting near the fallen log where my tarot reading happened so long ago. We exchanged simple greetings. I sat a measurable distance away from him, and then silence followed. Cumulus clouds obscured the sun. A few random birds, those not yet on their way south, tweeted in the skeletal trees. After a few minutes I broke the tranquility. “Where have you been? I’m not sure I can trust you stayed in California.” He faltered as he chose his words. “I swear to you I stayed there the whole time. I lived with Schultze and we researched Crowley’s connection to Los Angeles.” He paused. “But that’s not the whole story.” I looked away as I studied a few female ducks floating in the pond that hadn’t left Michigan yet. One duck flapped its wings throwing water into the air. It tried to take off but something held it back. I snickered to myself as I realized the absurdity of the action. He continued his explanation. “Many reasons drove me away. I needed to escape my sister. Her presence stifles me.” I pursed my lips and said, “I’m sure. But it’s more than that.” He looked pensive. “I also think people are following me. Everywhere, I catch a glance of someone watching me. I escaped that in California. I didn’t mention my trouble because it worried me; they might read my letters. After a while I stopped sending them to protect you.” “I didn’t think you’d come back.”

He sighed. “Who am I kidding?” He paused, fidgeted, and then looked at his hands. “I also left because I couldn’t deal with my feelings. I’m at your mercy. It frightened me. More than any debts. More than what I see in my sister’s eyes, that haunting emptiness. This is more terrifying.” I listened but said nothing. He added, “I thought if I focused more on my studies and research that I could find answers to some of my problems. People think I’m put together. I am, but in so many other ways I’m a mess.” I nodded and took a deep breath. After a moment, I exhaled and said, “I know. I’m not perfect either. We all aspire to be the personality we project to the world. It’s impossible. It’s pathetic, but that’s what people do. I don’t blame you for it.” He looked eager, but I bashed it to the leafy ground. “I blame you for making yourself distant from me. Not the miles. Not your aloof voice through the letters. But the way you pulled your heart away from mine. It’s hard to forget. A year ed for Christ’s sake.” He looked to his feet with shame. “I know.” His steely eyes darted up as he added, “I’m sorry.” I shook my head with understanding but I felt it would happen repeatedly. Could I handle it a second time? A third? Out of nowhere, Gamble said, “I’m being watched. I’m not sure if it’s because of esoteric secrets, my opium purchases, or my gambling debts. Someone’s been shadowing me.” Ignoring my run-in with Benny, I asked, “How do you know that?” “In researching Crowley I learned a lot about his time in Detroit. He spent the last twenty years pursuing occult knowledge by making links with Masonic organizations around the world like lodges in Europe and Mexico. He managed to became the leader of the Ordo Templi Orientis, a sex cult of sorts.” “What does that have to do with you staying away?”

“I’m getting to it. In 1919, Crowley arrived in Detroit. He made connections with Detroit Masons. He convinced Albert W. Ryerson, a 32nd degree Mason and manager of the Universal Book Company, to publish an issue of Crowley’s journal, Equinox.” I listened but his explanation seemed to go nowhere. He noticed my discontent. “Bear with me, please.” He paused, ed where he left off, and started again. “That issue included his Manifesto of the O.T.O. Other Masons didn’t approve of his fringe sex ideas. Universal’s shareholders accused Ryerson of wasting thirty-five grand on Crowley’s heretical concepts.” I listened but his diatribes bored me now. “Slow sales dragged the Universal Book Stores into bankruptcy in 1921 and the profane activities of the O.T.O. became sensational front-page news. Assistant US district attorney Frank Murphy declared the Equinox obscene as he impounded copies. Across America, police blamed the love cult for anything they deemed offensive. And then, Crowley’s connection to Hollywood tied him to the surreptitious murder of director William Desmond Taylor.” He took a breath, looked at his cigarette case, almost lit a cigarette, but stopped. After a long pause he said, “Courts never charged the Equinox with being obscene. Nobody got arrested but Crowley’s reputation in America never rebounded.” I said, “Is this some convoluted way of telling me you owe money?” “It’s not that simple. I’m trying to show you that they persecute people in esoteric circles for their eccentric life choices.” Anger brewed in me. “What do you mean? I’m not sure what you’re getting at. Just say it.” “Among the privileged, money moves mercurially. I moved some money somewhere, but it hasn’t moved back yet but it will. I need more time. But it’s not just the money. People fear magic. They fear the freedom it provides. That’s why they went after Crowley.” In a pensive drone I said. “I hope it’s not the Purple Gang. I’d hate for them to

pay you a visit.” “I don’t think it’s them. I’ve had run-ins with the gang before, but it’s not their style to shadow someone. They’re a more in-your-face bunch.” I thought about it a moment and considered Gamble’s words. It wasn’t them. I knew that. I tapped my knee with my finger as I thought more. After a quiet moment, I said, “What’s your relationship with the KKK?” His eyes widened. “My best friend is black. Do you think I’d involve myself with those people?” I laughed. “No, I don’t. But you have business arrangements and business differs from pleasure. Maybe you struck up a deal with Robert Henry.” It offended Gamble. “No way. That isn’t my style and I’m sore that you’d jump to that conclusion.” He almost stood up, but I grabbed his hand. I said, “Sit down. I’m sorry. I wasn’t implying that you’re that person. I was trying to think of possibilities.” Changing the subject, I said, “What about that Evangelist guy?” He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Benny?” “Yeah, Benny. I’ve bumped into him around town and it felt weird, like he watched me because he knows I’m close to you. He said some choice words about you.” “He’s a possibility, I guess. He showed up at our tarot reading that day.” He shook his head. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m paying people back. Ruth has some money, and she’s helping me until I can free up my s.” My stomach turned. “You’re borrowing money from your sister?” His expression said a thousand words; it was a sore spot. After taking a deep breath to calm himself, he said, “I know. It’s terrible. I feel guilty about it. You don’t have to remind me. I have money but I can’t get it right away and I need it resolved. Most of her money is family money.” I nodded but inside disappointment reigned. Where was his precious magic now?

I said, “Why don’t you use magic to get the money?” “It doesn’t work that way. We use white magic to come to balance with the universe, not take from it. That’s black magic. I refuse to do the profane in the name of my mistakes. That’s foolish.” I shrugged. After the conversation ended, we said goodbyes, promised to see each other soon, parted, and I returned home with a heavy heart. His troubles seemed like his own doing. At that moment, he acted like a hypocrite. He could borrow money from his sister but not stoop low enough to use magic to fix his problems. What was the point of magic then? By the time I returned to my apartment exhaustion overcame me. I yearned for laudanum, but I quelled my hunger. Instead, I ed out. During my sleep another dream came. I reached the labyrinth’s center. The girl inside faded away as the adult regained possession of my body. A small white room imprisoned me. The square cell had no furniture or bed. I tried the door many times to no avail; someone had locked me inside. Outside the building, loud explosions blasted apart the neighborhood. Could it be bombs? Could it be something else? I wasn't certain. I needed to escape, but I had nowhere to go. I reached for a tiny window that loomed eight feet up the wall. If I reached it, I might get away. Nothing to stand on. After more explosions, it became obvious artillery fire bombarded the neighborhood. One explosion hit close to the building and shook the walls. Dust rained down, and I dropped to the floor with my arms protecting my head. People wailed throughout the building. The screams increased until madness took hold of me. The bombs persisted. Closer and closer, the explosions came as I hoped for the ceiling to remain sound. Another bomb shuddered the door from its hinges. The metal rectangle hit the ground with a thud. Smoke filled the room. I scrambled to right myself. A man’s silhouette stood in the doorway as smoke filtered through the entrance. I struggled to identify the figure. Before I could, a ghostly female ed through his silhouette. The wraith recoiled upon seeing me, but then readied itself for attack. I tensed as I waited for the spirit to assault me. Before the scream left my mouth, another bomb hit the roof, and the building collapsed.

14 October 1976

Afew days later, Gamble sent me a Western Union telegram. I debated reading it. One side of me, wanted to leave him alone, and the other wanted to shower him with kisses. Yearning and disinterest battled within me. Yearning won. The telegram read:

Dearest Dominique, Seeing you the other day brightened my low spirits. I know I’ve done wrong. I want to fix it. Walt Disney is releasing a new Mickey Mouse feature. It’s supposed to be the first sound cartoon. Can you believe it? Anyway, I’d be grateful if you accompany me to the Fox Theater for a showing this Sunday at seven o’clock. I hope you can forgive me and maybe we can talk after the movie. Sincerely, Gamble

I arrived outside the theater before seven o’clock. I didn’t see him so I marveled at the ten-story high cream-colored terra cotta Fox Office Building while I regretted coming. The building wrapped around the theater lobby in a U-shape. Designers faced the auditorium with brick. The gigantic structure’s opulence astonished me as I considered leaving. As people ed to enter the theater I murmured, “Wow. It’s something else.” A voice behind me said, “It’s a marvel to behold, isn’t it?” I swiveled around on my boot heel to see Gamble standing there with a meek smile. “Yeah, I’ve seen nothing like it. It opened a few years ago, but this is the first

time I’ve studied it. ed by a few times.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “William Fox has hundreds of movie houses nationwide, but this location is his most lavish. Rumors say the house staff numbers over four hundred.” I considered his estimate. “Really? What do they all do?” “I don’t know, but I bet they’re paid well.” I took a step forward and our bodies moved closer. “Maybe. But some rich guys are cheap.” He nodded. “That they are.” He presented his hand, and I grabbed it. “Ready?” I nodded, and we entered through the extravagant brass doors and into the outer foyer. The lobby stood six-stories high in immodest grandeur. Murals of butterflies, lions and peacocks swirled about the ceiling. We went to the box office, received our tickets, and then we entered the main auditorium. The interior contained so many seats it reminded me of a sunflower’s disc with the florets radiating out from the center—at least five thousand. Pillars surrounded the promenade. Art Deco motifs, accented with Egyptian, Indian, and Oriental architectural designs, made the place breathtaking. A 36-rank Wurlitzer organ piped music throughout the building. Gamble motioned me to walk to our seats. We sat, and not long after, Steamboat Willie began. Mickey Mouse piloted a riverboat as captain. He whistled the tune “Steamboat Bill” and pulled on the line for the boat’s whistle. Three toots sounded and I almost couldn’t believe it. The sound was awe-inspiring. After a few moments, Pete, the real captain appeared and ordered Mickey from the bridge. Minnie arrived and Mickey played various animals and objects like percussion instruments. The short ended with a parrot laughing at Mickey’s stupidity. “That was brilliant,” I whispered into Gamble’s ear. He leaned over to me and whispered back, “Wasn’t it?” His breath tickled my ear and sent shivers down my spine. Too much time ed since we made love. I wanted to ravish him in the theater, but I acted

aloof. I didn’t want him to know my feelings yet. Between the films, a chorus-girl troupe entertained the audience. While the girls danced and sang, Gamble leaned over again and said, “Did you know the Fox’s opening show was the film Street Angel starring Janet Gaynor?” “Oh, she’s my favorite. I didn’t know that. I wish I had seen it.” After the girls finished dancing, the pipe organ filled the extra time. After a few minutes, the gangster film Gang War started. The film starred Jack Pickford in his last major role as a saxophone player whose love for a dancer traps him in the middle of a gang war. Like 4 Devils, the plot reminded me too much of reality. I forced myself to not leave the theater like I did then. During the film’s climax, Gamble’s hand clasped around mine. Surprised, I pulled away at first. Wordless but tangible, Gamble’s disappointment became palpable. After a few more minutes, I relented and placed my hand over his. Shards of light hit the silver screen as the turf war reached its climax but neither of us cared. The movie ended. We exited the theater hand-in-hand. We said nothing but Gamble motioned with a flick of his head that we should go to the Fort Shelby. We walked down Woodward to the street car. I struggled with whether I wanted to go to our sanctuary. I stopped walking and said, “Don’t you think it’s fast?” He looked surprised. Before he said anything, a woman’s voice interrupted, “Gamble, is that you?” His surprised expression made me fear the person behind me. The woman added, “You didn’t tell me you were going to the pictures. I would have gone.” I turned, expecting to see Annabel. Instead, Ruth stood there in a defiant stance. Her eyes widened when she recognized me. “Oh…” Ruth said. She paused, gathered herself, and then added, “It’s you.” The way she said “you” reminded me of how one might speak of a naughty child.

