Queenpin, the third novel by Megan Abbott, won a 2008 Edgar Award for Best Paperback Original and a 2008 Barry Award for Best Paperback Novel a year after its publication date. "Novel" is as shady a description as some of the characters Abbott describes; I'd be a sucker for thinking more than 50,000 words are expended in this lurid tale of a nightclub bookkeeper who gets more they bargained for when swept under the wing of a cunning gangster. The novelty here is that the bookkeeper and the gangster are both women, but try as she might to find a compelling story to match her conceit and her delightful gift of language, Abbott left me out to dry.
Set in a city where gambling is legal and the heyday of gangsters Lucky Luciano and Bugsy Siegel seem to have been only twenty years past, our unnamed Narrator introduces herself with the hard-boiled vernacular that distinguished lowlifes played in classic film noir by Humphrey Bogart or Robert Mitchum, whose glib cynicism usually masked deep seeded isolation and fear. Her "old man", a vending machine stocker, finds his daughter a job at one of his stops, the Club Tee Hee. The owners pay their bills and go home to families, but the girl finds the joint to be anything but on the up-and-up when she takes over their books. She loves it.
Where would a twenty-two-year-old kid rather be? Setting the table for a corned beef and cabbage dinner with her old man, forks scraping, moths fluttering against the window, the briny smell from the kitchen sinking into my skin with each tock of the imitation grandfather clock? Or gliding my way through the fuzzy dark of the Tee Hee, vibrating with low, slow jazz, clusters of juniper-breathed men and women touching, hands on lapels, fingers on silk nylons, cigarettes releasing willowy clouds into every acid green banquette? Sure, it was no El Morocco, but in this town, it might as well have been. The place felt alive, I could hear it beating in my chest, between my hips, everywhere. Clock-out time and I never wanted to leave. I'd grin my way into a Tom Collins from Shep, the lantern-jawed bartender and watch from the corner stool, watch everything, eating green cherries, the candied drink soaking into my lips, my tongue.
The girl is on the job less than a week, taking advanced accounting classes at Dolores Grey Business School in the morning and the bus to the Tee Hee in the afternoons, when she sees Gloria Denton for the first time. Coveting the lady's showgirl legs, the bookkeeper observes Gloria ordering a club soda and counting the vig her boss owes before driving off with it in her alpine white El Dorado. The girl learns that Gloria Denton is wife to none, an "IRS agent for the rackets" backed up by the organization and by her own ruthlessness, which according to legend, includes gutting a treacherous stripper named Candy Annie with a straight razor in '48.
Risking his health, the bookkeeper's boss orders her to cook a fake book full of phony bets from the numbers racket he's been reporting to Gloria so he can lay bets on the side and keep everything he expects to win. Gloria spots the incongruity and questions the greenhorn about it, impressed by the girl's loyalty and willingness to get her fingers dirty. Promising to teach her more in a week than she'll learn in twenty years in the classroom, Gloria offers the bookkeeper a job. She advises her protégé to call in sick the day a Molotov cocktail happens to explode inside the club. Next thing she knows, the girl's set up in her own apartment on a scenic side of town and taken shopping for suits.
Gloria quickly promotes the girl from courier to money launderer, tasking her with recycling ill-gotten gains through the racetracks. The rules are straight-forward: Don't mix it up with the regulars. "You don't ever want to be seen with them," she told me. "Eyes are everywhere at the track. Your cherry is our big advantage. Let's keep it intact as long as we can." The heir apparent is also making deliveries to and from the casinos and blossoming in her new job, discovering her confidence. She dresses like Gloria, she begins to make an impression like Gloria and soon, is even tossing back banter like Gloria.
No one ever gave me a hard time, but every night I'd get invitations, either from the casino fixtures, the bulls, or the hard boys at the door. At first, I was too scared even to one-step with them, to give them back a little of their patter. But the better I got, the more I was willing to toss it around. At least with the prettier, slicker ones. I had a weak spot, right off, for the worst of them. The ones that still had faces worth looking at. The ones without the dented noses or cauliflower ears. Mostly, I had it for the cruising gamblers who didn't rate with the big boys, just threw them their money every night like some nonstop tickertape parade. They were the smooth ones and I didn't mind a little dance with them.
While the boss is out of town, Gloria Denton's girl makes a pickup at a new casino operating under Yin's Peking Palace. There, she encounters a gambler with a sharkskin suit and sorrowful eyes named Vic Riordan making a killing at the roulette wheel. Watching Vic blow through his pot, the girl loiters around long enough for him to buy her a drink. "Come on" he said. "Let's get drunk. I want to see you with a hair out of place." The loser loosens something in her, reminds her of the wolf in fairy tales, and soon, red riding hood is racing through the woods to sneak over to Vic's apartment to rub his bare mattress raw.
As her nocturnal activities with Vic get hotter and crazier, the girl starts showing up late for appointments and missing drops. When Gloria spots the bruises Vic left on her protégé's thigh, she gets no answers as to who put them there. When she bumps into him at the track, the girl sneaks off to the jockey quarters with him for a roll in the hay. Vic ultimately admits that he owes thirty grand to Amos Mackey, a big-time loan shark (Mackey had big grins for everybody and could glad-hand it with every gray-suited businessman this side of the chamber of commerce.). Fallen hard, the girl comes up with a scam to help her lover out by robbing Gloria Denton.
Queenpin shares two elements with my previous venture into Megan Abbott's fiction (Dare Me): an impressionable girl's blood pact with an influential mentor through a crime, and delicious language. I'm a sucker for master-pupil stories and while Abbott serves hers strictly thin dish--it's more like the backstory for a bigger crime novel more befitting of its title--I enjoyed watching the Narrator's transformation from ugly duckling to black swan under the training of a woman whose success has only bought her so much in life. Abbott clearly relishes language and both the prose and repartee in this book is a tad dirty and delightful.
"It's too bad you're such a kid. Otherwise, I'd take you home. Mess up that fancy girl posture. Bend you back a little, you know?"
"Who says I'm a baby," I said. "I've been in long pants for years."
"Are you kidding?" He put his hands on me, just above my chest. "I bet I could smell Mama's milk on your breath."
"Come close. I'll open wide and you can see. No milk teeth."
He moved closer and his smile reminded me of the wolf in bedtime stories. When I was a kid, whenever my sisters would tell me fairy tales, running their fingers up my arms and legs, I always felt it for the wolves. Narrow eyes, teeth glittering like a handsaw. The wolves were waiting, but you had to put yourself in a dangerous place first. You had to play you part. I would dream myself into the thicket, swinging a basket, whistling a tune, waiting for the growl, the flash of yellow eyes, the sudden pillage, the blood tear. The wolf got you where it counted.
The deeper Abbott goes into the dark wood, the thinner her trail of bread crumbs gets. Due to the thrift of the novel, she only scratches skin deep on these three characters. I never really believed the girl's lust for Vic Riordan or how easily she'd line up to become a grease spot at the hands of Gloria Denton by double crossing her for him. Abbott writes her skims and scams with confidence and casts both the time and place of her story in lustrous ambiguity, but skimps on the story, which deserved to be drawn out into a longer and tauter cat and mouse game between the two main characters rather than the blood bath it becomes.