Jazz Age

Chapter One: Just A Kiss In The Dark

In the year 1928, for some reason unknown to anyone, the weather turned warm again in the middle of September. The temperature in Manhattan rose to 95 degrees Fahrenheit.

On Fourteenth Street, Mrs. Elizabeth Uliano, her three daughters Helen Uliano, Mrs. Tessie Balletti and Mrs. Marie Giordano, and her granddaughter Elsie Frontali were all arrested and fined for scuttling through a department store like a pack of rats, stealing whatever they could lay their hands on.

Mr. William V. Dwyer, known as the King of Bootleggers, was elected treasurer of the New York Hockey Club exactly one week after his release from federal prison.

Governor Al Smith, the Democratic candidate for President, was in Omaha talking one more time about the wonders of rahhdio.

A drugstore clerk on Maple Street in Omaha heard the afternoon speech on the store radio and wondered what rahhdio was.

In Manhattan nobody wondered about anything. It was much too hot.

* * *

On East Sixty-fourth Street a woman pushed a button to summon one of her maids. The woman's name was Claire Belfield, Mrs. George Belfield on the salmon-colored stationery that she often used.

When the maid came into the room, Claire said: "Have a pot of tea ready when Mrs. Plunkett arrives."

The maid nodded. "Yes ma'am."

Then Claire turned her attention back to the magazine in her lap and the maid left the room.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon and the heat was truly awful. Claire looked at the open windows and she wondered if the window screens had any holes in them. She hated flies. She also hated Alice Plunkett.

Oh, I do hate that woman, Claire thought.

She'd known Alice Plunkett since she'd been a girl and she'd hated her all that time.

Claire was thirty-two. She had bobbed hair and she used enough rouge to give her cheeks a pink flush. When she wore a sheath dress she looked younger than her age and more like a boy than a woman. The flat profile was still in fashion and Claire often wore one of those brassieres specially seamed to flatten the bust.

Alice Plunkett's father had owned the bank where Claire's father had worked as a clerk. The Plunketts had always had more money than the Wheelers. Now Alice Plunkett and her husband had moved from Boston to New York and she was visiting her old friend Claire for the second time.

And she's late, Claire thought. What an annoyance it was to have people arrive late when you didn't like them in the first place. Claire leaned her head against the back of the chair and she wondered how she might discourage Alice Plunkett from visiting her again. No you won't, Claire thought. Alice Plunkett might decide to get even somehow. The Plunkett family was too well known to start anything with Alice.

Then the doorbell rang. Claire remained seated. She wanted one of the maids to get the door. Then Alice would come in and ask about Claire and the maid would say yes Mrs. Belfield is in the living room. But Claire decided that was too extreme and she finally rose and walked out into the vestibule.

"Alice darling," Claire said.

"Dippidy doo dah," Alice said. "It's much too hot, isn't it? I thought I was finished with summer and now it's here again."

Alice was a thin blonde and she always appeared nervous about something, always upset about one thing or another. Claire had tea served in the living room and Alice's current trouble quickly came to the surface.

"He's having an affair with a girl in his office," Alice said.

"Who is?"

"My husband of course. Don't you think Harold's the type?"

"I've only met him once," Claire said.

Alice fidgeted in her chair. "I suppose he gets from her what he doesn't get from me."

Claire said nothing. She had no idea what to say, so she just watched Alice fidget in her chair.

And then Alice went on to describe how she was always cold in her husband's arms. "Never a moment of pleasure from it," Alice said. "I guess he's found a little slut who likes it. That's what they want, isn't it? They want the woman to like it as much as they do."

"I don't know," Claire said.

"How is it with you and George?"

Claire turned her eyes away. "I don't like to talk about these things."

A moaning sound came out of Alice's throat and she started crying. "Oh damn it, I'm so unhappy."

Claire was embarrassed by the outburst of emotion. She tried to comfort Alice, but she had no advice to give her except to say that Alice ought to do her best to hold her marriage together. "Maybe he'll come to his senses," Claire said. In the back of Claire's mind was the old hatred for Alice and the Plunketts. Maybe it's God's justice, Claire thought as she looked at Alice's troubled face.

