“Yes.”
“The tourists go there. They come to dinner in Chinatown and then they go to Finocchio’s. Do they go to the Telegraph Club too?”
“Some of them.” Kath hugged herself against the chilly kiss of the fog. “Maybe half the audience was tourists the night we were there.”
“What was the other half?”
“Women.”
The ocean shushed against the sand below. The foghorn blew again. Lily asked, “Did you see . . . Tommy Andrews?”
“Yes. There was a show. Tommy Andrews was one of the performers. She sang—some of the songs had the lyrics changed.”
“Like what?”
“I can’t remember the lyrics. You’d know the songs. But the whole point of it was, you know, she’s dressed like a man. She sings to the women in the audience. She’s very . . . handsome.” Kath gave a nervous, selfconscious huff that was not quite a laugh. “She came around to our table afterward—well, she comes around to all the tables near the stage, and the stage is so small that she comes to everyone’s—anyway, Jean couldn’t get enough.”
Lily had imagined Tommy’s performance countless times, but hearing Kath describe it aloud made her quiver with excitement. She sings to the women in the audience. She took a deep breath of foggy air. “Oh, I wish I could see it,” she said, looking at Kath, and Kath was looking back at her with a strange expression on her face—a mix of fear and excitement. “What?” Lily asked. “What is it?”
“Well, we could go. To the Telegraph Club.”
Lily was surprised. “I couldn’t—”
“You could. We could. Why not? It’s on Broadway. Plenty of people go.”
Lily said nothing, but her mind was spinning. Again she imagined herself at the club, sitting at a small round table on the edge of the stage, Tommy Andrews singing to her.
“How old are you?” Kath asked abruptly.
“Seventeen. Why?”
“You need to be eighteen.”
Her dream was instantly quashed—and replaced with a kind of unwelcome relief. “Then I can’t go. I don’t turn eighteen until April.”
“I wasn’t eighteen when I went either. Jean got me a fake ID. I could get you one.”
“That’s illegal,” Lily said. She thought immediately of false immigration papers. What would the police do to someone like her if they found her carrying a fake ID? She curled her fingers into fists inside the pockets of Kath’s coat. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“You really only need a fake ID to buy drinks. They never even asked for mine when I went.”
Lily wondered if Kath’s nonchalance was for show. “Then why get one at all?”
“It’s just—just in case. Why don’t I get one for you and then you can decide if you want to use it?”
“I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll ask Jean. She knew where to get them before.” The wind ruffled Kath’s cropped hair and made Lily shiver again, despite Kath’s jacket. “If Jean doesn’t know or can’t get it, then we’ll wait until you turn eighteen and we can go then.”
The thought of waiting that long suddenly seemed unbearable. “Oh, all right. Ask Jean,” Lily said before she could change her mind. “When will you ask her?”
“I’ll see her soon. She comes back once a month to visit her family. I’ll talk to her next time she’s back—probably next weekend.”
“Next weekend! That’s so soon.” A thrill went through Lily. She saw Kath break into a smile, and then a shiver as the wind swept around them again. “Oh, you’re cold,” Lily said. “We should go back.”
And just like that, their conversation was over, and the pocket of fog that had cloaked them before was moving them back up Van Ness and toward the gym, its lighted windows winking through the mist.
15
The Spook-A-Rama was still going full steam when they returned, shivering, to the warm, dry vestibule of the gym. Lily took off Kath’s jacket and handed it back to her, and Kath had just put it back on when the gym doors opened and Shirley emerged, clearly searching for someone.
“Lily!” Shirley called. “There you are. Where have you been? The punch bowls need to be refilled.”
Shirley came down the stairs, caught sight of Kath standing nearby, and paused a couple of steps before the bottom. “Kathleen?” she said in surprise.