Free The Dollhouse by Fiona Davis Page A

here, after they’veplayed at the posh places on Fifty-Second Street. It’s gritty and grubby and the best.”
    She agreed with the first two adjectives. They walked through a tiny kitchen, where a cook stared hard at them as they breezed by.
    â€œWhat are you doing, Esme?” he said. “You know he doesn’t like it when you bring in nonpayers.”
    Esme thrust out her chin and put a hand on her hip. “Sam, meet Darby. Darby, this is Sam. He thinks he runs the place, but he doesn’t. Right, Sam?”
    The cook scowled back. “If he catches you, you’ll get fired, Esme.”
    Darby stared at him. While none of his features was remarkable on its own—the nose too large, the edges of his eyes sloped downward—he was oddly handsome, with a perfect dimpled chin. He looked to be in his mid-twenties but had a boyish frame, all long limbs and sharp points.
    He turned back to the oven.
    â€œManners, Sam. I’ll have to talk to your dad about that.” Esme didn’t wait for a reply but pulled Darby farther into the bowels of the building, pushing past a swinging door.
    They were in the basement of the tenement. The low-ceilinged main room was packed, a mixture of blacks and whites, young men and women posturing and smoking and talking over one another.
    Esme squeezed Darby’s hand. “We’re waiting for Stick Hawkins. They say he’s coming tonight, but you never know with that cat.”
    Stick? Cat? Darby looked at Esme, perplexed.
    Esme laughed. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch on.”
    Darby wasn’t so sure. The place was frightening, and she scanned the exits, wondering which was the quickest way out in case there was a fire or a fight. All these people pressed together, in the smoke and darkness, made her heart beat faster and her mouth grow dry in panic. She wanted to run away, go back to the lonely safety of her room. But she couldn’t bear another night of tossing and turning and ruminations.
    â€œYou look like you’re about to be sick.” Esme’s eyes were animated, slightly mocking.
    â€œNo. I’m fine. What do we do now?”
    Esme pulled her to a table with a couple of free seats. A waiter wearing a long white apron, a white shirt, and a thin black tie whispered something in Esme’s ear. She touched the inside of his wrist with her finger, laughed at what he’d said, and ordered them a couple of whiskey sours.
    â€œNow we drink. You’ll feel braver if you aren’t sober.”
    The noise level in the room astounded Darby. Even though two walls of the room had been draped with Moroccan rugs to absorb the sound, they weren’t very effective. The two other patrons seated at the rickety table didn’t bother interrupting their loud conversation to acknowledge them. Darby took a sip of her drink and glanced around. The decor was minimal at best. One long wall consisted of exposed, chipped bricks. Behind the stage, old playbills had been plastered up as a kind of backdrop, their corners curling and frayed. A layer of dirt, grease, and cigarette ash covered the floor.
    The audience began to complain, calling for Stick and slow-clapping. Finally, four musicians stepped onstage. One slid in behind a set of drums and took a seat, another hooked a saxophone to the cord around his neck, while the third heaved a bass upright. A trumpet player stepped up to the microphone.
    â€œSorry, Stick’s not here yet,” the trumpet player announced.
    The audience booed, but the musician was undaunted. He held up a hand above his eyes, blocking the lights, and looked out into the audience. Beside her, Esme sat up tall, as if a jolt of electricity had suddenly passed through her.
    â€œWhere’s Esme?” the man called out.
    Esme turned and smiled at Darby, and suddenly she was up onstage, adjusting the mic and smiling out over the crowd.
    â€œI know you want your Stick,” she purred into the