Her sour tone rubbed me the wrong way. I raised my hands in the air like one of the chorus from inside and said, “Surprise! It’s me.” Instead of responding to my sarcasm, she said, “Jonathan, take me home. It’s cold outside. I went for a walk and didn’t realize I strayed so far from BostonEdison.” I calculated the walk. Ruth lied. That was quite a stroll for her condition. I suspected she had Gamble’s driver drop her, or she took the streetcar. Gamble looked at me with a pleading expression. I frowned. He wrung his hands and stammered, “I… I’m sorry, Dominique. I need to take her home.” Before I said anything, Ruth said, “Jonathan, why didn’t you ask me to go to the pictures? Why this creature?” I bit my tongue and then gritted my teeth. I spat, “What creature?” She gazed at me with a sneer. “You’re a spider in that white room of yours spinning your little web.” I almost hit her but then I realized—How did she know about the room in my dream? I played coy. “What white room, Ruth?” I uttered her name with too much vitriol. She shook her hands around and her pale face contorted. “Because you sit in that white hell, observe everyone and everything, and then strike with your venom.” I used every fiber of my being to not strike her in the face. She added, “And you have my dear brother in your web. But I know the game.” She motioned to him for departure. I moved over to the corner of the building. Gamble followed me and said, “I’m sorry. I need to get her back home. I don’t know what to say. I didn’t know she’d be here. She must have followed me.” I sighed and caught his eye. “It’s fine. She’s ill. I understand.” I thought a second, as he turned to leave, I grabbed his arm and added, “One more thing before you go.” “What’s that?”

“While you disappeared, I’ve been having more and more of those dreams. The last one involved a white room. The figure might have been you but a ghostly woman almost attacked me. How did Ruth know about the room?” His blank expression hid an answer. “Are they dreams or premonitions?” I asked. He said, “I’m not sure. Dream psychology is a new field and mysterious business.” I nodded. He turned to leave, but I grabbed the crook of his arm. I said, “They feel like premonitions.” “An ill woman isn’t dangerous to someone with your street savvy.” He winked at me but his attempt at charm fell flat. I put my other hand on his shoulder. “You don’t know the rest of the dream.” His head turned and his chin touched my gloved hand. “What happened?” he asked. “Bombs fell, and the roof caved. I awoke before my death, but I assume the silhouette in the doorway didn’t make it.” He made a strange face. “And you think the figure was me.” I looked him in the eye, stood on my toes, placed a kiss on his cheek, and whispered in his ear, “Be careful, would you?” Our embrace ended, and he dashed over to his sister. As they jumped into a taxi, I turned to walk home. I looked at the taxi one more time and Gamble saluted me as he sped away. As I walked, I whispered to myself, “You be extra careful, Mr. Gamble.”

16 October 1976

In between November and December our communication comprised a handful of expensive telephone calls. An inner struggle forced me to step back and assess the relationship’s direction. I wanted more than anything to fall in his arms, to make love to him, but his disappearance hurt me. I needed him to understand my pain. Now—and then—I’ve never been a woman to trifle with in love. For me, it’s all or nothing. A few days before 1928 my life changed. It started with Gamble begging me to attend the New Year’s Eve party at Sixes. I agreed with reluctance, but I dolled myself up to make him understand the inevitable—lovers relent and we should too. I wore a silk evening dress, a knockoff of Elsa Schiaparelli, with metallic thread embroidery and sequins. A silver and black Zig-zag pattern ended in ruffles at the hem. Spaghetti straps held it on. I respected Schiaparelli. She believed that for women to have equality they needed to express their identity. We met at his barber shop near Black Bottom. Gamble wanted a quick shave before we headed to the party. Besides the ultra-thin mustache sported by Rudolph Valentino men didn’t wear much facial hair in those days. Gillette’s safety razor invention made grooming easy so society became obsessed with sanitary habits and health. A man wearing a beard appeared unsanitary and might hide smallpox scars. Too high society to shave himself, Gamble hired a personal barber who gave him a hot towel facial and a fresh shave every Monday. I sat with him while the barber did his work. Gamble and I made eye . An unquenchable fire burned in my heart. I couldn’t wait any longer. I wanted him to ravish me. I barely kept my cool. With my eyes, I revealed my desire and his devilish smile reflected his longing back at me. The barber finished as the coiled doorbell rang and Jay Em walked through the door. Gamble’s friend nodded to us and muttered, “Gamble, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.” The barber wiped the remaining cream from Gamble’s handsome face. Gamble

stood and peered into the mirror. His hand came up to feel the smooth skin as he said, “What’s going on Jay? This couldn’t wait until the party?” Jay Em shuffled about. After much deliberation, he said, “Maybe, but you see it’s about Philippe.” He hesitated. “I don’t know how to say it.” Gamble looked at Jay Em intently as he handed the barber money. As Gamble grabbed his trench coat from the rack, he said, “Spit it, old man. Atta boy.” Jay Em glanced at me, winced, gritted his teeth, and then spilled the information. “Philippe’s wife, Emilienne, she’s hysterical. I speak little French but she said Philippe has been missing since Thursday.” Gamble’s eyes widened. He flipped his collar and said, “What do you mean? She hasn’t seen him? Maybe he was on a bender and didn’t tell her.” Jay Em shook his head back and forth. He motioned to the barber and one client with his eyes and replied, “I think we better go outside.” I followed them from inside the barbershop out to the street. Gamble’s eye-line darted around the vicinity. A few people ed, and Christmas music came from down the way from near a Salvation Army donation kettle. Twilight approached and the crisp air tussled my hair. I said, “If you guys have business, I’ll leave.” Gamble shook his head and said, “Nonsense. You’re fine. I don’t care if you hear it.” Gamble turned to Jay Em. His friend’s eyes dropped to his feet, he hesitated, looked at us, then back to Gamble, and said, “Philippe has been losing money at the card games. You know, Gamble, those card games?” Gamble’s eyes widened again. “Do you think they took him out?” Jay Em shrugged. “I don’t know but it’s peculiar for him to disappear for so long without telling his wife.” “Yes, I suppose it is.” Gamble glanced at me. “Did you call the police?” I asked. A man walking by heard it and appraised our group until he ed us. That’s when I noticed another person on the corner eyeing our party.

Gamble raised his hand to stop me. He shook his head back and forth. “No police. Not yet.” Gamble bit his bottom lip in thought as he produced a smoke from his case and lit it. I glanced at Jay Em and noticed his worry. I appraised the man on the corner. I said, “Maybe the police can help. I know Sgt. Joseph. He patrols my neighborhood.” Gamble waved his hands and said, “No. Not yet.” He put his hand on Jay Em’s shoulder and said, “Send some boys out looking for him. Maybe he’ll show at the party tonight.” I didn’t like Gamble’s flippant attitude. He left for almost a year because gambling debts drove him away and now, he dismissed Philippe’s plight. Gangs in Detroit and Chicago became nervous in the latter part of 1928. Not long before, the police dispersed a Sicilian Gang’s meeting in Cleveland so tensions rose. One saw Detroit getting too big for its britches. Cars moved about everywhere—I was one of the few who still ankled around—but traffic grew as the population reached two million and people said it might hit five before long. The gangs in the Midwest had tentative alliances but things would unravel as people became greedy and the population grew. A gambling debt with the Purple Gang or the Detroit Jews became a death mark because everyone wanted their piece of the action. Gamble said, “Dominique, you go on ahead. I’ll meet you at the party. Jay Em and I’ll do a quick look at some of our haunts.” I agreed. I looked for the man on the corner but he disappeared, so I left them. I stopped at home and freshened up for the party. All the while, the French couple stayed in my thoughts. I switched to my fake fur coat, and toque hat—fashioned out of stiff s that sat atop the head. A mature lady’s choice, it conveyed the aura I wanted to project. Most young flapper gals wore the cloche hat down around their forehead with bows, feathers, or that jeweled hat pin. Some featured intricate embroidery, Art Deco designs, or ribbons. The ribbons often carried coded messages. Tied like an arrow signified “love for another.” A firm knot meant “a married woman.” And a bow showed “open for a dance.” I wanted to convey none of these. I left the flat in a hurry hoping to avoid Prudence. About an hour later I entered the club.

Marie decked Sixes to the gills with decorations and she spared no expense. Tinseled streamers hung from the ceiling. Candelabras stood at the room’s four corners. Candlelight reflected off the streamers and created a shimmering aquatic effect over the guests. Regulars and newcomers packed the speakeasy. Newcomers made the bar nervous because one never knew if they played ball or ratted. Nobody thought twice, but I knew better. As I strolled through the crowd, I studied them. For an unknown reason, the bar’s energy felt far from festive. Melancholia drifted over the party in a palpable haze, but pinpointing what generated the gloomy vibe became a challenge. Perhaps people knew the good times neared their end. The New Year often brought conflicted feelings: dread for whatever comes next mixed with relief for what’s ed. For me, I rested somewhere in the middle. Thoughts of departing Detroit still hovered about my mind, but leaving my surrogate home seemed improbable. As the libations increased people became uninhibited. A man showed me a taxi dance ticket, waved it in my face like currency. I ignored him because his attitude put me off and my date was on his way. The man moved past me to a different girl. Relief calmed me. That’s when I noticed them. Coming through the double door, ing through a throng of people, Gamble and Ruth strode across the dance floor arm in arm. Why was she with him? His sibling looked drawn thin, like if Gamble let her go, she might ooze to the floor like jelly. A deleterious feeling clutched my stomach. Several people greeted them as they walked. The pair appeared jovial and in high spirits, but I felt annoyed and misplaced. Another man approached me with a dance ticket. His politeness inspired me to agree to his offer. A shallow part of my heart wanted Gamble to see me dancing with another fella. All’s fair in love and war, and all that. The stranger and I entered the dance floor. As we danced the Charleston that shallow part of my heart became thankful the stranger grooved better than Gamble. We went at it with gusto so that the dancers made a space for us to highlight our moves. Concentrating as hard as possible on the dance, Gamble and his uncouth sister faded from my mind. We spun and whirled to the music. As I whipped past the crowd’s far side, I glimpsed Gamble staring at me. As we spun around, Gamble’s expression blurred because of my speed, but I caught the jealousy. Before long, the dance ended, and I disappeared into the crowd as fast as possible. I didn’t want to speak to the stranger. We had our moment, and it ended so I left it there.

I ached for a drink. I headed straight for the bar and a martini. Lonnie mixed one hard and clean; I had enough dirt for a while. I sipped at the martini and looked to the bar’s rear. I didn’t want to see that stranger, or my on-again/off-again lover, or his dreaded sister. I wished to transport somewhere else. My eyes darted to Lonnie, and I noticed by his expression that he understood my plight. Lonnie mumbled, “Love got you down, kiddo?” His face twisted like he bit into a lemon. I shrugged in exasperation and took another sip of my cocktail. A man appeared next to me and asked for a Bloody Mary. Lonnie prepared the drink, but the ritual took time. I heard Gamble whisper to himself, “I didn’t want to bring her. She demanded it.” I remained silent and looked straight ahead. “She kept asking where I went all the time. I had to relent.” He said it like he didn’t expect a reply. He grabbed his drink from Lonnie and disappeared back into the crowd. My eyes met Lonnie’s again. He knew everything about what happened at Sixes. I said to him, “I never should have gotten involved.” I shrugged and added, “But now it’s too late.” Lonnie said, “Yessum, miss. Done too late once it’s done too late.” His expression sounded nonsensical. I nodded as if I understood and turned to leave the bar. Moxie stopped me and said, “You look perturbed, darling. You okay?” “I’m fine.” She nodded. “Uh-huh.” “No, seriously. I’m fine.” She changed the subject. “Did you hear about Philippe?” “Yeah, I heard.”

“Isn’t it terrible? I hope he turns up. What will his wife do in America if she can’t speak much English? How will she order a donut?” Moxie’s confused face looked hysterical. “I’m sure that’s the last thing on her mind, Moxie.” She shook her shoulders like a dog drying its hide. “He’ll turn up,” I said. I motioned to Gamble and his sister over in the corner. “They have a strange relationship as brother and sister, don’t they? It’s almost too close. Maybe I don’t understand it because I’m an only child.” Moxie nodded. “Maybe. But my brother and I bicker all the time. We’re not close at all. Have I ever told you about my brother? He’s a blotto. I can’t do a thing with him.” Moxie put her hands on the bar and mocked push-ups. “I got to get in shape for the countdown later.” I laughed and said, “You never spoke of your brother, not once.” She snickered while shadow boxing. “He’s handsome like me, but I’m the serious one.” She jabbed her elbow into my side trying to create levity. I mumbled, “That doesn’t surprise me.” She looked to Gamble and Ruth again. “Maybe you have to get used to her. Perhaps you should sign a peace treaty.” Kish appeared and broke in with, “Never trust peace treaties. If a conflict exists, it always will. Why does she hate you? Have you considered it?” I glanced at her and shrugged. I looked back at the siblings and said, “I’ve never done good or bad. I’ve just done things.” Kish said, “Maybe she hates you because you offer him something she can’t.” “Like what?” Moxie murmured, “You.” Kish shooed Moxie away like a bug and said, “My mother’s people say,

‘Sometimes I pity myself while I’m carried across the sky by beautiful clouds.’” The proverb’s meaning hit me hard. I confessed, “It’s silly, isn’t it? I should appreciate what I have with him instead of complaining.” Moxie chimed in—“Yeah. My people say, ‘You can’t see the trees through the forest.’” I grinned and corrected her. “You can’t see the forest through the trees, Moxie.” Moxie looked confused—“What?” I repeated the proverb, and she said, “Yeah, that’s the ticket.” Exasperated, I exited the conversation. I moved over to the bar’s other side. I noticed Jay Em and Clay enter the building. I approached them and asked, “Did you hear anything?” Jay Em said, “Nope. We stopped by the usual haunts and he wasn’t at any of them. I stopped at the their apartment and Emilienne said he still hasn’t come home.” Clay said, “He’ll turn up.” The older man turned to me. “It’s been a long time, Dominique. Have you been faring well these days?” “I’m fine, I guess. How’s the order?” “Gamble left for almost a year and he’s one of our most valuable assets. It’s good to have him back. I imagine you feel the same.” I smiled. “Yeah, it’s good to see him again.” Jay Em excused himself to go talk with Gamble. Clay and I stood alone. “Clay, can I ask you a personal question?” “Of course.” “Have you ever been in love?” “Why yes, I have. I am now. My wife is an extraordinary woman.”

