Page 63 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

The late-February afternoon was cold as hell, though. And if Breeze felt it, Felice must’ve been freezing. She wasn’t wearing stockings (because she was liberated) or a hat (because she wanted to flaunt her waves courtesy of Madam C. J. Walker’s salon).

“Are you warm enough, Felice?”

“I’m fine, sugar.”

“Well, my fingers are frozen. I got a rent party tonight, and I can’t play with Popsicles.”

Felice winked up at him. “I’ll warm up your hands real nice at the party.”

By 1928, Breeze was a staple at rent parties. When tenants were struggling to pay rent, they’d host parties in their private homes, charge a modest cover, and hire top-billed musicians to draw a crowd. Rent parties were not only a fucking great time, but also a lucrative source of backup income for established musicians, especially pianists, who set the tone on the dance floor. And extra cash was very important to Breeze, whose lady had expensive tastes.

For a clotheshorse and an avid traveler, Breeze was on the frugal side. He’d made only two truly major, life-changing purchasessince he’d started making money: his brownstone in Strivers’ Row and his piano, an elegant Steinway constructed from rosewood. A square piano, ultra-rare and tuned to his precise specifications. That piano was his baby.

And because the hosts of tonight’s rent party didn’t own one, he’d hired a friend with a truck to drive his perfect piano to the house.

Breeze blew hot air on his fingers and kept strolling. Just then, three lookers on the chorus line with Felice, resplendent in cloche hats and sable-trimmed wraps, sauntered by Breeze, offering flirty hellos. Felice stood by his side, posed haughtily in her finery, and waited for an acknowledgment that never came.

The trio swept right by her. One of them even knocked into her, with no apology.

Cheeks aflame with humiliation, Felice lunged after them, words and fists flying. Quickly, Breeze grabbed her around the waist, half dragging her into a nearby alley.

“Felice! You dance with those girls; you can’t call them knock-kneed syphilitic whores!”

“Who can’t?” She was fuming. “Fuck them and fuck you, too.”

“Me?”Felice was cute, but he hadn’t escaped hell to be cursed at by a hotheaded hoofer in diamonds thathe’dbought. “That’s enough, now. Simmer down.”

“Fine,” she huffed.

“There’s families and kids out there. You want folks to talk?”

“But those bitches cut me dead. In public, like I’m nothing. Who do they think they are?”

“Definitely not syphilitic whores,” said Breeze lightly. “Yeah, they were rude. But they won’t be the last ones to doubt you. Hold your head up. Remember who you are.”

Felice pulled away, her bottom lip quivering. “So, you haven’t heard?”

“Haven’t heard what?”

“About the photograph.” She pressed her fist against her mouth, choking back sobs. “The photograph of me without… without any clothes on. Somehow, it’s back to haunt me.”

“When did you take photographs without your clothes on?”

“I was a kid.” She was openly weeping now. “A New Orleans photographer was in town, and he saw me, and… well, I didn’t think it was a big deal. He said he’d show them to vaudeville producers who could get me auditions for blue shows.Dirtyshows. I… I needed the money.”

Breeze was enraged. Young Felice had clearly been preyed upon, and he knew options were limited for girls like her. He’d never judge her for trying to improve her life. No one should.

“It’s all right. Shhh, don’t fret, now.” He wrapped his arm around her as she sobbed.

“Folks are talking. I went to two auditions yesterday? The directors wouldn’t see me.”

“On account of nude photographs? Half the showgirls we know have posed nude.”

“But when they do it, it’s art,” she said, sniffling. “It’s Van Der Zee or Van Vechten behind the camera. It’s fancy and scholarly, and Alain Locke publishes essays about it. But because trashy little Felice did it in a swamp, with a sleazy photographer who tricked a young girl, it’s bad.”

“I’ll talk to Lo,” Breeze assured her. “She’ll make sure the other dancers are nice to you.”

“Sure, Breeze, but you can’t strong-arm every casting agent in town. Maybe… maybe I oughta try Hollywood. Joanie Crawford did nudie pictures, and she’s a huge star now.”

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