But an hour later when Alice left, Claire considered her own marriage and she decided that maybe she wasn't that much better off than Alice was.

"Where's the nurse?" Claire said to one of the maids.

"She's with the children, ma'am."

"Tell her to take the children to the park. I'll have a nap in my bedroom."

"Yes ma'am."

Claire went to the bedroom she shared with her husband, peeled her dress off and lay down on her bed in her satin slip. They had separate beds, two matched beds she'd picked out herself at Finley's. George's bed was near the windows and her own bed was near the adjoining dressing room. Between her bed and the door to the dressing room was a vanity table made of blonde lacquered wood. The top of the table supported a small tilting mirror and in front of the mirror was an array of lotion jars and perfume bottles.

Through the open bedroom windows, the noise of the traffic on Park Avenue could be heard.

After a few minutes on the bed, Claire decided even the slip was too much to bear and she pulled that off over her head and lay down again. Now she felt much better. She wore nothing but silk step-ins and stockings and the heat in the room was more bearable. She thought of rolling the stockings off, but she'd only need to put them on again later and she decided it was too much trouble.

In any case she liked the feel of the silk stockings on her legs, even when it was hot like this. The fine silk made her feel sensuous, and in her private moments that was a feeling she always enjoyed. The feeling was even stronger now because of Alice Plunkett's talk about her problems.

Alice's talk had started a train of troubling thoughts and memories and erotic imaginings in Claire's mind. The question returned: Was she better off than Alice? Claire analyzed the jumble of thoughts in her head and decided that whatever passion existed between herself and her husband was too small to be recognized.

It's a bore, Claire thought. It's a bore and I don't love him that way.

No, she didn't love him that way. And if she had to be accurate about it, she'd say no she didn't love him that way or this way or any way at all.

She hadn't married George for love, she'd married him because he had rich relatives in Boston and New York and because it looked like he'd be rich himself some day, and because she wanted a man who could provide a comfortable and secure life for any children she might have with him.

What had happened was that she was now admitting to herself something that had always been there in the back of her mind. And all because of Alice Plunkett whom she'd hated for years and years.

It's awful, Claire thought as she lay there in the heat on her bed. She had a husband and two children and a comfortable home and a secure life and now Alice Plunkett had succeeded in upsetting her.

Don't think about it, Claire told herself. Don't think about it if you want to be happy. She closed her eyes and she touched her breasts. She tried to imagine her husband kissing her breasts like he sometimes did. She imagined his face and his eyes and finally his mouth on her nipples. Then abruptly his face became a blur and vanished and in its place was the face of John Barrymore.

Dear God, Claire thought. A groan escaped her lips as she imagined she felt John Barrymore's cleft chin rubbing against her breasts. Between her breasts. Over her nipples. Between her breasts again. She slid her right hand down over her belly and then between her legs. Yes do it. She pressed the silk of her step-ins against the lips of her sex. Her cunt. Merely thinking of the word always made her quiver. Her fanny, her husband called it. Yes do it, she thought. With her eyes closed, she groaned again as she began rubbing herself through her step-ins. It was an old habit and she'd long ago abandoned all hope of giving it up. Do it do it do it. She kept her eyes closed. She would have to change the step-ins later because the crotch was now drenched with her juices. She thought of removing them, but she liked the feel of the satin against sex. Her clitoris felt so stiff. She stopped rubbing herself a moment and she sniffed at her fingers. You're a minx, she thought. Then she slipped her hand down to her belly again, and this time under the waist of her step-ins to get her fingers directly between her thighs. The lips were swollen and the wetness was everywhere, her pubic hair sticky. After painting her clitoris with her juices, she started vigorously rubbing herself again. She imagined her fingers were John Barrymore's fingers. She imagined one of his thick fingers slowly pushing inside her opening.

In a few moments she groaned and rubbed her cunt in frenzy as a great shudder passed through her body.

* * *

The heat wave in September lasted a week and then it was gone. Before long September was finished and the month of October arrived. Al Smith was still telling the people of the country about the marvels of rahhdio, but at least the fall season was here and the people who enjoyed fall seasons were relieved.