“Why haven’t I ever met her?” He thought about it a moment and said, “She’s a bookish person, very reclusive. We understand one another.” “How long have you been married?” “Almost twenty years. Such a long time.” “What’s her name?” “Her name is Jennifer, but I call her Jen.” I bit my lip, unsure whether to say my thoughts. I blurted, “You know that Gamble and I have been intimate, right?” His eyebrows rose. “I wouldn’t presume to know, but he’s mentioned he’s fond of you.” I tapped my fingernail on my martini glass and said, “He’s never asked me to marry him. Why do you think that is? I’m headstrong but I’m no Suffragette.” He laughed. His mouth hung open while he searched for the words. “I’d say you’re more complicated than that. I don’t know. Perhaps he thinks with your bohemian ways marriage is too old-fashioned for you.” His words jolted me. I never thought of it. Maybe my lifestyle didn’t suit marriage. “Do you think he considers me unmarriable?” “No, he’s a man who doesn’t impose his will on others. Maybe he felt you didn’t want it.” “I guess that’s possible.” Innocently, he placed his hand on my wrist and said, “Do you want him as a husband?” I thought about it for several seconds and then itted, “I don’t know.” He said, “And that’s why he never asked you.”

His good judgment wounded me but I understood the truth. The past few years blasted into perspective. At that, Clay took his leave and I stood alone mulling over his wisdom. Gamble returned. We acknowledged each other. A moment of silence lingered. I bit my lip searching for the right thing to say; time became my enemy because Ruth might return at any moment. He looked into my eyes searching for my next move. I itted with reluctance, “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I stopped doing the laudanum. I quit you, but then you came back. Now, everything’s a mess.” He nodded and said, “But a beautiful mess.” I agreed. He was right. We couldn’t contain ourselves any longer. I grabbed his arm and led him to the room’s far side and the alcoves there. We entered one and closed the curtain. The music outside became quieter. I said, “Why do you have so much control? What magic did you do?” “It’s not magic, and it’s not me. It’s you. You stole my heart.” He leaned in and kissed me. Then, he pulled away unsure. We stared into each other’s eyes. My lips yearned for more. I darted in and returned his kiss with ion. Our hands roamed. Our bodies pressed together in desire. He pulled away from the kiss and whispered into my ear, “This brings back memories of simple life. Do you the Fort Shelby and those scandalous acts?” I whispered back, “How could I forget?” “Perhaps we should go there now?” “Perhaps.” We kissed again. That familiar electricity ed between us. We parted and he said, “Well?” I looked at him, tilted my head to glance at the curtain behind him, returned to his lustful eyes, and said, “There’s no need to go anywhere. I’m fine right where I am.”

His surprised expression turned to realization. And we ravished each other. He took me on the table as the party raged outside the curtain and I prayed for nobody to discover us. For the first time since California, we had sex. We fell into old patterns like no time ed. Outside, the crowd screamed the countdown to midnight as he thrust into me. My emotions ran wild. Lust transformed to anger. Anger changed into sorrow. Sorrow became acceptance. A single tear ran down my cheek as my future became more complicated.

21 October 1976

The next few weeks ed with days of blissful sex and a reinvention of our relationship. Deep down I knew it could never be the same, but I tried. On Valentine’s Day, 1929, Gamble and I agreed to meet at Barthwell Drugs where I ran into him a few years earlier. I found him sitting at the counter reading a pulp magazine like in those early days. He saw me and we exchanged brisk salutations. I said, “I’m surprised you wanted to meet here of all places.” “I like Barthwell’s because I don’t get bothered by propriety. Nobody knows me in Black Bottom. Can you see how I might prefer it?” “Yeah, I guess I understand. It’s good to be anonymous sometimes.” He nodded and said, “Yes, it is. Did you hear the news?” “What news?” He smiled and put his hand on my shoulder. “Police found Philippe St. Marten up in Grindstone City. Some hooligans roughed him up good.” “What’s Grindstone City?” “It’s up north in the Thumb. A quarry. They make grindstones for industry.” Michigan’s geography resembled a mitten so the “Thumb” meant up by Bay City and Pinconning around Saginaw Bay. They found him in the middle of nowhere. “Why did they take him way up there? Did he say what they wanted?” “Well, it had nothing to do with me or my business, if that’s what you mean. Not sure why they took him there. The crew tried to get information about imports and exports running through New York and Chicago so they could set-up hits. They knocked over some shipments. The heat came down so they let him go.

The Purple Gang seems like the best bet, but I can’t confirm it. They found him wandering near the beach.” “It’s a relief he’s all right. He worried Emilienne sick. Why did you never call the police?” “We thought it best to keep them out of it. His business dealings weren’t legal per se. Emilienne almost left the country because she lost hope. Good thing she stayed. They told me they aren’t sticking around much longer. The experience spooked them.” “They’re going back to ?” “Yep, and I don’t blame them.” After more small talk, we jumped into a taxi and headed over to the new Mexican neighborhood over by the Ambassador Bridge’s construction site. The nearly finished bridge loomed in the sky as we entered what Detroiters called “La Bagley.” The area would later become Mexicantown; it began at the train station and ended at Clark Park. Many Mexican employees settled there to work at Henry Ford’s Rouge Plant. Gamble and I sat down at a picnic table next to a small taqueria stand. Later in the seventies, the area would fill with popular restaurants like Mexican Village, Xochimilco, and Armando’s, but then, it was little more than a few supply stores and stands. We had much to discuss but neither person spoke. Even the taqueria owner left us alone for a while. The air hung heavy around us. After an exceptional amount of time, the owner asked what we wanted and we ordered. I ired a supply store window that displayed Mexican food products. Gamble fidgeted with a tortilla chip that dropped to the table. Our taco dinners came. We ate in silence. The dinner drew out. We knew the longer we ate, the longer we might delay the inevitable. Before we could speak, a news bulletin blasted from the supply store’s radio. The announcer reported: “Early this morning, seven men were gunned-down at a garage on Chicago’s North Side. The murder weapons included two Thompson submachine guns. Authorities suspect the attack happened because of a cut-rate shipment of

whiskey supplied by Detroit’s Purple Gang. More later on this breaking story.” I spoke first. “Hmm. Can you believe it?” “It might make things hot around here. Detroit’s getting out of control. It’s like something big is coming.” I nodded and said, “It’s a relief they found Philippe when they did.” He agreed. “It sure is. It’s been weighing on me a long time. Since they found him, I can finally move on.” “You mean to finish teaching me magic?” My words lacked energy and he saw through them. “I think I’ve taught you everything you could learn from me.” I frowned. “I’m not so sure.” He laughed. “You’ve read the books I gave you. The hard part is seeing and believing it. Once you see it, everything else becomes a technique to facilitate its blossoming. The next step would be to an order, a women’s sorority like the Order of the Eastern Star. You might like it there.” “I checked them. I’m not allowed because I’m poor. They only accept people related to Masons.” “Really? I’ve never heard such a thing.” “Come on. It’s the same thing all over. We’re the exception.” He grew silent and glanced at the supply store’s radio. An old woman swept the sidewalk at the building’s front. I glanced at the radio too. It relayed more about the shooting in Chicago, but that wasn’t why we came. I said, “It’s been cold these days.” My attempt at conversation fell flat. He nodded but said nothing. After a few moments, he said, “I have some tickets to vaudeville. Do you want to go later?”

Vaudeville had become a é form of entertainment so his mention of tickets surprised me. Instead of expressing my true feelings, I replied, “Sure. Sounds fun. I love nostalgia.” Gamble produced tickets to show me. As if reading my mind, he said, “Yeah, it’s falling out of style, but I have a soft spot for it.” We left La Bagley with little fanfare and took a taxi cab to the Grand Riviera Theatre, the last of Detroit’s vaudeville houses. It was no Pantages or Orpheum, but it would work. A sparse crowd outside the theater waited for “the stars” to arrive. The usher took our tickets and handed us a black and white program; a rising sun over Venice with two floating gondolas filled the front cover. Venice had nothing to do with Detroit but they’d slap anything on the cover to entice people. We entered the building. A half-empty auditorium greeted us. As we sat, I considered the dying art of vaude. Hollywood’s big business had strangled the revue with its aged stars like Clara Bow and Rudy Vallee, but the looming Great Depression killed it dead. Typically, vaudeville had anything from trained seals to ventriloquists, dancers to acrobats, comedians to short plays, or musical acts to novelty artists. If it kept an audience’s interest for over three minutes, they exploited it. The show started but my mind drifted elsewhere. An unsettling feeling hung over the day, like something needed closure. I banished the thought to focus on the show. It could wait. Like the Yiddish theater and the circus, whole families ran vaudeville acts. The show started with the Grand Riviera News and Tops of the Day. Some acts included organist Nina Griffin, a play called Womanhandled, and a dancer named Princess Radjah. The Flaming Flappers added dance routines between sets. The Grand Riviera Orchestra played in the pit. A few Tin Pan Alley hits came. Then, the animal acts, plate-spinners, and ventriloquists ended their performances. After a farewell, Gamble and I stood to exit the theater. As we moved to the aisle, I saw her. Ruth stood in the path barefoot. Her wild eyes fixed on me as we appraised each other like gunslingers. She delivered a consuming glare. Ruth spat, “Why does he bring you to these things? I saw you with other men. I

saw you dancing. Lurid. Woman of the night. You’re no good. My brother is an angel and you’re a devil.” I retreated a step with apprehension. Her wild demeanor made me brace for the unexpected. Would she lunge at me? Tear my eyes out? I didn’t understand her intentions but a physical altercation wouldn’t help matters. If she assaulted me, a larger rift between Gamble and I might develop. I needed to neutralize the situation if the relationship had any hope. I retreated a step and my back bumped into Gamble’s chest. Ruth wobbled forward like a Stygian witch. Her hands and fingers darted about in the air. Her strange gestures echoed her brother’s magical hand motions, but it appeared like imitation, like a child who mimics an action but doesn’t understand the significance. A sudden thought crossed my mind: Did Gamble’s dabbling in the occult cause the psychosis? We did that macabre dance for a few seconds until I raised my fists and said, “If you come an inch closer, I’ll sock you in the lip.” Gamble sighed. “Come on. Not here.” Ruth couldn’t do anything else so she said, “I hex you. Everything you love will turn to dust. Everything you need will leave you. A pale room will eat every part of you. The dark one will lose his family and head.” The last part sounded strange. Who’s losing their family and head? Did she mean Gamble? A stand-off followed, until without warning, the spooky woman lunged forward and her claws wrapped around my throat. I tried to pull away, but she attacked too fast. Several people grabbed for her, but their attempts came late. Her momentum sent us tumbling backward to the ground as Gamble stumbled behind us. Luckily, I avoided hitting my head on the floor. We struggled as the wind left my throat. In confusion, I raked at her face, but she wouldn’t let go. I gulped for air as stars flickered before my eyes. People tried to break us apart to no avail. Behind us, Gamble shouted something at her, but I couldn’t understand. She turned to him and then back to me. Her expression changed from malice to an awareness of her insanity. Briefly, the sister Gamble adored, the woman from before, appeared. Then, her face returned to her vacant stare, but she released me, rose, and withdrew through the crowd with haste.

Gamble reached for me. He raised me up and said, “I am so sorry. Are you okay? Did she hurt you?” I waved him away as I held my neck gasping for air. As my breathing regulated embarrassment crept into my eyes. Gamble led me away from the gawking crowd. As we left the theater I hissed, “She’s insane. She’s impossible. Why did she do that?” “I don’t know. I’ve never seen her violent.” “Really?” “Yes, that came out of nowhere. I’m so sorry.” I shook my head. “Did you do this to her? Is it because of the occult?” He gazed down at his feet, almost spoke, and then became silent. A long moment proceeded, then I added, “She’s not well. She needs help. You have this incestuous relationship with her. It’s unnatural.” “No, it’s not like that. Ruth needs me.” “She’s mad. She doesn’t act like a normal sister. She acts like a beast.” “I know. I know.” I almost said something else, but he raised his hand to quiet me. He closed his eyes and said, “My father didn’t die of consumption.” My anger dissipated as fast as it came. I asked, “What?” He sighed. “ when I told you my father died?” “Yes, I .” “It wasn’t the truth. I lied to you. It’s eaten me up this whole time but I had to do it.” “Why? Why would you lie to me?” With his eyes still closed he whispered, “Ruth died in the accident.”

