My Fair Lacey
A.N. I'm not a fan of writing in dialect, but in this story, it was rather a necessity. Bear with me, please. Lacey gets easier to understand in just a couple of chapters.
Chapter 1
A Most Audacious Experiment
It was pouring rain, a downburst that couldn't possibly last any amount of time. People on the streets had made a dash for the cover that a canopy next to the hotel offered.
"Mother, this is just too awful," an attractive red-headed young woman whined. She was standing next to an older, expensively-dressed, red-headed woman and a younger, pretty brunette.
"Well, Zelena, I hardly have control over the weather. I'm sure this will be over shortly," the older woman replied sharply.
"But I don't wa-ant to have to waaa-it. Gaston!" Zelena turned around to address a sullen young man who was standing in the background. "Be a good brother and go run and get the car."
"Wha-at Zelena?!" the young man complained. "I don't want to go out in this. I'll get soaked. I'll catch my death."
"But I don't wa-ant to stand here," the young woman complained and stuck her tongue out at her brother who had remained under the canopy. She lowered her voice, "There are some creepy people around us."
There was indeed an odd collection of people who'd been forced to seek shelter from the rain. There was the expected collection of men in suits, women in tank tops and tiered skirts, young people in jeans, and two young mothers with their children in strollers. Against the building wall was a short, bald man, who was likely drunk, and an older, well-dressed man with a cane and a notebook who might also have been drunk. The well-dressed man was preoccupied, writing in his notebook, leaning up against the wall for support. Also, standing under the canopy, just within the protection of the canopy, was a young woman with much too teased, much too high, much too white-blonde hair. She was wearing a much too short skirt with much too tall heels. The young woman had been approaching the men in the area to speak briefly with them and to hand them a business card.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," the well-dressed older woman exclaimed suddenly, noticing one of the men. "I never." And at that moment, lightning and thunder struck at the same time and the rain increased.
The man in question, the well-dressed man with the cane, turned, his notebook and pen in hand, possibly recognizing the woman's voice, "Cora? Dearie, it's been ages. How are you doing?"
"Rumple, darling. I'm pretty well. And you?"
"Mommy, who is this?" the whiny redhead had stepped in front of her mother.
The older woman seemed a little hesitant but finally made an introduction. "This is an old . . . friend . . . of mine, Rumford Gold."
"I'm Zelena," the tall redhead slunk forward. "Were you and my mother lovers?" she asked, her eyes lingering over the man's trim form.
The man gaped at her a moment, but before he could recover and reply, Zelena continued, "All of mommy's old 'friends' were her lovers." She looked the man over. "You're rather yummy, so I would be surprised if you and mommy didn't boink like bunnies."
"Zelena, for Christ's sake, quit pestering the man. And quit being vulgar," her mother directed her before turning back to the man. "Rumple, you must tell me what you're doing now?"
"Still teaching English literature, supervising grad students. And, of course, there's still my phonology, my linguistics studies." He held up his notebook and a pen as if somehow these explained what he was doing.
Cora frowned, "You're able to make a living with that?"
"Rather. My books have sold, I do the occasional lecture tour, teach the odd class now and then," the man shrugged.
"And, of course, your mother's money doesn't hurt," Cora said, perhaps a bit snidely.
"Well that would be true if I actually had any of her money, but we're barely on speaking terms," Rumple told her.
At that moment, another man came running up under the cover. He was tall, slender, and dressed flamboyantly in a bright yellow jacket over black pants. He wore a boater straw hat with a matching yellow and black band. He shook himself off as he came to a stop. He looked around and, at the same time, he and the man with the cane exclaimed, "Gold!" "Madden!"
The two men shook hands and the older man spoke, "I had no idea you were in town, you old bellend. Last I heard you were living the high life in New York. Delightfully surprised when I got your invitation. Congratulations."
"Oh, thank you, thank you," Madden told him. "I'm back in town to help plan the wedding. Viktor insisted I help," Madden rolled his eyes. "He thinks I'm better with flair than he is . . . which is true, what can I say? You will be available for the wedding party, won't you? I'm seriously considering asking you to be my best man."
Gold shook his head, obviously surprised, "I'd be honored."
"Fab-u-lous," Madden told him and looked up at the rainstorm, "I do hope this rain lets up soon. I'm on my way for my waxing appointment. It was sun-shiny when I left the apartment. I'm not used to these weather extremes.
"Oh-uh," the too-blond girl in the too-short skirt spoke up. "We'uns will tell ya that ratcher if ya'll jus' waits an hour, the weathah will change." She smiled at the young man and handed him a business card. "Perhaps, after yer appoin'ment?"
