giving lessons in etiquette. Or just the plain old-fashioned old lady who lived in a shoe, explaining in detail how the children got there.
He never knew how he came to Rocco's. Perhaps he was kidnapped. It was possible that someone had snatched him from the gin flat around the corner from the theatre, where a loose, baggy ex-chorus girl sold diluted alcohol in her parlor and her withering charms in her bedroom. Ken, lounging on a settee, chatting with a magician out of work, could not recall when he had left the shabby flat. Perhaps, he smiled to himself, the magician had been Rocco in disguise and had whisked him off to his den.
Rocco's den, by the way, was a richly furnished apartment. Ken, chattering on, exhibiting the full repertory of his characterizations, suddenly decided to ask the swarthy, square-shouldered, snappily dressed young man who he was.
"Rocco," he said. Pale cheeks. Blue beard. Heavy eyebrows.
Ken chortled: "Old Auntie Bella Rocco or I'm a loose nut. Auntie Rocco, the racketeer—or should I say—Roccoteer."
"You're right." Rocco spoke in a sharp throaty voice. His eyes were black coals. "Let's go downstairs. It's my birthday."
"What's downstairs?"
"A party. Come on. I want you to dance."
As Ken descended narrow stairs, guided by Rocco, he recalled Joe Durazzo's words. Joe knew all about Rocco. "Ex-Capone," Joe had said. "Was. Isn't now. Edging in. Has a piece of our theatre. That's why we've had no shakedowns. The doorman is a Rocco mugg."