“What accident?” He exhaled a deep breath and said, “Several years ago, the first time I went to California, Ruth and my father went up to Sault Ste. Marie for a weekend.” Kish entered my thoughts. Many Ojibwa lived around the outlet of Lake Superior, which the French colonists called Sault Ste. Marie for its rapids. I banished my coworker from my mind and focused on Gamble. He opened his eyes and I searched them. Deep pain rested there in desolation. He brought his fingers up to his eyes and touched the bridge of his nose and then he continued his tale. “On their way home, my father got tired from driving. It was late. My sister offered to take over. Night came and he trusted her to do her best, but she fell asleep at the wheel. The automobile hit a tree and my father died instantly.” “Oh my god,” I said as my hand went to his shoulder. “Ruth died at the hospital but in a miracle she came back. She didn’t handle my father’s death well. Guilt weighed on her. I kept trying to tell her it was okay; that it was an accident. My mother said the same thing. It didn’t matter. After her recovery, she fell into a depression that turned into a psychosis. Her mind and heart changed. Empathy disappeared and emptiness took over. At first, she sat in her room in a rocking chair and stared out the window for long hours. I checked on her from time to time. She sat there for half a day without using the bathroom. I had to pull her away to relieve herself.” Dread entered me as I realized he had lied to me for years. With sadness, he went on telling his tale. “It’s like her mind forgot the most basic functions of body. She did certain tasks with no problems, but they became obsessive actions. Doctors told me jigsaw puzzles might help her retrain her brain. I bought many. She sat in her room for weeks working away on the puzzles. Sometimes, she stared at a piece for what seemed like thirty minutes. She studied it as if she didn’t know what it was. Eventually, as if having a eureka moment, she found the accompanying piece and snapped them together.” I listened but my face felt ashen. He continued. “I expected satisfaction to affect her, but no emotion came.

Happiness, anger, joy, all left her. The void devoured them. Sometimes, Ruth broke out into jealous fits. She became like a spoiled child but lacked youthful exuberance. No silliness. No curiosity. Detachment, uninterested in everything, as if her mind stayed on death’s side and longed to see our world, like when a person outgrows something and sees the past naïveté with dision.” Tears came, but I pushed them back. He persisted. “To most of us, life poses difficult questions, but for her, life became ethereal, like air, formless without meaning.” He looked down at his hands. He shook his head back and forth. “She faded away before my eyes. Back then, my interest in the occult was a hobby. Esoteric science deals with psychology so I thought I could learn enough to bring her back. As she faded more and became more dependent on me, she developed an all-consuming fixation. A jealous dependence that I allowed to flourish so I could stall to find answers.” His gaze left his hands and he glanced at me. “Magic won’t save her. Nothing will. One day, she’ll fade into nothingness or I’ll have her committed. Either way, I failed. And all the trouble she’s caused us is my fault. I wanted to send her away but I couldn’t find the will to do it. I should have said it from the beginning, but I didn’t know how. Our courtship was so beautiful. This part of my life seemed so ugly, and I didn’t want to taint it. I’m sorry.” I hugged him. Despite my affection, ire churned inside me. Emotions threatened to smother my control, but I stifled them. His honesty should have brought me joy, but it didn’t. After several moments of awkward silence, we said our goodbyes. As we parted cold rain fell. I walked back to Black Bottom cursing myself for leaving my umbrella at Sixes. His words rang through my contemplations. Why didn’t he tell me years ago? How could he hold back that long? If he could lie about that, was our entire relationship also a lie? A heartbroken speechlessness ruled me as water poured down from the muddy sky. I walked without caution. After a time, a few tears streamed down my face. After a block, it became

impossible to distinguish between precipitation and sorrow. Minutes ed and my wet clothes clung to my skin and a chill caught me, but I cared little for my clothing or health. Because of the late hour, the deserted streets ran empty. When people discovered me, they steered clear. Now and then, I stopped and picked a crushed tin can from the gutter. As I raised it, grimy water ran over my hand. I imagined the tin as Ruth’s head. In anguish, I whipped it against a ing garage door. Torrential rain smothered the loud crash. After more sobbing, I collapsed to the sidewalk. Water moved around me washing Gamble’s deception from me. I ran my hand through the gutter as I stared at the ground. Emotions crushed my hopes. Finished. Kaput. How could it continue with her around? Destiny offers a cruel fate when two people align so perfectly and then a third force tears them apart. Her selfishness disgusted me. She had no mind to disappear. And what of my lies? How could I reveal them after his truth? Looking back, I should have told him at the vaudeville. I should have come clean, but like a coward, I carried my deceit longer. Maybe if I had revealed my secret to him like he did, things might have turned out different. But lovers never know how to bear their souls and perhaps that’s the most tangled flaw in humanity—knowing the right moment. After several minutes sobbing, an old woman stopped and asked if I needed help. I shooed her away like a kid as my head shook in despair. Time ed and I sat there all night. Occasionally, a stranger ed and showed concerned. I ignored their pleas to help because I wanted my heart to die and the night needed to be the darkest of my life. As the sun rose and the rain eased I stood and headed home. I entered my flat with a brusque whine, whipped my wet purse across the room in a rage, and fell into my bed soaking wet, uncaring, without thoughts, except for that damned man and his wretched sister. After a time, the sobbing stopped and a deep sleep stole my troubles away. But my dreams didn’t let it go. I returned to my ivory cell. Another pointless party raged around me but desolation blocked me from mingling with the crowd. People ed me without

notice. Now and then, a friend came into view: Moxie, Kish, Marie Scott, and someone named Lemora. I left the cell and wandered through the maze trying to find something that might invigorate me. In the distance, Ruth hobbled through the crowd like a spider. She stalked me but I avoided her. I searched for Gamble but I couldn’t find him. I ran into Victor. He tried to woo me with a whispered secret. His advances made me feel dirty. Tension filled the corridors as Victor guided me through the labyrinth. Then, he also vanished. In his stead, Gamble materialized. A few seconds later, a large egg appeared on my head. The shell blocked my vision. Gamble grabbed my hand. He led me through the corridors looking for an unknown object. I yearned for him. I tried to kiss him but the egg blocked my endearment. Rage made me slam my face against the wall hoping to break the egg. Finally, the egg cracked, but it acted as a chastity device. I tried to wrestle it free from my face but I couldn’t. We tried to kiss, but the mask blocked us. Through the shell, I saw his eyes, but they brought me emptiness. At the end of the hall, at the labyrinth’s center, a pin of light appeared in a dingy closet. From the illuminated point, a seven-headed beast appeared. The words —“Lerna” and “Argolid”—flittered through my brain but I didn’t understand their meaning. The guardian came after me; its many heads shifted from six to nine to five score. I tried the mask again. I crashed it into the wall oblivious to my wellbeing. The egg fell. I used shards of it to stab the serpentine monster. When one head died, two more replaced it.

29 October 1976

Months ed since his ission. My own secrets weighed on me as we tried to repair the damage. I forgave his lie. How could I not with so many of my own secrets? My own mistruths made me weary of staying in Detroit as my associates started pressuring me. Harboring my deceit became a burden, but I stored the inevitable away for another day. We spent the spring of 1929 in a different relationship than the previous years. Summer came as we dallied about. We spoke little of magic. Guilt made me withdraw from people. They knew something within me changed but they allowed me space. Hollowness filled all responsibilities: my job at Sixes, my love for him, and my relationships with other people. I kept my distance because if I revealed the truth everything might end. Guilt haunted me, returning repeatedly. And when it came, it whispered into my ear in a mendacious tenor, terrible, late at night, before sleep. It reminded me of my crime and that erasure became an impossibility the longer I withheld the truth. It brought nightmares. Bad dreams are for those in bed, but these followed me throughout the day. For the nth time, they replayed through my imagination. I analyzed my crime from every angle, for every way out. Guilt became a prison. I held the key but I couldn’t bear to free myself. Out of nowhere, the Fourth of July came and Gamble wanted to go to the amusement park called Bob-Lo Island. The French dubbed it Bois Blanc which meant “white woods” because of the birches that littered the area. Locals corrupted the name into Bob-Lo. Michigan people characterized the park as a “Coney Island” and it sat at the mouth of the Detroit River. An 18-mile ferry ride on the steamers the SS Ste Claire or the SS Columbia provided transport. Early that morning while in the Fort Shelby, I shoved the curtains aside and sneered at the gray clouds. “Are you sure we should go?” I shook my head back and forth in dismay. A slight hangover made my mood ugly. “It could be a mess out there.”

He glanced out the window too. “It’ll be fine. If it rains, there’s shelter and places to wait for it to .” Before long we arrived at the pier by taxi. He went aboard the SS Columbia. Attendants stored many vehicles under the raised promenade deck. Gamble payed close attention and it made me curious. After, we climbed the stairs to gain a better view. The riverside ed as the boat lunged forward. I leaned against the railing. The Columbia churned along the river as the sky grew darker. A dreadful storm brewed on the waterway’s Canadian side. I broke the silence. “Those clouds look nasty.” Gamble noticed my dread, so he changed the subject. “Did you see this morning’s paper?” I turned to him. “No. Why? What’s up?” He stared in the opposite direction of the storm. “I’m not sure how to tell you.” “What?” Gamble avoided eye and said, “They found Benny Evangelist murdered. The Detroit Free Press reported it.” My eyes widened. “What happened?” He produced a Lucky, twirled it a single time, lit it, and replied, “The paper said a man named Vincent Elias came to Benny’s home yesterday morning to discuss a real estate deal. He found the bodies.” “Wait a minute. Bodies?” A stormy expression that challenged the dark clouds ed over his features. He paused a minute, took a drag, exhaled, and then said, “I’m not sure I should tell you.” I slung a smile at him and slapped his chest with my glove. I said, “Don’t mess with me. I can take it.”

He agreed with his eyes, took one more long drag from his cigarette, tossed it overboard, and said, “Benny sat behind his desk with his hands folded in prayer on his lap. His head sat on the floor next to his feet. They cut his head off.” “Oh Jesus. Why d’you tell me that?” “You asked for it.” He rubbed the railing with his finger and added, “There’s more.” “More?” “Yeah, more.” “Will you tell me or what?” He pursed his lips, exhaled through his teeth, and said, “It’s worse than Benny.” “How much worse?” “Worse.” I sighed. “Go ahead. You’ve piqued my curiosity so how can I let it go?” “You asked for it.” He placed his hand on my shoulder but I pulled away. I regretted doing it so I moved back, closer to him. Finally, he said, “Upstairs, they also found his wife and four children murdered. The killer also beheaded Mrs. Evangelist.” “Oh Christ. That’s terrible. It’s so gruesome.” He shrugged again and said, “You asked.” “Well, what else did the article say?” “They dispatched Detroit homicide to the crime scene and searched the house. The killer surrounded Benny’s head with three framed photographs of a child in a coffin. What could that mean?” I muttered, “Weirdness.” “That’s not all. They also found women’s undergarments tagged with names.

The paper conjectured he used those for voodoo.” “Ew…” My face soured. He continued. “Today, every police squad in Detroit started a city-wide search for the killer.” “Do you have the paper?” He searched around in his case. “Yeah, it’s right here.” He handed me the Detroit Free Press. I opened the paper and wasn’t ready for what I saw. They printed a photo of Benny next to a photo of his house. My eyes widened. “What’s the matter?” Gamble asked. I whispered with shock, “I can’t believe it. It’s the house from a dream I had when you were away. I was in that place.” “Really?” “Yes, I’m certain. They painted it green with a wide porch. I entered an office. Behind a desk, a headless man sat with his noodle on the floor by his feet. It happened in my dream… I swear.” “I’m speechless. Magic at work, I guess.” “I guess.” If this was all magic gave me, I wasn’t sure I wanted it. As we talked, the storm clouds blossomed into ashen forms and the rumble of thunder boomed in the distance. Gamble’s story, my nightmare, and the approaching gale spooked me. The river wasn’t deep but I’ve seen Lake Huron and Michigan shipwreck maps and they worried me. Becoming fish food didn’t appeal to my sense of self-preservation. I glanced at Gamble. His expression revealed his fear. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “A lot of alcohol sits in secret below deck. If the boat goes down, we’d survive

though I’d lose a fortune and the Purple Gang would be none too happy.” His hand closed over mine. His shaking fingers steadied when he clasped it. “I thought this was a pleasure trip,” I said as I turned away from him. Another lightning bolt erupted in the sky for drama. A rough-around-the-edges man leaning against the railing caught my attention. I glanced back at Gamble. He didn’t reply. A few seconds later another boom rang through the sky. I glanced at the railing and the man disappeared. Rain fell. A few drops at first. But after a few seconds, it poured. We retreated closer to the main cabin underneath the awning but shelter didn’t help. Within seconds the rain soaked us to the bone and the sky turned black. A strong wind almost knocked us over and then proper fear came into my heart. On and on, the storm pelted the boat until almost everyone packed inside the cabin. People exchanged frightened looks. I searched for the rough man but he never showed again. The boat roiled as the waves crashed against the hull. The distance from the ferry to the shore didn’t seem far, but I’d drown if I swam it. Attendants gave us raincoats and life jackets. Gamble and I huddled together under the awning to stay warm. We forgot our macabre conversation and spent the rest of the trip waterlogged and shivering in fear. Before long, we arrived at the island. The clouds cleared in the sky. We dried ourselves off as best as possible. A small railroad shuttled us around the island. Early in the afternoon we rode the Nightmare, the Falling Star, and the Wild Mouse. After a brief wordless lunch, we got on the Sky Streak and Screamer rides. We spent an hour in the zoo. I reminisced about Sheba, the elephant from Belle Isle, and it made me romanticize our past. Those days felt simpler. After our dinner settled, we took a break on the carousel and the sun set over the water. We watched it as we held hands and I rested my head on his shoulder. After the sky darkened, we headed to the world’s second largest dance hall, financed by Henry Ford. At capacity, 5,000 dancers could fill the space. A 16foot-tall, 14-foot-wide, self-playing mechanical orchestra with 419 pipes and a percussion section filled one end of the enormous room as throngs of people danced and made merry. Even after all I experienced, that city still amazed me with its grandeur.