The tall man looked at the card, then at the young woman. "You're a masseuse?"
"Uh hum. Got a nice li'l place in th' Blue Star Motel." She leaned in, "Happy endin' extra." She winked at him, "but well worth it."
"You know I don't swing your way," Madden clarified.
"Oh, 'at's pretty durn obvious, but ya'll big-time stressed out an' a little ma-ssage is jus' what ya needs."
Madden took her card and bowed. "I'll keep you in mind, me darlin'."
Gaston, the hapless sibling of the petulant Zelena, who had not gone for the car, had been watching this exchange. "You know miss, that guy back there has been writing down everything you've said." And he pointed to Gold.
The young woman turned back to the well-dressed man with the cane. "Whaaa?! Air you a po-lice man or sum'in'?" she asked the man.
The man looked up from his notebook. "I'm a linguist. I study how people talk."
Cora took this moment to yell at her son, "Gaston! Aren't you ever going to go and get the car? We don't want to have to wait here all afternoon."
"All right, all right, all right, mother," Gaston said reluctantly and, after taking a solid breath, like he was about to dive into the deep end of the pool, he sprang away from the protection of the canopy, running in the downpour.
"Well," the young woman talking with Gold was visibly upset. "You ain't got no call t' be writin' me down. An' how do I know y' got me right?"
He handed her the notebook and, after perusing it, the young woman squinched her face up. "This ain't proper writin'. What do this all mean?"
"We'uns will tell ya that ratcher if ya'll jus' waits an hour, the weathah will change," the man read, capturing her intonations and mispronunciations perfectly.
"I ain't doing nutin' wrong." The girl persisted, now crying. "I warn't doin' no solicitin' or nut'in.'"
"Oh quit caterwauling, you simpering clunge!" the older man ordered her, which only resulted in the young woman crying more loudly.
"Miss, I don't think you've done anything wrong." The tall young man, Madden, spoke gently to her.
"I gotta license fur my massagin' an' I kin walk th' streets like anybody else. I didn't do nut'in'," the young woman persisted, shrinking back against the building away from the rain and the two men.
Madden turned back to Gold. "I am curious as to why you are recording this particular young lady's speech patterns." He waited.
Gold shrugged and replied. "She has some interesting intonations— generally suggestive of an inadequate education and a redneck upbringing, completely Kallikak-esque. You know, patterns of speech tend to stay with people and can seriously impact on their ability to get ahead, get a good job. I've often thought I should open a school where I teach people how to express themselves so they can improve their opportunities."
"I could see there being a market for that," Madden observed.
"Absolutely. Take this unfortunate guttersnipe," Gold gestured in the young woman's direction. "Her loathsome English will keep her working as a . . . masseuse . . . until the end of her days. Well sir, in six months, I could pass her off as a prime minister's daughter at the Governor's Ball at the Biltmore."
"Now that would be a fascinating experiment," Jefferson agreed. The rain had abruptly slackened up and many of the other people under the canopy, including the well-dressed Cora and her sullen daughters, had begun to meander off.
"Would that I could," Gold spoke longingly. "But it would require complicity and a willingness in the subject to work hard and make serious changes." He rubbed his nose bridge, "Can't see it happening." He changed the subject, "Now, where are you staying – with Viktor?"
"No, he doesn't have room for all my stuff. For now, I'm in that new hotel, Aloft. Really though, I can't abide Viktor's god-awful condo – it's so bourgeois. He's promised me that he'll look for a new place that we both can agree on, but I cannot, cannot, cannot get him away from his job long enough to meet with a realtor. So, in the meantime, I'd love to come over to see you. Are you still in that deliciously dark condo complex on Rankin, across from the garage?"
"Exactly right, 401, a two-story apartment on the top floor - has an outdoor rooftop patio."
"I remember. Sweet," Madden observed approvingly.
"Well, let's have supper, tonight would be good," Gold invited his old friend. He looked out from the cover as if he had just noticed the absence of rain. "Hey, it appears to have stopped raining. I'm on my way for a little lunch. Can you join me? I'd like to hear about what you've been up to."
Madden shook his head. "Love to, but I'm on my way to that waxing appointment. We'll just have to wait and connect for supper." And he and Gold stepped on out to the street to continue on their separate ways.
A Mercedes pulled up and the young man, Gaston, now thoroughly drenched, his hair plastered to his head, looked out his window, noting the greatly thinned out crowd. "Hey, where are those three women who were here?" he asked the young blonde woman.
