Dirty Life's Dirty History

Most likely spring-ish 1928. When Isabella was at the Pearl Theater in Chicago.

It was late, too late. The final show of the evening was long over and the joint had turned into its usual late-night speakeasy, turning the clientele from a mixture of young men and pretty women in their Sunday best, to older men in expensive suits with guns under their jackets and false respect that threatened to crack.

The band was no longer playing. The band was no longer here—or maybe they were downstairs with a few stragglers. The lights were even more dim and the smell of smoke had lifted. The heavy, velvet curtains shielded the stage from the rest of the hall, and on the beaten, wood floor sat three female dancers with clips in their hair, the only sign that this place ever saw the likes of vaudeville and that the massive French Baroque theatre itself wasn’t a façade.

( All three ladies were playing poker with a deck of worn-out playing cards. )