After dancing like fiends, we escaped the crowd and entered the night. “What should we do now?” I asked out of breath. “I’m not sure. It’s hard to top what’s come before. Aside from rain, this has been perfect.” I threw him a skeptical expression and said, “Yeah, aside from that horrific news about Benny. I need something to brighten my spirits. Would you like to get dessert?” Before Gamble could answer, someone tapped him on the shoulder. Gamble whirled around. Harry Shanks stood with his hand on his hip. Gamble spoke first. “Harry, what are you doing here?” “Making sure our shipment of rye and monkey rum makes it where it’s supposed to go.” Monkey rum was moonshine made of molasses. Shanks threw a thoughtful glance at me but his eyes went back to my date. Gamble said, “Do you doubt my services?” I looked at each man. Did Gamble graduate from an importer to a smuggler? Shanks said, “I don’t doubt you, but it doesn’t hurt to follow my investment. Besides, someone had to be there unloading and packing for that Chicago outfit while you were doing diddy-wah-diddy with this dame. What was I supposed to do?” “My people handled it.” Shanks said, “I know. But I didn’t see you there.” “I was busy.” Shanks gestured at me. “Aye, hands full with this little firecracker on your arm.” I scowled and shot back, “Firecracker? This little sparkler stands a foot taller than you, Mr. Shanks.”

Shanks turned to me with a dangerous expression. “Why say something like that when you know I’ll bump you off for it?” The threat meant nothing, but for Gamble’s sake I feigned fear. Gamble took the threat more seriously. He said, “Take it easy, Harry.” Shanks raised his hands in the sky like a priest. Menace dripped from his fingers as he repeated, “I always do. Always do. Always do…” I said, “Hey Gamble, why don’t you get me that dessert?” The two men exchanged meaningful glances. Gamble threw me a concerned expression to see if Shanks made me uncomfortable. I returned Gamble with a slight nod. “Are you sure?” he asked. Shanks smiled. I shrugged and said, “Yeah, I’m sure.” Gamble acknowledged Benny. “Can I get you something too, doughboy?” Shanks shook his head and said, “Nay. Not hungry. By the way… ffangul!” It meant “go f—yourself” in Italian-American slang. Gamble looked at me one more time to confirm. I said, “I’ll have an elephant ear.” He said, “Okay. I’ll be back in a flash.” He departed to a food stand across the way. I waited before dropping my pretension, and then I said, “Why are you here?” Shanks ignored my question. His toothpick switched sides in his mouth. Instead of answering in his mixed Irish and Italian accent, he delivered a smooth, “Does he know?” “No, of course not.” “It’s best to keep it that way, for your sake. The hammer’s coming down. Soon.” Then he backed away into the night.

I considered his words. I glared at the moon and cursed my luck. Before long, Gamble returned with ice cream. Gamble looked around and said, “They didn’t have elephant ears. Where’s Harry?” “He left. Something about business.” Gamble nodded. “I’m sorry about him. I didn’t know he’d be here.” “Earlier, why didn’t you tell me about the shipment?” A revealing expression ed over him. He lied, “I didn’t want you to worry.” I nodded, bit my lower lip, and then said, “You didn’t wanna worry me? Look what happened on Valentine’s Day in Chicago. Bootlegging is dangerous, Gamble.” He nodded. Guilt appeared on his face. I said, “I’m sorry. I’m just wound up. I’m going through a rough time. The taxi dancer thing has become redundant. Shanks reminded me of that. Detroit feels stale and I want the time I have left to be memorable.” “Time left? Are you going somewhere?” “I don’t know. Probably not, but things I have to deal with aren’t going well.” “What things?” he asked. I considered revealing my secret but my instincts didn’t let me yet. “Just work. People. That kind of thing,” I replied. Gamble pointed the opposite direction that Shanks came from and asked, “How about a romantic Ferris wheel ride?” “Sounds good.” After several minutes of walking in silence, we arrived at the Ferris wheel. He purchased tickets; the attendant ushered us to our gondola. Before long, we ascended into the black sky. Shimmering stars dotted the firmament and the

moon rose from the horizon. Gamble leaned into me and said, “How about going back to our hotel and finding the Green Fairy? Like old times.” “No. Not really.” “Why not?” “I’ve left that behind, Gamble. And you know that.” “How about the Fort Shelby then?” “I should go home after this.” He shrugged and said, “What’s the problem? Ever since I’ve been back things have been strange. Yes, we’ve made love. Yes, we’ve dated. But you seem distant. Your mind rests elsewhere.” “I’m just sorting my feelings out.” “I love you, Dominique. How many times do I have to say?” “As many times as it takes.” He didn’t like my answer. We sat in silence for a while until Gamble said, “I’ve been wanting to tell you something.” I leaned closer and whispered, “What?” He looked straight ahead. In an emotionless voice he said, “I told Ruth I’m moving out. I’m getting her a nurse. I’m staying with Jay Em for the time being.” Surprised, I said, “What? Are you serious?” I stammered to say more, but no words came. He read my astonishment and said, “Isn’t that what you wanted?” My mouth became dry and words eluded me. Another pang of guilt seized me. All that time, that dream, that idea that we’d stay together somehow, would

collapse. But that was all it was—a dream. I never thought in a million years he’d abandon his sister for me. A thousand questions raced through my thoughts. What would she do without him? Who would take care of her? He read my face again and said, “It’s the way it should be. Back when I asked her for the money, I confessed everything to her. She’ll be all right.” I shook my head and said, “No, she won’t be all right. She adores you like a drug. What d’you think this will do?” He looked to the ground and muttered, “I’m not sure. All I thought about was freeing myself so we could be together. I never considered what she would do, as selfish as that sounds.” “Did she say anything when you told her?” He looked guilty as he said, “She knew it was coming. She suspected for a long time. After her last outburst, it surprised her I didn’t decide sooner.” “Did she say anything negative about it?” He searched for the words and then said, “Even before the accident, she wasn’t a typical woman. She carries this uncanny wisdom that scares me sometimes, like she sees the future. I’m not sure if it’s because she kissed death, but she knows things. She understands people much better than me.” “What did she say about me?” “Ruth noticed a difference in me about two years ago. And then I left to California. It wasn’t for magic. She knew I ran away.” I didn’t know what to say but words exited my mouth. “I think this is a mistake.” My comment wounded him more than I intended. A fearful expression crept over his face; I never saw the look on anybody. It comprised a mix of horror and complete dumbfounded speechlessness. He didn’t know what to do now. It was like his entire existence hinged on that decision and now that he made it and it didn’t go the way he intended, it finished him. I grabbed his face with my hands and I looked him in the eye. I whispered, “I’m

sorry.” I saw tears well up in him and I held back mine but I added, “I can’t let you throw your family away for me. It’s not good for her. Not good for me. It’s not good for you either.”

5 November 1976

The Evangelist murders never left my thoughts. Perhaps the occult nature of the killings opened my eyes to magic and its darker aspects. Perhaps the murders foreshadowed a bleaker time ahead for Detroit and for myself. Either way, I became obsessed with them as I followed the paper worrying about my future. Over the course of the next several days, police made arrests for the murders and questioned suspects, but all led to dead-ends. The case went cold with many potentials but no murder weapon. Police found bloody fingerprints on the door latch but forensics in those days didn’t amount to much. Authorities posted a reward of a thousand dollars for information about the Evangelist killer—a lot of money in those days. Law enforcement said Evangelist purchased salvageable lumber from a demolished house. Benny arranged for someone to deliver the wood to his home and planned to meet the truck the next morning to pay the deliverymen. Someone murdered Evangelist and his family later that night, but the deliverymen never came. Evangelist intended to give payment the following day, yet police found no money in the home following the murder. Authorities never located the delivery company, but suspected money to be the motive. After fifty years, the case remains unsolved. Several theories exist why someone would murder the family. Because of his spiritual trade, Evangelist had gained many enemies who believed his mystic potions and cures as rip-offs. One theory revolved around several notes found in the home that pointed to extortion by La Mano Nera or the “Black Hand,” a loose association of Italian criminals who used intimidation and murder to extort money from Italian immigrants. A letter from six months before the murders read: “This is your last chance.” Another theory involved Benny’s old friend Aurelius Angelino, a gentleman who murdered his own two children with an axe. He escaped from a Pennsylvania prison for the criminally insane in 1925 and disappeared. Did Angelino somehow make his way to Detroit?

A third theory involved Angelo Depoli and Umberto Tecchio visiting the home the night before the murders. Tecchio intended to make final payment on a house Benny sold him. Police brought each man in for questioning when they found an axe, a banana knife, and a pair of suspiciously clean work boots in the barn behind their boarding house. Each man claimed they went out drinking after dropping off the house payment. Three months prior to the massacre, Tecchio knifed his brother-in-law to death in an argument but with no physical evidence and no confession, he escaped prosecution. Later in 1931, police arrested Rose Veres, known as “The Witch of Delray.” They connected her with the deaths of ten men who had lived at her boarding house. Over the years, she placed life insurance policies on her boarders and made up to $4,000 for each death. Police found fifty other insurance policies on various people connected to her. Despite evidence, police couldn’t convict her because neighbors believed she possessed great knowledge in black magic so they wouldn’t testify. With forced testimony, courts found the woman guilty and sentenced her to life in prison but a judge exonerated her in 1945. And in 1932, police jailed Detroit cult leader Robert Harris for the murder of James J. Smith. Someone tied Smith to an altar and stabbed him in the heart with a silver knife. Harris claimed the Evangelist killings too, but fingerprints found at the Evangelist family’s murder didn’t match his. Years after the incident, the city demolished the Evangelist house and a vacant field took its place. Many say the land near the corner of St. Aubin and Mack remains haunted. Detroiters have tossed around reports of a headless man wandering around with disembodied voices and screams following him. Who killed that strange man and his poor family? Over the years, I believe money was the motive not occultism. Back then, money worked differently. Because of Prohibition, people got knocked-off for it, and that’s probably what happened to the Evangelist family. And curiously enough, unexpected money became the spark that facilitated my departure from Detroit. Back then, the government wanted to curb dope trafficking and money laundering so they stopped issuing larger denominations like the ten thousand, five thousand, one thousand, and five hundred-dollar bills in 1934. Under the

table high-stakes gambling suffered because to carry a large sum of money after 1934 a gambler needed a suitcase. In 1929, however, the social elite still bet exorbitant amounts of cash in backroom games. A gambler could fit a hundred thousand dollars in his or her pocket. Many of these games happened at Tommy’s near the West Riverfront on Third Avenue. Built in 1840, the basement once served as an outlet for the Underground Railroad but in the twenties rum-runners used the tunnels to move alcohol from Canada into America. Reluctantly, I met Gamble at Tommy’s in the early days of September. Before we entered the club, Gamble acknowledged me with a tip of his hat, went around back of his Rolls-Royce, opened his trunk, produced a .38 Colt army revolver from his coat, and tossed it in back. From my vantage point, I caught sight of nitroglycerine bottles and electric caps, along with a 12-gauge Winchester pumpgun and a bag of ammunition. “What’s all that for?” I asked in a snide tone. “Things have been heating up since Valentine’s Day. I haven’t been taking any chances.” I dipped my head in acknowledgment but a tense knot appeared in my stomach. I said, “A Winchester is quite an excessive gun for personal protection, don’t you think?” “How do you know about a Winchester?” he asked. I shrugged. “I’ve been around.” Gamble laughed it off and said, “Sometimes I go to the 2 Way Inn on Mount Elliot, but the stakes get higher here and there’s more payoff. Got that stuff in my trunk just in case.” “Are your money problems over?” I asked. “Not exactly. Money doesn’t work that way. I’ve been buying up stocks with the rest of the money Ruth gave me hoping to come out ahead of the bookies.” “Hasn’t the market been shaky since that dip in March?”

