Page 49 of Throwing Shade
A server created tiny balls of light that she dropped into glass jars and placed on tables, while another woman danced the Charleston on the parquet dance floor by herself, hovering a couple of feet above the ground. Two businessmen in a nearby banquette under one of the many crystal chandeliers shared a charcuterie. One of the men popped a cracker with salami in his mouth and his furry ears perked up, while the other pawed through a bowl of olives with a wolf-like growl of pleasure.
They saw Laurent and both turned away. My companion tensed up.
“Speakeasies got their name because people used to speak quietly about them in public so as not to alert police or nosy neighbors,” I said. Laurent had taken on the unpleasant tasks that no one else wanted. Like moms did all the time. I felt oddly protective of him, and glared at the men who’d dissed him. “They were also called Blind Tigers.”
Laurent frowned, but his tension dissipated. “What does a tiger have to do with drinking?”
“Some speakeasys would put a tiger statue in the window and if there was a blindfold on it, it meant cops weren’t watching and it was safe to enter.”
“That’s stupid. Then the police would know where it was.”
I scratched the back of my head. “That’s why they were constantly shutting down and springing up somewhere else. Who’s in the gallery?”
“No one.”
“Your forthcoming nature is so endearing.” I glanced over at the art-house crowd on the other side of the shared space, half of whom wore colorful funky clothing and radiated excitement, with the rest in black, made darker by their ennui-laden expressions.
Wondering what they were all so engrossed in, I wandered over.
The white walls of the small art gallery attached to the speakeasy were bare, but a contest of some sort was taking place. Two massive slabs of wood were propped on bases. A bare-chested man faced off against this old lady, in her eighties if she was a day, with a silver pixie cut. She sported oversized, red-framed glasses and a 1960’s style A-line white minidress with lime-green polka dots. Her stick-thin legs were encased in white tights, the entire ensemble topped off with chunky red heels.
One of the spectators yelled, “Go!”
The man splayed his hands against the wood and cracks spiderwebbed through the grain. My eyes widened as the slab twisted, pieces dropping off, and the smell of sawdust tickling my nose. Sweat dripped off the man, his chest glistening as his creation took the shape of an eagle, its wings outstretched.
The other artist’s slab was steadily shrinking, but not into any recognizable form.
I let out a breathy sigh as the eagle took flight, soaring around the art gallery.
The male artist let out a raucous whoop, his face red with exertion. “Top that,” he cried.
The crowd cheered him on.
I rose on tiptoe.
The old lady held up what looked like a tiny nut made of wood, then she dropped it to the ground and stepped on it.
Confused murmurs ran through the crowd and then there was a gasp from the front.
I pressed forward for a better look.
She’d reduced her slab of wood to a single seed from which a slender trunk now grew. It lengthened and thickened, its bark growing rough, and slender branches sprouted.
The woman who’d said “go” held up a hand. “Clap for the winner.”
Artist dude got a smug look on its face and his eagle circled the room one more time.
The old woman smiled indulgently, and the tree bloomed into hundreds of paper-thin wooden blossoms. There was a collective “oooh” and then the gallery exploded in cheers.
Even the male artist acknowledged her victory, holding her arm up in triumph.
Someone grabbed my elbow.
“What part of ‘stay close’ did you not understand?” Laurent hissed, keeping his back to the spectators. He dragged me over to the speakeasy side.
“It was harmless. I was standing in a crowd watching a performance for two minutes, not giving lap dances.”
“You hired me for my expertise, so take it.”