One rainy day Claire Belfield found herself at an afternoon cocktail party in the Desmond house in Gramercy Park. Charles Desmond was a Wall Street attorney who sometimes handled a case for George Belfield's company. George sold marine insurance and these days he was very successful at it. Claire knew nothing about marine insurance or how it was sold or what George actually did to sell it. George always assured her that marine insurance was terribly complicated. He'd been working for the same company ever since their marriage two weeks after the Armistice in 1918. The company was owned by one of George's uncles and George's future seemed guaranteed.

George was now in Baltimore on a business trip. An invitation to the Desmond party had arrived the day before he left and he'd urged Claire to go there alone. "Desmond is an important man," George said. "And anyway it's a party and you like parties."

Did she like parties? Yes, she did like parties, even if she knew hardly any of the people in the Desmond house. She stood alone for a moment near one of the tall rubber plants that seemed half dead with thirst because no one had bothered to water it. Some of the other people in the room glanced at her. She knew some of them and there were others she didn't know. They stood scattered in groups of two or three and nearly everyone had a glass of something in one hand.

Claire had a glass of ginger ale in her right hand, but there was no alcohol in it. She'd already had enough alcohol and she didn't need any more.

The rain seemed to be falling again on the windows. It was still a gray day outside, the rain falling on the streets of Manhattan.

Better here than outside, Claire thought. But she wouldn't be outside anyway, she'd be at home.

Then Nancy Desmond came in through a doorway, and when she saw Claire she walked over to her.

"Darling, you look bemused," Nancy said.

"What?"

"You look bemused, darling."

"I do? I don't feel bemused."

Nancy laughed, a gay laugh that revealed her sparkling teeth. "Well then have some more Scotch, won't you? Or there's champagne if you like. I much prefer Scotch in the afternoon, but there's plenty of champagne somewhere. Charlie's very clever at finding good champagne."

Claire lifted her glass of ginger ale. "I'll finish this first."

"Is that Scotch?"

"No, it's ginger ale."

"Where's George?"

"In Baltimore."

"Poor darling."

Claire allowed herself to be led away by Nancy to a group of men and women she knew only vaguely. Claire decided it was better to stand in a group than to stand alone. At least when you were in a group the other people had no reason to stare at you.

She listened to the others talking and she smiled when she thought it was necessary to smile. She told herself the party wasn't much of anything, just a great deal of drinking and laughing about nothing worth laughing at. You're feeling blue, she thought. The fact was that for the past three weeks, ever since Alice Plunkett's visit, Claire had been feeling miserable. Maybe she did need a real drink. But she decided against it, decided she'd leave soon. She listened to the idle chatter as she looked around the room at the other guests. A man standing with two other men caught her eye and stared at her. He wasn't anyone she knew and she quickly looked away.

Then a moment later she looked at him again and she found him pleasant to look at. He was now busy talking to the other men and he was unaware of her attention. Yes, he was pleasant to look at. He had dark hair and he was handsomely dressed and he looked forceful. She found herself wondering what his wife was like, then she laughed at herself and she decided it was time to find her coat and say goodby to Nancy Desmond.

"Why don't you stay?" Nancy said when Claire appeared before her wearing her coat.

Claire smiled and shook her head. "I promised the children I'd be home by five." She thanked Nancy again and she left the room.

She's a bitch, Claire thought. She hated Nancy Desmond because of the way Nancy put on airs about the money the Desmonds had. Charlie Desmond was much more successful than George. They had all kinds of money and it seemed like they had a party in their house all year round. They were too disgusting about this old townhouse in Gramercy Park, always talking about who lived next door and who lived over there and how nice it was to have a private park in the middle of Manhattan. You don't have to like them, Claire thought. It's all right to accept an invitation to the Desmonds without liking them.

It was still raining outside. As Claire came out of the house on the edge of Gramercy Park, she frowned at the rain that was falling and wondered if she'd have trouble getting a taxi. A man with an umbrella was standing at the edge of the curb, and when he turned to look at her she recognized the dark-haired man she'd seen at the party.

The man smiled at her. "Enjoy the party?"

"Oh yes," Claire said.

He smiled again. "I'm Frank Tucker," he said.

"And I'm Claire Belfield."

"I could drive you home. I'm waiting for my car."

"Oh, I don't think that's necessary," Claire said.