“That was an anomaly. It’ll keep going up in September. As the wealth of the US increases the stock market will rise with it, forever and on. It’ll set me up to separate from my family’s wealth.” I nodded in understanding but my street smarts understood a different lesson: anything can happen and assuming the best will lead to the worst. I banished these thoughts as we ed through a few sliding doors into the tunnels. Roulette, blackjack, and poker tables surrounded by men in finery filled the smoky scene. Gamble asked me if I needed money to wager but I refused. If I won or lost, it would be on my . We separated and went to different tables. I didn’t have much cash but I wanted to make it last. I played a few hands of poker. Lost. Looked around. Moved to the blackjack table. Lost. Looked around again. I wandered around the room assessing the players. Men of means mixed with gangster types. By the way people reacted, I surmised women rarely came, and once again, I stood out as the poorest person. After losing more than I intended, I headed over to Gamble’s table. I said, “Maybe I can give you some luck.” I intended for my comment to sound like sarcasm but Gamble took it literally. He glanced up at me and smiled. Before coming to Tommy’s, he impressed upon me he needed to win big. One never bets when one doesn’t have the means to lose. But he didn’t listen and that’s why trouble dogged him. I neglected to tell him I had lost most of my money. As Gamble placed his cash, I assessed the other bettors around the roulette table. I didn’t recognize any of them from Sixes, but a strong suspicion that many Purple Gang sat among them came over me. I scanned the room. Shanks wasn’t there, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t show. I tried to talk Gamble out of coming because of Shanks’s plan for around town that week, but Gamble didn’t heed my pleas. As I thought about it, some words Philippe once told me came to mind, “In French ‘roulette’ means ‘little wheel.’ Don’t make it a metaphor for your life.” A feeling nagged at me that the wheel would stop that day. As I ruminated about the dangers of staying there, Gamble explained the game to

me. “The croupier spins the wheel one way and then spins the ball in the opposite direction. The ball moves around the tilted track running the wheel’s outer edge. Eventually, the ball loses momentum and lands into one of 38 colored and numbered pockets. Philippe told me it’s 37 in because American tables have a double zero. If it lands on your bet, you win. Do you want to try it?” I looked at the table and then to the entrance. Both intimidated me for different reasons. I said, “Nope. It’s all you. Win big so we can leave.” “Okay. I’ll bet street on the inside. That’s three consecutive numbers in a horizontal line like 7-8-9, on the outer edge of the number at either end of the line.” “Um, okay. Not sure what that means but whatever floats your boat.” I glanced up at the clock—almost nine-thirty. As the croupier rolled the ball, Gamble said, “Philippe knows much about the game. I wish he was still here. Apparently, all the numbers’ sum, from zero to 36, adds to 666, which is the ‘Number of the Beast’ in the Book of Revelation. Weird, huh?” I thought about it and said, “Not really.” Stern expressions painted the men’s faces. I watched them with interest as people bet—some won and some lost. Gamble’s money dwindled fast as he placed more bets. Time ed. Gamble frowned and said, “You can win by placing inside bets of the exact number or a small range of numbers based on their closeness. Outside bets use positional groupings, pocket color, or odds or evens. The probability of the inner bets yields a larger payout.” Other players placed bets. Then, the ball spun around the wheel until the dealer announced no more bets. Next to me an old sea-salt blathered as he lost. “Aye. More ye a piker says I.”

Some people used “piker” to mean “cheapskate” or “coward.” In his case, I didn’t know which he meant. Did the man run with the Jewish Navy? Probably. Another reason to leave. The croupier put down a marker on the winning number. No player placed, collected, or removed bets from the table once the marker came down. The croupier swept away all losing bets with a rake and determined winning bets. Money exchanged hands. Angry faces stormed away. Greedy men drooled. Then, the croupier removed the marker from the board and the players made new bets. I went to a different table. I placed the rest of my money. The wheel spun. I won a few hundred dollars. I went back to Gamble’s table without revealing my win. Holding the whiskey with the same hand as his cigarette, he mumbled, “The house edge is something fierce. Some say it’s rigged to give a severe advantage to the house.” “Really?” In the Prohibition era, it was common because gangsters ruled the cities. The croupier pressed a button disguised as a screw. When they pressed it, the device triggered the electrical circuit and made a pin appear from the side of the roulette’s wheel. Gamble lost repeatedly. He threw money away like trash. I couldn’t believe it. More than a week’s dancing wages disappeared in a few wheel spins. He never acknowledged me but I guessed that anger seethed in his heart. He threw away money without resolve. His anger didn’t stop him. Most people seemed fine with his irrationality because they won the rounds. I tried to steal his attention but I couldn’t because his focus stayed on the table. As he wagered, I considered the man’s intelligence; his intellect remained unmatched among the people about town. But smart men often do foolish things. I glanced at the clock—ten-fifteen. I couldn’t watch any more. I retreated from the table and found my own. I placed some arbitrary bets with the money won from earlier. The wheel spun.

I held my breath and crossed my fingers as the wheel turned. It slowed. The numbers came and I won big. Ten grand, I couldn’t believe it. Just like that. In complete astonishment, I realized I had enough dough to get out of the D. But did I want to ditch him and everything I knew? Not really, but I needed to leave. No choice really. With the money I saved, plus my winnings, I had more than enough to go. A rush of conflicting emotions overcame me as I decided it was time. I needed to get him out of there somehow. I stopped gambling. I walked over to Gamble and watched him lose more. I pulled him away and said, “Can you take a break?” “Sure.” I muttered, “Let’s go outside for a sec.” “Okay.” We ordered a few drinks and then headed outside. In those days, people often carried their alcohol outside to smoke and the speakeasies didn’t care as long as one stayed discreet. We moved to the building’s side. Gamble lit a cigarette. I searched for the right words. “Gamble, I don’t know how to tell you this.” He studied my eyes and found something he didn’t like. He whispered, “What’s the problem? Is it about my sister again?” I shook my head back and forth. “No, it’s not your sister. It’s something else, something I’ve done. I dare not tell you.” A sharp breath came as his eyes went to the night sky. His expression hurt me more than I thought possible. It said, “You cheated on me.” I shook my hands back and forth and I said, “No, it’s not like that. I didn’t cheat on you or anything.”

Then, I saw them. The group sprinted behind Gamble. I pretended not to see them as I pulled him deeper into the alley. Gamble gestured with his glass and said, “What then?” I looked to my feet searching my thoughts for how to say what I needed to say in the fastest way possible. After a moment I glanced to the side as I explained, “You met me years ago at Sixes. They told me to work there.” He appeared confused but asked, “Who told you?” I continued in haste. “The man who recruited me. The man who just entered Tommy’s with an armed crew.” “Recruited you?” “Yes, but we need to go now.” “Why? What’s the problem?” “I’ll tell you but we need to leave now. Take me to the Fort Shelby or somewhere, okay?” He nodded and we hopped in his car. As we exited the alley, gunfire ripped through the night. “What the—” his eyes shot up to the rearview mirror. “Just go!” The car tore away from the club and we headed down a nameless street at top speed. After we seemed in the clear, I said, “Listen. Trouble found me and I only had one way out. This will be hard for you to hear and it breaks my heart to tell you.” He glanced at me with suspicion. Releasing a breath I had held for three years, I confessed, “I’m an informant for the National Bureau of Prohibition and many of the busts around town happen because of me.” “What?” His face went blank. “Wait a minute. What’s this… a bureau? I don’t

understand.” “The Prohibition Unit enforces the Volstead Act. I report on the manufacture, sale, and transportation of alcoholic beverages.” His eyes widened, but he said nothing. I went on. “The Bureau allows for uncertified people to become agents. This year, they ed the Jones Law. Before it, a typical sentence for breaking the ban was six months in prison and a fine of a grand. Now, the Jones Law has increased the violations to a maximum of five years and ten-grand.” Again, I searched for the right words but I couldn’t find them. He drove like a maniac. Instead of finding choice language, I said plainly, “I’ve been informing on Victor, but the boys want you. Authorities know about your opium trade. They keep pressuring me for information about you. They want you to lead them to bigger fish.” His eyes squinted in shock. “What did you tell them?” His voice held a keen edge ready to cut through my guilt. “They know we’ve been meeting. They’ve known for a long time. They follow you, not the Purple Gang. I’ve given them faulty information. I told them stuff that didn’t pan out or I led them to others. I protected you. But they’ve been following me.” “I can’t believe it. How could you lie to me this whole time?” I pushed my tears aside because I needed strength to finish. I gathered myself and said, “They wanted me to find… rich men who might lead them to rumrunners. They approached me… for this reason. I knew nothing about the opium. As I got to know you, and the more I fell in love, it became harder and harder for me to reveal my secret.” “You should have told me.” His emotionless voice wounded my heart. His hands gripped the wheel like a killer strangling a victim. “I feel terrible. They got me. After my parents’ death and my time on the street, I got involved in petty crime. Stealing stuff. Bad things. At first, minor robberies but later it turned into larger jobs.”

He studied his hands in silence, occasionally glancing at the road. I continued my story. “I did some work for Dutch Schultz, a German-Jewish mobster, who made his fortune in bootlegging and the numbers racket. Lucky Luciano wanted to disrupt Schultz’s jobs so he started tipping off the police. They caught me. They told me I might be the perfect gal to lead them to bigger fish, but everybody knew me in New York. If the gangs find me, they’ll finish me. People have killed over five-hundred agents nationwide.” I tried to grab his hand, but he pulled away. I continued with despair. “They moved me to Detroit. They found Sixes. If I nailed a few rum-runners, they would expunge my record. Nobody at Sixes knows, not even Moxie.” With a sudden edge to his voice he said, “This whole thing was a lie.” I grabbed for his hand again as he pulled away. I said, “No. No. It wasn’t a lie. I fell in love with you. That’s why I’m leaving. I can’t tell them about you and I can’t stay because they expect information. I know you will hate me after this. I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you the truth. If you’re able, you could blow town too. Maybe they would give up looking if you disappeared back to California.” He shook his head. “What about my sister and mother? They need me. I moved out, but I had no intention of moving across the world or disappearing.” “If you continue what you’re doing, you’re gonna go to the Clink. Then, no one will be there.” In exasperation, he nodded his head in agreement. Then he said, “Seriously, what have you told them about me?” “Nothing about the opium. I said you were a flamboyant man who treated me to meals and movies but that’s it. I told them I slept with you, but it didn’t matter. I only did it for money and kicks. They think I’m a criminal, so it wasn’t hard for them to buy it.” I held back tears as I continued, “But for me, for my heart… it’s not true. None of it. I didn’t want your money. I didn’t want the fun… the parties. I stuck with you because I fell in love with your mind, who you are, and the magic you showed me. It’s real… I know that now. But it doesn’t matter because I can’t

stay.” He nodded as he clenched his hands into fists. I added, “And you can’t leave. It breaks my heart so. It’s all a mess that’s impossible to fix. I have to leave because if I stay at Sixes, they’ll arrest my friends. Before I leave, I’ll tell Moxie and Marie what I’ve done. Give them a chance to get out before the law comes down. Once they know I’m gone, they’ll hit Sixes because they’ll know I told them. Marie will hate me. But what can I do?” He thought about it for a long time as we remained silent. Tears ran down my face. He sighed and said in a solemn whisper, “I have to think about it more, but it doesn’t look like there’s a way out. I don’t know.” “There’s no time. They want more information and there’s nothing I can give them except for you and the girls. I won’t do that.” “I could hide you somewhere.” I broke. “I’m tired of this life. I can’t stay in hiding forever. Maybe in Europe or somewhere… I’ll have a new beginning. I’ll figure something out.” He put his arm on my shoulder to reassure me. My sobbing continued, but he didn’t know how to stop it. He looked around the traffic. Nobody noticed my indignity. He glanced at me and said, “I don’t want you to go.” “I don’t wanna go.” My voice cracked. I grabbed for him. He pulled over. We embraced with ionate abandon. Our faces touched as tears ran down our cheeks. I whispered into his face, “I’m lost with only ghosts surrounding me. Nothing I do… has any more impact. Ever since you came back from California, I’ve felt only loneliness… and uselessness. You showed me magic, made me love more than ever before, but then you left. But you came back. And now we’re finished because there’s nothing left.”

