Chapter 2: Moving to New York City: Texas Guinan's Speakeasies When I turned 18, I packed a suitcase and arrived in New York City on the day of my birth, February 14th, 1927. The year before when Texas was visiting Chicago, she told me that her and Fay split and she had opened her own joint, the 300 Club. She slipped me the address scrawled on a piece of paper and gave me a wink. "Come by and see me sometime, Lucky," she said. I walked from the train station to West 54th street and looked for the number, 151, on the sheet of paper that I always kept folded in a coin purse that I kept pinned inside my bra. It was 8 am in the morning. I could barely see through the sleet beating down on me but I finally found the address. I told the bouncer that Texas was expecting me and descended a set of stairs. I found myself in front of a huge steel door. I tried knocking but my tiny fists against the massive door sounded like stockinged feet softly padding a thick shag rug. I stood, dazed, knowing I was finally here but not knowing how to get inside. I sat on the door stoop and waited. I was freezing. I had 14 dollars and 15 cents in my pocket that I had saved over the years and realized that besides Txas, I did not know a soul in New York City. Suddenly, I heard a clicking behind the door. I jumped up. "What do you want, kid?" I heard a voice boom behind a tiny peephole. I stepped on the tips of my toes, put my mouth as close as I could to the peephole and replied, "Texas sent me. It's, it's..." I didn't know what to call myself. I didn't even know if Texas would remember me. "It's Lucky. From Chicago." I heard an undecipherable grumble from behind the door and the tiny peephole door slammed shut. A few moments later, the door swung open and the man with the gruff voice ushered me in. He was big but had kind eyes. "Welcome to New York," he boomed and gave me a hearty handshake. "I'm Louie. Tex is in the back. This way, kid." I walked in, expecting an empty space or perhaps a few folks cleaning up from the night before. But there were still patrons sprawled across tables, drinking and smoking. A 7-piece band played and folks had jumped on stage and crowded the tiny dance floor to do the Charleston. A few of the showgirls sat around, chatting and cheering and toasting each other. Texas sat in the middle of the mayhem in one of momma's gowns and a huge silver fox with what looked to me like hundreds of tails trailing onto the floor littered with champagne bottles. There were candles burning and 8 crystal chandeliers illuminated each of the tables around the stage. I blinked at the sudden change in atmosphere but my eyes quickly adjusted to the dark. "Hey, Lucky, this is everybody. Everybody, this is Lucky." "To Lucky!" They all toasted and drank. I was ushered around the room, my arm nestled inside the crook of Texas' arm, and introduced to a host of characters, each one more flamboyant than the next. "Harry [Harder], get this kid a drink," Texas ordered. "And none of that funny stuff," she added. I drank ginger ale and watched the patrons dance and sing. Above it all, Texas kept it going, cracking jokes and making comments that made everyone's bellies ache with laughter and men's eyes water with desire. "You got a place to stay?" Texas asked me. I shook my head, embarrassed, and lowered my face to the floor. It was presumptuous of me to assume that an address scrawled on a piece of paper by some huge star meant that I instantly had a home in New York. My frustrations at my own naivete were quickly squelched. "Perfect!" Texas cried and clapped her hands. "You're gonna stay with me. Let's blow this joint, Lucky. See ya around, suckers!" And with that she ushered me back out into the blinding white of the morning sun. I awoke after a long, deep sleep at 3 pm, and, per Texas' request (and Hannah's (Texas' maid) reminder), did not disturb her sleep. I wandered around 8th Street and looked into storefronts. I sat in Washington Square Park and watched kids walking home from school. I returned to Texas' house at 17 West 8th Street around 6 pm, got dressed, and walked to the Club on 54th Street. "Next time, catch a cab, honey," Texas reprimanded me after she found out that I walked. That night I started checking coats at the 300 Club. Texas said she'd get the girls to teach me some numbers so I could dance in the chorus. "And then," she confided to me behind her hand, "we'll work on your solo number." I arrived at 8 pm, the time things always got started back home. "What are you doing here, kid?" Louie asked. It seemed like Louie was always at the club. I found out later the reason for his constant presence. "I'm...I'm...Texas...she told me...I'm checking coats tonight," I finally managed. "I know that, kid. But what are ya doing here now?" He laughed. I shrugged my shoulders, confused, while Louie shook his head at me, chuckling softly. From 8 pm, I sat at my post at the supply closet turned coat check and waited. I perched at the edge of my stool, my back perfectly straight, my legs crossed at the ankles as I'd learned was proper. Four hours later, patrons started trickling in. Texas was nowhere to be found. Maybe it's her night off, I thought. I asked Harry where Texas was. "Lucky, it's still early. Just sit back and relax. Have a ginger ale." I sat back, sipped the ice-cold drink, and wondered why none of the customers were checking their coats. I soon learned that the ladies kept their furs because they were integral parts of their image. Plus, having your possessions nearby allowed a quick getaway if the club got busted. I realized that Texas was paying me to simply sit in her club, look pretty, and learn all the ins and outs of the establishment. And I was a quick learner. That night there were a number of singers, including patrons from the clubs who would stumble on stage, 2 solo dance acts, and a small troupe of girls that performed dances throughout the evening. But, of course, the main performer of the night was Texas who arrived at around 1 in the morning surrounded by an entourage of well-dressed, boisterous friends. I carefully studied the steps of all the dance numbers, shuffled my feet under my stool in unison to the girls, just like I used to do in Chicago. When we arrived back at the house that morning after driving out to Long Island to walk along the beach at sunrise, I performed the entire routine for Texas as she sipped coffee in her dining room. A fountain placed on a large table trickled water as an accompaniment to my movement. Texas watched me in a calculated way. She seemed to be concentrating on every step I made. This made me nervous because I didn't know if I looked ridiculous, but I gave it all I had. I ended the routine and stood slightly out of breath and fidgeting. "Stop that," Texas growled. I was mortified and began to sulk away, realizing how stupid and naive I was to think that I could just move to New York and start dancing at Texas Guinan's club. "When you finish performing, you must glow in what you have given the audience. So stop fidgeting. But don't ever stop performing." She seemed to read my mind, as I would soon learn she was capable of doing. "I'll call the girls to come in and rehearse you at 10 pm tomorrow. There's an extra costume for you. Get some sleep, you'll need it." I lay in bed that morning, staring at the canopy above me, dizzy from the excitement of the evening, thrilled and petrified that in 12 hours I would be dancing at Texas Guinan's 300 Club. I eventually slipped into a deep sleep, giddy with the thought that my dreams were coming true.