But then his car arrived, an enormous black Lincoln limousine with a uniformed chauffeur behind the wheel. This time, when Frank Tucker again asked if he could drive her home, Claire said yes. "All right, why not?"

"My pleasure," Frank Tucker said with a laugh.

The chauffeur came out to open the rear door and Claire climbed inside. Frank Tucker climbed in after her and the chauffeur shut the door and returned to the driver's seat. In a few moments the big car was heading uptown in the rain on Park Avenue.

In the rear of the large Lincoln, Claire sat in the right corner and Frank Tucker sat in the left corner. He talked about himself without hesitation. He appeared to know the Desmonds as a friend and he seemed to have made a great deal of money on Wall Street. He said he was now divorced from an actress wife who had returned to California. "She never liked the East," Frank Tucker said. "It was just one of those things."

Claire thought Frank Tucker was impressive. She guessed he'd come out of a humble background to triumph by force and cunning over men with better connections. She thought how odd it was to be sitting there alone with him. He seemed so different from her husband. He had such large hands, strong hands. And his face looked strong too. He seemed to have so much confidence in himself. His manners were good and Claire decided he was thoroughly appealing. You're acting silly, she thought. But she wasn't acting at all. She was doing nothing but listening to Frank Tucker and she liked every moment of it. She thought of Alice Plunkett and Alice Plunkett's husband and then about George and what she'd realized about her own marriage.

When at last they arrived at the building where the Belfields lived, Claire said: "You've been very kind, Mr. Tucker. Thank you so much."

"My pleasure," Frank Tucker said. They smiled at each other one more time before she climbed out of the Lincoln to be escorted by the doorman to the building entrance. When she turned to look at the car again, it was already moving toward the traffic on Park Avenue.

"Are my children home?" Claire said to the doorman.

The big Irishman nodded. "Yes ma'am, they came back with Mrs. Molloy an hour ago."

Claire thanked him and then she walked down the hall to the elevator. She felt reimmersed in the ordinary problems of living now. She pushed Frank Tucker out of her mind as she rode the elevator up to the tenth floor. This evening she'd have the children on her hands a few hours, and then after that she'd fall asleep reading in bed. Dear God, it's horrible, she thought. It's so bloody horrible.

At ten o'clock the next morning, Frank Tucker telephoned and invited her to have lunch with him.

"Yes," Claire said. "Yes, I think I'd like that very much."

* * *

She met him in the restaurant he'd suggested to her, a place called Banion's on West Forty-sixth Street. As soon as she walked inside, she was relieved it wasn't the sort of place her husband might frequent. Even if George was in Baltimore, or more exactly on his way home by now, she felt secure knowing he'd never make an appearance here. Not in this place. These people were different than the crowd in Wall Street, the attorneys and stockbrokers that George called his friends. The people here were of a different class, more sweaty and more noisy than the people she and her husband knew. Claire told herself Frank Tucker had chosen this place in order to be discreet. Well, you ought to be pleased, she thought. He'd reserved a table in a corner, and as soon as she had her coat off and sat down she felt comfortably anonymous.

She was close to him now. They sat side by side on the same velvet-covered bench and she could smell his cologne.

"You look beautiful," Frank Tucker said.

"Thank you," Claire said, and then she blushed as he continued looking at her.

She wore a felt cloche hat and a mauve blouse with long tight sleeves. The blouse had a low neckline and Frank Tucker's eyes lingered a long time on her throat. Then he pulled his eyes away and he began talking about the menu.

She was now happy she'd chosen a blouse with a low neckline. She found the way he looked at her exciting. It was almost as if his eyes made her clothes transparent.

She thought he did have a lovely manner about him. He wasn't like the others in the restaurant. He was certainly better dressed. And she doubted anyone at the other tables had a limousine and a chauffeur waiting outside. She hadn't seen the car, but she assumed it was there somewhere.

As he ordered their lunch, she had a momentary fear she'd meet someone she knew, some casual acquaintance who just happened to frequent midtown restaurants.

"The best beef in the world is from Argentina," Frank Tucker said to her.

Claire smiled. "I didn't know that."

"I was in South America last year."

"Oh really? How marvelous."