11 November 1976

Houdini stood on stage at the Garrick dazzling the crowd with his adeptness. All my friends and enemies sat around me. Houdini ended his act with a reenactment of an Ancient Egyptian magic trick by Dedi where the magician conjured balls from nothing. Then, for his finale, the dead illusionist decapitated a bird and reattached its head. He scanned the crowd as he finished the trick. His eyes fell on me. Without his lips moving, his voice came into my mind—“Everything has its masculine and feminine principles. Gender manifests on all planes.” After his words, the woman with the malformed rabbit’s ear walked on stage. The lighting in the theater darkened until a single green spotlight lit her and the dead sorcerer. The audience waited for something. Pausing for emphasis, Houdini smiled and took his final bow. Without warning, the rabbit-eared woman punched him in the stomach. Her hand went deep within his body. She searched inside him. Then, with a flourish, she pulled a flower bouquet from his abdomen. Blood streamed from the chasm. Music swelled. Houdini fell to the stage. The curtain closed. I stood with apprehension. As if directed by an unknown force, I walked down my row past my friends. At the aisle, I noticed the rabbit-eared woman. Once again, she raised her finger to her mouth to show silence. As she left the Garrick, one by one, her footprints seared into the theater’s floor like a trail. I followed the glowing footprints outside the theater. The woman turned to me and whispered —“I’ve revealed the secret of magic.” “I hurt my finger today, and it’s my favorite one. Darn it.” Moxie’s voice brought me back from reliving my dream from the previous night. Absently, I said, “What?” “It’s my favorite finger,” Moxie said as she laced up her men’s two-tone Oxfords. I never understood where her love affair with the brown and white wingtip shoes came from, so I replied, “Why men’s shoes, Moxie?” “They’re casual and semi-formal at the same time. Durable. Why not?” I couldn’t argue with her logic. As she laced the second shoe, I studied her and a

wave of emotion overcame me. Tonight I needed to confess everything. We prepared for the evening, but my mind lingered on inevitability. Moxie said, “I can’t believe it’s almost Halloween again. Six more days. I’m so ready. This time I’ll be a sea witch, carrot nose and all.” I smiled at the thought, but I knew I’d never see it. I said, “Sea hag, you mean?” “Yeah, that. What are you gonna be?” I stammered, “Oh, I’m… not sure yet. I haven’t thought about it.” “Haven’t thought about it? It’s Halloween, Jeez Louise. I’ve been thinking about it since last November—or maybe the year before.” We finished primping and headed from the back room to the bar. Marie, Kish, Annabel, and Lonnie chatted at the brass slab. As we approached, I heard Annabel say, “It’s been panic selling on the Dow Jones. It’s been scaring people to death.” Marie said, “I heard the same. Good thing I don’t play the market.” “Yeah, but many of our customers do,” Annabel said as she saw me. She gave me one of her looks and returned her attention to Marie. Annabel wore an asymmetrically designed dress with one shoulder exposed and a ring holding the other shoulder’s material. The bottom hem also ran parallel to the upper creating a diagonal movement. Her black leather gloves complemented the pearl necklace that hung down to her stomach. Her fashion sense used to annoy me. At that moment, I wished we had made a truce and maybe shared some fashion ideas. Everybody chatted about the stock market as we prepared for the evening. Lonnie polished and stocked glasses. Marie commanded men to lug some kegs from the back. The taxi dancers smoked while slugging a complimentary cocktail to get us in the mood. All the while, dread filled my heart as people finished their day-to-day duties, but my last dance approached. When everyone finished, I cleared my throat and said, “Come around. I have something to tell you all.”

As they milled about grumbling, I looked to the floor as I gathered courage. I glanced at Moxie and her face revealed she knew something happened. She eyed me with a curious but noteworthy expression. Once everybody stopped moving, I took a deep breath and said, “It’s hard for me to tell you this. I’m not sure how to say it… But back in New York, I got in some trouble. I had no money, no job, no food. I stole so I could eat. It was a dark time.” I made sure everyone paid attention. After confirming, I continued, “The police caught me stealing more than food and I got connected with some bad people.” I looked from one person to the next. They listened. I added, “The police let me go with one condition. If I provided information about illegal drinking, they’d expunge my crimes from the record. I didn’t have a choice. I accepted, and since Detroit acted as a bootlegging route, they placed me here.” Many of them didn’t understand my ission, but Marie’s face carried comprehension. A tinge of anger crept into her eyes. My eyes darted away from hers and I continued, “I didn’t know any of you. I presumed I’d have to tell them about a supplier or rum-runner or two and it would end.” Lonnie spoke for all of them by saying, “Laws-a-me. What are ya getting at right here?” I looked him in his dark eyes and the corners of my mouth turned upward sadly. “But it didn’t end. Many of the Detroit and Chicago busts of the past few years happened because I provided information. That bust over in Albion…. The few on the river. Those were mine.” Chatter erupted from the crowd as they exchanged murmurs of disbelief. I raised my hands to quiet them. I turned to Marie and said, “Marie, they already knew about you, but they want bigger fish. They want men like Gamble and Victor—the top dogs.” I glanced at my feet and itted, “They’ve been pressing me for months to give them information about Gamble. There are things he’s deep into that they want. I’ve held them at bay for as long as possible. I won’t give him up.”

Annabel’s voice came from the crowd, “That’s big of you. And what about Victor?” “They’ll leave Victor alone if he backs off. But they plan to bust several places next week. I’m not supposed to tell you. If you can clear the place, maybe it’ll turn out right. The crowd bellowed and grumbled with anger. I raised my hands to quiet them. “Many local police drink here. I’ve been talking to Sgt. Joseph for a long time. He told me they never give federals information. Detroit PD hates them snooping around. The federals won’t have proof if the place sits empty. But they’ll suspect I told you, so I have to leave Detroit.” A random voice said, “Good. Get out of here! We don’t like rats with our drinks.” Many other people complained. A few threw wads of paper at me. After several seconds, an unknown person tossed a glass that shattered near me. Marie raised her finger commanding to stop the hostility. I held back tears, but I faced my condemnation with as much grace as possible. I turned back to Marie and said, “Marie, this place has been your life. I know my actions destroyed it. I’m so sorry. I feel terrible. I should have just gone to prison.” She nodded as she moved closer to me. I expected her to sock me in the face. Instead, her arm came around my shoulder in a hug. Her deed surprised me. She said, “It’s fine, dear. I knew Sixes wouldn’t last forever. Honestly, I’m surprised it lasted this long. People find out things.” She turned to the crowd and raised her voice. “That’s why I started another place across town where it’s more discreet. You’re welcome to come there. I planned to open it in a few weeks but…” People from the crowd yelled out: “But they might come tonight.” “It’s too risky.”

“We should go.” She shooed the crowd to disperse and added, “They ain’t coming tonight, if she says they ain’t. Besides, we all drink despite it being unlawful. It’s on our heads, not hers.” As the crowd disbanded Marie, Moxie, Kish, and Lonnie stayed close. Marie gestured to Lonnie with an open hand and he poured five shots of whiskey. He handed three of them to her, kept one, and he offered the last to me. Marie gave Moxie and Kish each one. Marie turned back and said, “Where will you go?” “I shouldn’t tell you in case someone asks.” They all nodded. Marie raised her glass and said, “To nowhere then.” We all raised our glasses and repeated, “To nowhere.” We downed the shots and a somber peace fell over the group. I spoke first. “So you guys aren’t mad at me?” They looked to each other but nobody said a word. Marie pulled me aside and whispered, “This concerns me. Do you have money to leave?” Again, her behavior surprised me. Maybe I judged her wrong? Maybe she held some things dearer than the bar. I gathered myself and said, “I’ve been saving because it had come to this. Also, Gamble took me to Tommy’s for some roulette and I won so that helps. I think the federals hit it after we left but I’ve seen nothing in the news.” She nodded, moved behind the bar, opened a cigar box, grabbed something out of it, came back around the counter, and grabbed my hand with hers. A wad of money appeared in my palm. She leaned over and whispered into my ear, “I should be mad, but I’m not. Take it. You’ll need all you can get.” I tried to protest, but she silenced me. Instead, I asked, “Are you gonna still open tonight?”

She said, “Why not? As you said, they aren’t coming until next week.” “Isn’t it a risk?” “Nope. Once everyone gets here, we’ll head over to my new place, but you won’t be able to come.” “I understand.” If I knew the location, I might spill it if things went sour. She added, “Life is getting too weird around here. I suspect places like Sixes will fade away the more people get in trouble. After Valentine’s Day, I’m not taking any chances.” I nodded in agreement. I finished speaking to Marie, and I moved to Moxie. I said, “Moxie, I’m sorry I never told you. I feel terrible. I hope you can forgive me.” “I knew,” she said with a solemnity. “You knew. How?” “I might not be as brainy as you, but I’m not stupid. Hints. Sometimes you left stuff scattered around your apartment. It doesn’t matter how I knew; I just did.” “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” She shrugged and said, “You’re my friend. I don’t have many of those.” “I’m sorry. I’ve let you down.” “Let me down? The last three years have been gangbusters—the spaghetti, our talks, Ashe’s hairballs. I wouldn’t trade them even if you had me sent to prison.” She laughed, nudged me in the ribs, and said, “They’d have to catch me first. I know a few tunnels round town and I stow a heater at home. I’d like to see them try.” I smiled even though tears welled in my eyes. I said, “Hey, I would love if you took care of Ashe. She likes you.” Moxie winked and said, “No problem. She’s not so bad for a cat and I suppose I

could use the friend.” Her comment wounded me. The doors opened and more people spilled inside. Marie announced that someone compromised the speakeasy and that customers should head over to the new location later in the evening. The crowd milled about and I spotted Clay and Jay Em, but no Gamble. “Hello boys,” I said. They greeted me and Jay Em said in a low voice, “Gamble told us.” I nodded as more guilt welled up. After a meek shrug I said, “I must seem like a monster.” Clay said, “People with character resemble monsters to those who haven’t suffered.” I looked long and hard at him. I smiled weakly and said, “Clay, you’re the wisest man I’ve ever known.” He laughed. “Not likely. How are you holding up?” “Everybody’s heading over to a different place, but I’m doing well considering.” Clay eyed me a moment and said, “Really?” I shrugged, sighed, and then answered, “No. Not really. I’m devastated. I just wish I never would have made that deal. Now, everyone suffers because of me. I should have told everyone long ago.” “Change always happens. Maybe if it didn’t happen this way, someone else would’ve tipped off the federals and everybody would be in prison. Anything might have happened.” “I never thought about it that way, but it makes sense.” “Do you have anywhere to go?” “I was thinking about Paris.”

“I sent the St. Martens a telegram. They’ll help you.” “Thank you, Clay. That’s kind of you.” I kissed him on the cheek and added, “Take care of yourself.” Marie started gathering people and lining them at the door. She looked to me. The time came. I nodded. I turned to them and said, “I have to go.” My friends nodded. I put my hand on Jay Em’s arm and said, “Take care of Gamble for me, will you?” Jay Em nodded. Distress filled his thoughtful eyes. Clay touched my arm, and I embraced him. Then, I hugged Jay Em, and the duo moved to the crowd. I watched them as they walked away, but I’d never see them again. I searched the crowd for others. Over at the exit, Annabel flirted with Victor like they had become lovers. Jealousy crept up, but I banished it. If Victor wanted her, more power to him. Maybe they’d find more happiness than me. I noticed Kish. I waved her over. I said, “Goodbye, Kish. It’s been a pleasure.” “Ojibwa people have no word for goodbye.” “What would you say then?” “Minawa giga-wabamin.” “What does that mean?” She smiled and said, “I’ll see you again.” I petted Nodin and the pup licked my hand. Kish and I hugged and then she moved to the door. I turned around. Where was Moxie? Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I whirled about. Moxie stood there with a smile and two final shots. She handed me one and said, “Last call for alcohol.” She raised her glass. I raised mine to match. A tear ran down my cheek. Through my sorrow I said, “What are we… toasting this time?”

With a straight face she said, “Spaghetti. I love Spaghetti.” “To spaghetti and good friends.” We shot the drinks and then embraced each other. As she pulled away Moxie said, “Where’s Gamble?” “I don’t think he’s coming. I told him everything. He didn’t take it well. I’m not sure I’ll see him again.” “That’s tough.” “Yeah, it is. I wanted to say so many things.” I looked at my empty shot glass. Moxie turned to the crowd that filed out of the bar. Before she got away, I grabbed her and said, “Hey, if you see him tell him…” “Tell him what?” Words didn’t come, but she said, “I’ll tell him. Hey, are you taking a train to wherever you end up?” “That’s the plan.” She kissed my cheek, and the room emptied. Before long, I stood alone. I assessed the wood-ed walls and the brasscovered bar dented and dinged from the hours of intimate discourse. The wood and chrome bar stools looked lonely. Hushed whispers about magic and ghosts lingered around the chandeliers. The red velvet draperies that hid the secret alcoves where Gamble and I drank alone and made scandalous love appeared dead. I turned to leave but Lonnie came from the back room. “Bye, Lonnie,” I said as I raised my hand. “Hope to see you down the road somewhere.” He raised his hand and said, “Might could.”

I scanned the interior one more time. I tried to leave but a nagging feeling that I left something unfinished came over me. I didn’t want to leave yet. I whispered to myself, “Gamble never came.” I turned, sighed, and walked out of Sixes forever.

