Beatrice realized it must be another secretary in the room. She lifted the phone away from her ear slightly and glanced at the desk next to hers. The older woman sitting beside her was swiftly typing. Francine was her name. When they were introduced, Francine had glanced up from her work with only the slightest nod. With her horn-rimmed glasses and pursed lips, she reminded Beatrice of an old schoolmarm. It certainly wasn’t her on the phone.

Beatrice glanced furtively at the women seated in front of her. In the next row, two overweight motherly types were seated side by side, quietly filing. An almost elderly woman sat at a desk two rows up, separating a pile of papers into neat stacks while speaking tersely into her phone: “No, I don’t have the C-3 form. I sent you a C-44, and that should have been sufficient . . .”

Next to the angry grandmother sat a pretty young woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. She was struggling with her typewriter, trying to force several pages through the roller. Beatrice heard her softly curse when one of them tore. None of the women in front of her had called.

Beatrice had no choice but to turn around to find the voice on the phone. She cautiously scanned the ring of closed doors surrounding the work area. Muffled voices were coming from behind several of them. Mr. Rothstein was on the phone. A tall silhouette moved across the frosted-glass panels of Mr. Halloran’s office. She only knew their names from the little signs on their doors. The coast was clear, so she slowly turned in her seat and looked behind her.

There were two women seated in the last row. One had her head down, typing. The other was holding a phone. Beatrice heard her whisper “Bingo!” in her ear. “Meet me in the ladies’ room in five minutes.” She hung up before Beatrice had a chance to answer.

Beatrice snapped her head back around, having barely glimpsed the mystery woman’s brassy blond hair and red lipstick. Ms. Cunningham hadn’t specifically said that chitchatting in the secretarial pool was frowned upon, but she hadn’t heard any friendly conversation so far. Speaking aloud seemed to be reserved for business purposes only.

Five minutes ticked by one at a time on the big clock hanging over the front of the room. Beatrice finally stood up at her desk and looked around. Ms. Cunningham hadn’t so much as cracked her door since showing her to her chair. The surrounding office doors were still shut tight, and the other secretaries’ heads were down in their own business. Beatrice was unsure if she needed to ask permission to use the bathroom but was too embarrassed to ask. She tiptoed out of the secretarial pen toward the ladies’ room. Her small feet padded silently on the olive-green carpeting until she reached the hall, where her shoes clacked loudly on the linoleum tiles. The racket sent her scurrying like a startled cat into the restroom.

“Good Lord! Why are you so high-strung?”

Beatrice spun around and was face-to-face with the mystery woman. She was a knockout, like a movie star. Her smoky blue eyes were lined with false lashes and charcoal. Her blond hair was set in a French twist with a crown of tight curls. The blouse was low cut, and the skirt was an inch shorter than it should be, making the woman look almost garish.

“Um, I guess I’m a little nervous.” Beatrice let her eyes wander around the ladies’ room, trying not to seem so anxious. She leaned against a sink for effect.

The stranger sauntered to the window and lifted a piece of marble from the sill. She retrieved a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from underneath. She was clearly amused at Beatrice’s confusion. She lit a cigarette and explained, “Old Cunningham banned smoking in the secretarial pool last year. Said it was a fire hazard. So, what’s your name?”

“Beatrice.”

“I’m Maxine, but you can call me Max. Don’t worry so much. Cunningham may be a bulldog, but she’s okay. She’s certainly not going to fire you on your first day or anything.” Max paused to blow smoke out a cracked window and look Beatrice up and down. “How the hell did you get this job? You can’t be more than sixteen.”

Beatrice stiffened at the accuracy of Max’s assessment. She focused on the perfect red lip-stains at the end of her Virginia Slim to keep from fidgeting. “I’m eighteen, actually. I applied for the job.”

“Did Bill interview you?” Max asked with an arched eyebrow.

“Bill?”

“You know, Mr. Thompson.”

“Yes, Mr. Thompson interviewed me.” Beatrice began to wonder what the heck she was doing in a bathroom watching Max smoke when she should be at her desk. “What do you care?”

“I don’t, but it just figures. Mr. Thompson has a weakness for the young girls, if you know what I mean.”

Beatrice’s mouth fell open.

“Oh, keep your girdle on! I don’t mean he molests Girl Scouts or anything.” Max smirked, seeming amused at how easy it was to shock Beatrice. “I’m just saying he likes hiring young girls. He hired me a few years ago. Catch my drift? Just be happy you got to meet with Bill instead of that goat Rothstein. He handpicked Cunningham and the other bloated old maids in the room. Rothstein would have sent you back home to your mama!” Max chuckled.

Beatrice changed the subject. “Are we allowed to go to the restroom without telling someone?”

“Sure, but if you’re gone longer than five minutes, you better have a damned good excuse. The poor girl that had your job last kept running to the toilet and got fired. It was probably for the best, though.”

“Why’s that?”

“She had family problems, if you know what I mean.”

Beatrice shook her head.

“You know.” Max pointed to her belly.

“They fired her for that?” Beatrice’s eyes widened. She paused and looked at the open bathroom stall and pictured a poor girl sick on her knees. The tiles looked cold and hard.

“Of course! First Bank of Cleveland is a family business. Kind of ironic, right? Just keep your head down and your ears open, and you’ll get the hang of things around here. Besides, now you have a friend to show you the ropes.”

“Uh, thanks!” Beatrice was beginning to wonder how Max, with her cleavage and long lashes, fit into the family business.

Max ground out her cigarette on the windowsill. “Listen, meet me in the front lobby at 5:00 p.m. I’ll buy you a drink and tell you all about it.”

Before Beatrice could answer one way or another, Max was out the door and clicking down the hall.

CHAPTER 8

At 5:01 p.m. Beatrice met Max in the lobby and followed her out the heavy revolving doors. She wanted to call her aunt to tell her that she would be late, but she couldn’t risk being scolded like a child in front of Max, who was pulling her by the arm down the street.

The wet, cold wind bit at their legs as they made their way from 1010 Euclid Avenue up East Ninth Street. The street was clogged with Buicks and Lincolns and the occasional bus. Men in long coats with perfectly coiffed hair crowded the sidewalks. Most kept their heads down as they rushed past the “For Lease” signs dotting the storefronts. No one smiled as they brushed shoulders, each one trying to get ahead of the next guy. Jobs were getting harder to come by; that’s what Aunt Doris had said.

After a few blocks, Max turned a corner onto a side street and led Beatrice down three steps and through a door that read “Theatrical Grille.” The bar was dark, dank, and nearly deserted on a Monday evening.

A stout man with a thick, black mustache and bushy lamb chops stepped out from behind the bar with his arms open wide. “Ah, Maxie! Bella! How are you this evening?” He picked up her manicured hand and gave it a ceremonial kiss. “Who’s your beautiful friend?”