"They done walked on as soon as it quit rainin'," the young woman told Gaston not paying him any attention.
"Well, piss on a spark plug," said Gaston and rolled up the window and drove off.
The young blonde woman stood under the canopy quietly, watching the older man with speculative interest as he limped down the street.
The Penthouse Apartment
Jefferson Madden had made himself at home in Gold's luxurious penthouse apartment, decorated mostly in leather and dark wood paneling. He was sitting, leafing through some of Gold's collection of soundtracks. Gold had been playing recordings for him and Jefferson was left shaking his head.
"Well, I can't make out half of what you're hearing," Jefferson confessed.
"Do you want to go through it again?" Gold asked him. He'd been pacing and fidgeting all the while.
"Oh no," Jefferson demurred. "This listening to sounds is quite exhausting. I'd fancied myself as having a great ear. It's what's enabled me to work as the most sought-after accent coach on Broadway. But most of your sounds, well, I confess, I don't hear the difference."
"It's just practice. At first, there's no real difference, but after listening to them over and over, they become as different as A and B."
It was before dinner time and the two men were enjoying some of Gold's top-shelf whiskey as they talked over old times and current happenings.
Ms. Potts, a woman of a certain age, pleasantly rotund, knocked on the door before entering. "Sir, there is a young woman to see you."
"A young woman? What does she want?"
"Well," Ms. Potts clearly was not approving. "She says you'll be glad to see her when you know why she's come." Ms. Potts lowered her voice, "She's a very common girl, sir, a very common girl. I might have sent her away, but I thought she might be one of those that you'd be doing a recording. I hope I haven't done wrong, you do see such odd folks."
"Oh, it's all right, Ms. Potts. Does she have an interesting accent?"
"Oh, something dreadful sir, really."
"Excellent. Show her in," Gold told her.
"Yes sir," Ms. Potts reluctantly agreed.
"This will be great fun," Gold was speaking to Jefferson. "You'll get to see how I get the recordings. I have this little protocol prepped up. I take the recording, of course, but then I can also let you see it in Bell's Visible- Revised and broad Romic."
Ms. Potts reappeared, "This is the young woman sir," and she ushered in the masseuse from the street they'd encountered earlier that day.
Gold was clearly disappointed. "Oh, this will never do. I already have reams on her speech patterns. She's no use." He turned to the girl. "Be off with you. I haven't any use for you. I don't want you."
"'ey now, you don haf t' be so uppity. You ain't heard why I come."
"Shall I escort her out?" Ms. Potts asked her employer.
"Now wait here," the girl protested, attempting to draw herself up to an imposing height of five feet five inches, four of which were her shoes. "If me money's not good enuf here, I kin go somewheres else."
Gold paused, partially intrigued, "Good enough for what?"
"For yo-ooo. I come fur lessons. An' I'm ready t' pay, make no mistake," the girl was insistent.
"What?!" Gold sat down. "Lessons!"
"Yeah, I heard ya' sayin' that in six months time, you cud pass me off as a prime minister's dawghter at th' Gov'ner's Ball." The girl hesitated. "I been wantin' a job in one o' them nice dress shops on Heywood, but they won't hire me . . . an' I'm pretty sure, it's cause I doan talk so good. Sounds like you cud be teachin' me whut I needs to know."
Gold was smirking, thoroughly enjoying himself. "How much?"
"Oh, Gold, you aren't seriously considering what this young woman is requesting?" Jefferson began, but Gold waved him off.
"How much?" he repeated his question.
"We-ell. It's me own language, right? I looked up what pe-anny lessons cost an' them are forty dollars. So I'm figurin' this can't be no harder than learnin' to play pe-anny, so forty dollars a lesson." She seemed proud of herself for having done the math.
"You can afford that?" Gold asked, leaning in.
The young woman immediately leaned in toward him, "I kin make a thousand dollars a night."
He sat back, surprised. "If you can make that much money, why would you want a job in a dress shop? It doesn't pay nearly that much."
The young woman looked down at the floor. "We-ell, truth be told, most of th' money goes t' th' hotel and t' th' night manager, 'cause he's th' one who books customers fur me. By th' time, I'm finished payin' him an' payin' fur th' hotel room, an' payin' off anybody else who thinks they kin take a cut, I might have twenty dollars a night left over."
"So, you're offering me two days' pay for a single lesson?" Gold asked.
"Whut?! No! I'm just off'rin' to pay forty dollars fur an hour lesson," she tried to explain.