12 November 1976

Acold biting rain fell over the city on 26 October. Earlier that day, I handed Prudence an envelope of money for my final rent payment. She scolded me for the short notice. As I left the building, I caught a glimmer of sadness in her eye. I never imagined she’d show affection toward me. Looking down every alley as I went, I stopped at Moxie’s house and delivered Ashe. My dearest friend and I said our final goodbyes, but I knew I’d see her again somewhere down the line. As I left her apartment, I stole one last look at Hastings Street. Black Bottom didn’t survive. By 1950, Albert Cobo, the new mayor and namesake for Cobo Arena, razed the entire neighborhood for two reasons. First, he made room for middle-class townhouses and high-rise condominiums they later renamed Lafayette Park. Second, the Federal Highway Act, signed into law by Eisenhower, helped create the I-75/I-375 superhighway that killed Hastings Street jazz and its bohemian culture forever. After lunch, I jumped on the Michigan Avenue streetcar and got off near Roosevelt Park. After exiting the car, I scanned the street for police. The rain soaked me to the bone before I entered Michigan Central Station. The enormous building housed the train depot and an office tower with thirteen stories, two mezzanine levels, and a towering roof. People claimed it was the tallest rail station in the world at the time of its construction. People also said that the architects who worked on Grand Central Terminal in New York designed it. As I walked through the depot, I marveled at the large space looming over me like it might swallow me whole. Various beasts from my dreams entered my mind, but I banished them. I strolled over to the counter and purchased a third-class ticket, the Empire State Express to New York City via the New York Central Railroad. I walked over to the depot’s far corner and dropped my suitcase and handbags to the floor. Water splashed on my shoe. I murmured to myself, “Of course, it had to rain on this day.” I scanned the room searching for a hot coffee vender and that’s when I saw him.

How did he find me? Gamble strode across the large foyer, darted between several people, and stopped right in front of me. He scanned the room with caution. Then, in an unsure voice he said, “Blowing town without saying goodbye?” I looked past him and spotted the coffee seller. I answered, “That was my plan, yes. How did you find me?” “Moxie told me you’d be taking the train, so I waited outside.” Water dripped off the brim of his hat, his shoulders, and his overcoat. A large puddle spread around him. I searched the air for words, but found nothing. After a moment’s hesitation, Gamble added, “After everything we’ve been through… After everything we’ve learned about each other… You waltz out of my life without a word.” I looked up at him searching his eyes for anger but found none. Instead, hallowed pain rested there. He continued in a frantic tenor, “I know I have problems. Everybody does. We can sort them out. It’s not impossible, no matter what you think.” In a low unhurried voice, I said, “You won’t quit the laudanum or the gambling. And now you carry guns in your trunk. And what about your sister? She wants me dead. What about my problems with the federals? What am I supposed to tell them? All our bridges burned and we have nothing.” He gazed at me. His eyes darted back and forth trying to gain control over his emotions. He said, “I can deal with my sister.” I laughed into the air and said, “You need to commit her, not deal with her. She tried to kill me. Her addiction to you is unnatural. Sorry to say, but she’s bonkers. How can I live my life knowing she’s waiting around the corner? What about the federals? How can I live with them after me?” He said, “I know it all sounds impossible, but I love you. Isn’t that enough? Can’t we can make it work? What if I came with you? We could leave now.” I sighed and said, “You can’t leave your sister or mother. Despite your problems, they need you. And I can’t stay here for obvious reasons.”

We stared at each other for a long time. No tears came but our eyes clouded with emotion. Several times, I attempted to say something but nothing came. His expression transformed from defeat into mourning. With finality he said, “So that’s it then. Almost three years down the drain. Just like that. All the effort to know, all the hours, all the time trying to understand magic and each other… Gone.” I said, “Yeah, I suppose it is.” “It isn’t because of my sister or the federals. It’s because you’re afraid of love. You loved your parents, and they died. The universe robbed them from you. You’re afraid. That’s what it is.” I held back the urge to strike him. Through gritted teeth I mumbled, “I never told you this…” I spoke louder. “My mother was a peculiar woman. One day, she told me I wasn’t like anyone. People wouldn’t understand my behavior. People would try to control me, order me around. They’d wanna mold me into one of them.” He tried to place his hand on my shoulder but I jerked away. He said, “I’d never try to do that to you.” I laughed to the ceiling again and said, “You did. The laudanum. The magic. The drama with your sister. I’m not the same person I was when I came to Detroit. Not by a long shot.” He said, “Do you expect to live your whole life as the same person? If you do, I have news for you. Life is full of sorrow and hurt. It changes you. Makes you do stupid things. Twists you into a hideous version of yourself. Before long you don’t even recognize the person in the mirror.” I folded my arms across my chest and said, “Maybe. But I’m too young to worry about it.” He looked to his feet, shook his head, and said, “I wish many things happened differently. I wish my sister died in that crash. It’s terrible to say. I feel wretched thinking it. I know she’s not the only reason you’re leaving. I have a lot of problems.”

“We have to move on. I have to move on.” Gamble whispered, “What if I can’t?” I sighed and said, “We must. It’s done, so it’s done. We have to live with it.” “Why does it have to end?” “It just does. Nobody wants it this way, but it’s what life demands. We keep trying because we think we can grab it, contain it, but it’s gone.” “But we tried so hard.” Our eyes met. I said, “I know… We did.” He said, “How can a heart filled with so much love let it go so easily? I said nothing. We faltered. An unsure moment came between us. Then, we relented and fell into each other’s arms. Tears streamed down our faces as we realized our relationship had nowhere left to go. We held each other uncaring of the people around who stared at our heartbreak. I whispered into his coat, “Train stations have this drama all the time. Just ignore them.” “What?” he asked as his breath rustled my hair. I pulled away and said, “Nothing. I was trying to be funny.” I looked up at the board. It was time. Then, I saw them. Near the entrance, three men searched around; their clothes looked too plain, and they moved like cops. I pushed him away with force and said, “You have to go. Now.” He caught my eye-line and turned around.

He muttered, “Are they here for you or me?” He tried to reach for me but I retreated a step. I grabbed my luggage and sped toward the doors that led to the tracks. He tipped his hat down and turned his collar up as he followed me. As we reached the platform, I stopped him. I motioned to the ticket taker. I turned to Gamble and blurted, “Time’s up. But do you when you asked me if I believed in magic?” He nodded once. I added, “You told me that magic was the Lifeblood of the Universe, the Universal Solvent, the Great Mystery. The force that pushes us into the unknown.” “Yes, that’s right. I .” “Well, maybe it will draw us back someday.” I paused a moment trying to hold back tears, then I added, “But you didn’t tell me magic is unforgiving—chaotic and beautiful—but unforgiving.” With that, I turned from him. I handed the attendant my ticket and walked to the tracks at a brisk clip. I boarded the train and looked from the window. Gamble had disappeared into the crowd. The men searched, but like in Houdini’s act, the magician had disappeared. The train started moving. I put my gloved hand to the glass. In an almost inaudible plea I whispered, “Be safe, Mr. Gamble.”

14 November 1976

On Black Tuesday, 29 October 1929, I fled the United States on the SS Île de , a French ocean liner built in Saint-Nazaire, and named after the region around Paris known as “L’Ile de .” Earlier that day, I purchased forged papers from an associate in Brooklyn. As I prepared to leave the country, panicked sellers traded 16 million shares on the New York Stock Exchange, and the Dow Jones Industrial Average fell 12 points. In the coming years, the Great Depression consumed America’s hope. I escaped it by blind luck, but maybe it was Gamble’s magic. I boarded the ship, found my quarters, unpacked, and then took a walking tour around the vessel. I don’t recall my first journey across the Atlantic because I was too young. Excitement for my new journey coursed through my veins. As I strolled around the three-year-old ship, I saw CGT, or Compagnie Générale Transatlantique painted in large block letters on the bridge’s side, the bulkheads, and the lifeboats. The boat contained mostly Americans, but I knew its route as the “French Line.” The sun set and gulls followed the ship as we journeyed forth. My turbulent thoughts relaxed into a peaceful tranquility as I looked over the ocean. I gazed at the twilight sky until it turned dark. I watched the light shards reflect off the waning crescent moon as they shimmered on the undulating waves. My breath became icy as it left my mouth. My fur coat, a gift from my former lover, kept me warm despite the chilly weather. I ruminated on the past three years and the difficulties. Halloween approached a few days hence. Did Gamble escape the police, and did he make plans for that day? The holiday became a ritual for us. Lovers wear masks like costumes and at the end those masks reveal the messy person underneath. But we knew each other more than most. Several thoughts ran through my mind as I listened to the waves hit the ship’s bow: ideas about magic, occult notions, and judgments about destiny. Through it all, one question stayed present. Would I ever see him again?

As I looked over the water, he never left my mind. Waves crashed and fate gripped my thoughts once more. Horror at my actions—what I did to him— gripped me. What would he do? Would the market crash ruin him? I left him at the most vital moment where he needed me most, but I couldn’t stay. The hurried journey through New York and its dangers gave me little time to think about the repercussions of my actions. As I leaned against the ship’s rail, I realized I might never get lost in his eyes again. It was for the best. Our addictions fed off each other. It wasn’t good for me. But standing there, I yearned for him. I wished he could see the moon. I wished he could smell the salty air. For the night, I shivered in the cold and considered those first moments at Sixes. My love for him started as a denial for the mystery within myself, a soulful recognition but a helplessness toward knowing, a distance, a chasm in need of traversing. Later amid courting, a hunger tempted me to see spiritual secrets, to experience revelations within myself. During the hotel affair, my hunger transformed into two addictions—laudanum and my need for him. My fragility exposed my innermost self with all its intricacies: strengths and weaknesses, childhood wounds, and neurosis. When the affair hit the rocks, love fractured like a breaking eggshell, and a dark light shone from it. Abhorrence brewed as love intensified the attitudes toward each other. Our feelings became intense and out of control. Through it all, I lied. I warned him how I run, but he didn’t listen. He couldn’t know that about me at the beginning. I tear apart those around me as I rend something deep inside myself. In the foster homes. On the streets of New York. From my friends at Sixes. From him. Of course, everything I’ve said could be another lie. My relationship with a wealthy man who adored me could be untrue. The discovery of a magical force could be another invention. If I lied to my friends, and I lied to my lover, what makes one think I might not lie about everything. Lovers embellish and romanticize the past for good reason. The truths lovers experience become as invaluable as the lies they tell themselves. Producing a matchbook my father gave me long ago, I stared at it in the moonlight. Like Gamble taught me, I wrote my desire on the matchbook’s back. I listed the unrepeated letters. I removed the vowels. I distilled the lines to make the symbol. I focused on my desire. I pulled one match from the book. Struck the match against the strip. Ignited it. Lit the matchbook aflame. Before it burned

my fingers, I tossed the flaming book into the rolling waves and his words replayed in my mind. “Now we have to wait.” I looked at the moon once more. I saw my lover there. And goodness knows, I loved him. Goodness knows. Then a mercurial voice appeared in my head.

Gamble never explained anamnesis, the recovery of what we have forgotten… But I will teach you…

The voice didn’t frighten me; it felt like relief instead of madness, a homecoming. Wind blew my hair around, but I preferred the solitude on deck, so I stayed. A chill ed over me. Drunken laughter came from another part of the ship. Without warning, a few piano notes drifted from the ship’s hall. The notes sounded familiar but I couldn’t place the tune. Then, a female voice sang the words:

Telling the blues to go, they may refuse to go But as a rule, they’ll go if you’ll Shake them away

Spellbound, the lyrics from “Shaking the Blues Away,” our song from the Fort Shelby, proved magic’s reality once again. I whispered, “If the universe wills it…”

Dominique Has More Secrets

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Acknowledgments

Sincere thanks to all my readers, Nadia Morales, Christy Jordan, and Terence Kavanaugh for their input and time, and to my father for everything he does for me.

About the Author

Christopher of Detroit is the author of the novels The Invisible Histories of the Spiral Mountain (2014), The Erotic Tales of Bucephalus (2017), and Dominique’s Confession: A Roaring Twenties Dark Romance (2020). In his tales of magic and mysticism, he examines philosophical dualities, transitions of the psyche, alternate realities, and spiritual revelations. A constant traveler, Christopher considers himself an international resident with no permanent home. Although, his birthplace of Detroit remains in his heart, and he considers Thailand his spiritual residence.

For more info: www.sublimationpressworks.com [email protected]

Also by Christopher of Detroit

The Invisible Histories of the Spiral Mountain (Novel)

A modern knight’s struggle with courtly love against the occult backdrop of the ruined city of Detroit.

The Erotic Tales of Bucephalus (Novel)

Bucephalus journeys through an erotic odyssey inside a dreamy netherworld of Detroit’s Leland Hotel.

Poëtica Umbra (Poetry)

Poetry about spiritual transformation inspired by millennium-era bohemian Detroit.

The Marchioness in Red (Poetry)

Poetry inspired by an American expatriate’s first travels in Asia.