Inside, the room had the same sense of calamity as Max. The big trunk was shut, some of its contents spilled across the dressing table alongside pots of cosmetics and shoe polish. Socks, another pair of black gloves. A glassine envelope containing the human hair Max used to make mustaches and eyebrows for his act. His seersucker jacket and pants dangled from a wooden hanger by the door.

“I figured I’d head up to the studio,” Pin said awkwardly.

Max sat back at his dressing table and dipped a comb into a jar containing black liquid. A fringe of false eyelashes curled beside it like a dead spider. He drew the comb through his hair, spattering his shirtfront with black. When he remained silent, Pin said, “I didn’t know if you wanted me to go down to the Stroll sometime.”

“Not this week.” Max picked up a hand mirror and inspected his hair. He dabbed at a trickle of black with a frayed bit of gingham cloth, picked up the comb, and applied more dye. “Colored folks aren’t too happy about what happened to Clyde.”

Pin swallowed and looked around, increasingly uneasy. French postcards lay across a side table: A girl on her stomach, wearing a corset trimmed with ribbons, head raised to smile at the camera. She had no arms or legs. Another girl, a midget, wearing only a chemise and straddling the lap of a man with a handlebar mustache and bowler hat, his stare vacant as a cat’s.

“I wasn’t—it was a mistake,” Pin said. “All I said was I seen Clyde at Hell Gate.”

“But that was enough, wasn’t it?” Max’s tone was low and insinuating. “I’ve seen them hang men for a lot less.”

“It was a mistake.”

He turned, his pupils pinpoints in the gaslight. There was a streak on one cheek; she’d thought it was hair dye, but now she saw it was a fresh scratch, oozing blood. She jumped as he snapped his fingers, and he laughed.

“You stay away from the Stroll, kid. Here.”

He reached into a macaroon tin and tossed her a Helmar cigarette packet. She stuck it in her pocket, waiting for instructions. He picked up the mirror again, turning it to reflect Pin’s own face.

“Go now,” he whispered.

Chapter 83

Chapter 83

SHE MADE IT as far as the park exit before she realized Max hadn’t given her streetcar fare. She turned and went back, a heaviness in her chest. He’d be mad that she returned for the money. Might refuse to give it to her, might even smack her. She’d poke her head inside, and if he seemed angry, she’d run.

A cardboard sign hung under the drooping She-Male banner: NEXT PERFORMANCE 3 O’CLOCK. The door to his shack was closed. She stepped up to it and knocked softly.

“Max?”

She knocked again. “Max? It’s Pin. I, uh…”