"That's a fantastic rate of pay!" he exclaimed, leaping up. "Why, I've never been offered so much. When I pro-rate this out, this is like someone with a respectable job offering me four hundred dollars for a lesson."
The young woman vaulted to her feet and was now protesting loudly, "Now wait a minute! I ain't payin' you no four hundred dollars! I ain't got no four hundred dollars fur no lessons. What air you talkin' 'bout?" And she started crying.
Gold turned on her, "Stop squalling, you ignorant bint," he ordered her and then turned back to Jefferson. "I could do this!" His mood had shifted to jubilant now. "This could be an amazing experiment. If she has a quick ear and at least room temperature IQ, with a little work, I should be able to take her anywhere and pass her off as anything!"
"Gold," Jefferson made an attempt to dissuade him. "Are you sure this is a good idea? You don't know anything about this young woman. She could be a thief or . . . a . . . prostitute, thoroughly inappropriate for your plans."
The young woman had heard him. "I ain't no thief and I don't do . . . th' other thing. You might get a happy endin' from me, but that's all," she protested.
"See there," Gold waved off Jefferson's concerns.
"But what if . . ." Jefferson lowered his voice, "she's married or has a family."
"I ain't married," the young woman spoke up. "And me dad turned me out when I turned eighteen. Said I was old enuf to earn me own keep."
"Ah," Gold relaxed. "See, there's no pesky family. No one will miss her. So, tell me, Jefferson, you in?"
"I may be. But . . ." he hesitated. "You know, she's going to need more than just articulation lessons," Jefferson remarked.
Gold was up and walking around the young woman, surveying the skimpy short red leather skirt with the matching and equally skimpy red leather halter top. He sneered at the fish-net hose and garters peeking out above the ultra-high black patent boots. He scrutinized the high white-blonde teased hair. He scowled, examining her thick eye makeup and dark ruby red lipstick. The young woman turned, keeping her eyes on him as he walked around her. "These clothes are completely unsuitable." He turned to his housekeeper, "Ms. Potts."
"Yes, sir."
"Take her in and get her a shower and have her wash the muck off her face. And call down to Prêt a Porter and have them send up a suitable dress and such for her and . . . and . . . burn these streetwalker clothes she's wearing. Put her up in one of the spare bedrooms. It'll be so much easier to work on this if she's immediately handy."
"Whut?" the girl protested. "I never said nut'in' 'bout staying here?! An' these are some o' me nicest clothes. Doan you be burnin' them!" she turned on Ms. Potts.
Ms. Potts wearily sighed. "We'll put them aside so you can keep them. But Mr. Gold cannot allow you to come in and out of his place in that attire."
"Whut's wrong wid the way I'm dressed?" the girl demanded to know.
"You look like a slag, a floozy," Gold called out to her. "Like a. . . hoochie momma peddling her wares."
The young woman wilted. "But these air my nicest clothes."
"Then it's clear that you have nothing appropriate in your wardrobe." He waved his hand and dismissed her. Ms. Potts led the young woman out, under protest, and Gold turned to Jefferson.
"Gold, don't you see the real problems here that we're going to face?" Jefferson asked him. "It's not going to be enough to work on her pronunciation. Her grammar is atrocious and . . ." Jefferson shook his head. "Her manners, her bearing, her lack of experience with culture and refinement – those things will give her away in a heartbeat."
"You don't think it can be done?"
"I think it may be the most audacious experiment I've ever heard of," Jefferson admitted.
"You willing to help?"
"I may be, but I want some clarifications."
Gold had flopped down in one of his luxurious leather chairs. "Sure. What would you like to know?"
Jefferson hesitated. "I don't like the idea of you having her move in here if . . . well, we know what she does for a living . . . and . . ."
"You think I might take her payment out in trade?" Gold asked him archly. He shook his head, "Let me assure you, she is not the tiniest bit attractive to me. I prefer women who are intelligent, more refined and less . . . cheap."
"That's good to know." Jefferson finished his drink. "All right then, I'm in. I'll go so far as to help fund the education of . . . good lord . . . we don't know the young woman's name."
"Does it matter? I'm sure it's something that screams white trash – like Enigma Jean or Tammy Lurline."
"But we have to have something to call her," Jefferson protested.
"We'll wait until she's steam-cleaned and deloused and ask her. We can sit her down for a meal." Gold speculated.
"I'm curious if she can use a napkin," Jefferson told him.
"I'm curious to see if she can use a fork," Gold responded.