The third time the police crashed the Gilded Cage, Ivy wasn't so lucky. They were in the middle of the last number wearing hot pants with dollar green sequins, shimmying to the latest dance craze. A sharp whistle sounded in the back, the orchestra fading to a confused, off key note as the audience turned to witness the commotion. A squad of New York City policemen crowded the aisle and pounded towards the stage.

"Beat it, dolls!" Myrtle hollered and the chorus line scattered.

The police chased after the dancers as they raced back stage, out into the theater, or slipped up stairs to balcony seats. The cop in charge argued with the stage manager and theater owner, the oily Jim Robin. The red faced stage manager threw his clipboard on the floor, running an agitated hand through his thinning blond hair.

"C'mon," Ivy urged Maryanne as they ducked behind the curtains. "The side exit."

"Where is Myrtle?"

"She said something about the fire escape on the second floor."

It was every girl for herself. Ivy and Maryanne kept to the shadows, slipping into the dressing rooms in front of another girl being handcuffed, weeping that her mother would never forgive her. The exit was hidden behind one of the dressing screens. Maryanne made it. Ivy paused to snatch their purses hanging off one of the mirrors.

"Where do you think you're going?" A male voice said as Ivy tip-toed towards the exit, Maryanne disappearing into the alley outside.

Ivy squeezed her eyes shut, lifting her hands over her head. "Just wanted to get a breath of fresh air. A little stuffy in here."

"It's going to be a whole lot stuffier where you're headed, Miss," he grumbled as he tugged her hands down and snapped the hand cuffs on her. "You going to make this easy for me?"

With a heavy sigh, Ivy nodded. "Yes sir."

"No crying for your mother?"

Ivy shot him a cheeky, red lipped smile. "Ain't got one, officer."

"Lucky you, now let's go."

Thankfully, she shared a cell with four other girls who were her friends. Two southerners, one native Brooklynite and a lonely little Californian who was still crying over how desperately disappointed her folks were going to be when they heard she'd been arrested.

"Oh knock it off, Betty," Daisy from Georgia droned, flicking the ash off her cigarette where she stood with her arms hooked through the bars. "Not like you'll miss out on anything when they write you out of the will. Her family are chicken farmers," she added in an aside to Ivy.

"What about you, Daisy? Your people back home going to have you drawn and quartered for landing in jail?" Ivy asked as Daisy lit her a cigarette.

Daisy blew out a mouthful of smoke with a snide grin. "They'll probably be shocked that it took me this long to spend a night in the clink. You?"

Ivy shook her head. She loosened the waistband on her shorts, the sequins cutting into her stomach past her black leotard. "Never had no one to be disappointed in me before, can't say I know how it feels."

"That's freeing."

"I suppose."

The sergeant wandered towards the cells, swinging the key ring around his forefinger. The girls rose to their feet shouting protests at him. "Hey, c'mon! What's the big idea keeping us locked up all night!?"

"Not any longer, you're all coming down to the courthouse. Standing before the judge for your hearing. Special circumstances have come up with the owner of the theater."

The girls passed curious glances as two more cops joined the sergeant to hand cuff them for transfer to the courthouse. Scurrying to the police bus parked out front, the morning light stung Ivy's eyes as she peered across the street.

"You've got to be kidding me," she groaned at the sight of the Chauffeur leaning against a lamp post. His brow was furrowed with concern as he watched her. Impulsively, she stuck out her tongue at him before being hoisted into the back of the bus.

"I wonder if this is what it feels like driving to the church to get married," Daisy droned, bumping her shoulder against Ivy's as they sat on the benches lining the sides of the compartment. "I swear, I never want to be a blushing bride."

"Pipe down back there!" The driver hooted.

"Sure thang, honey lamb," Ivy cooed in a deep southern accent, even earning a soggy giggle from Betty, mascara staining her apple cheeks.

The marble halls of the courthouse echoed with the clatter of their heels as the five girls were hauled towards the court room. The judge barely glanced up from his papers as they were led to a table in the front. Betty hiccuped, fresh tears appearing in her puffy eyes.

"The court calls Miss Ivy McKee to the stand," a state prosecutor announced.

With a deep breath to settle her nerves, Ivy rose to her feet. She prayed they wouldn't throw the book at her. Neither she nor anyone she knew had the dough to cover a sizable bail. She had a feeling she'd be sitting in a jail cell in her deeply uncomfortable sequined shorts for a long time.

"You're here because of indecent exposure in a public place and offensive conduct. Also, there is possible evidence against you concerning alcohol possession. How do you plead, Miss McKee?" the judge asked. He still hadn't looked at her. He hid a yawn.

"Hey now!" She perched her hands on her hips. "Sure, I did those first two things, but I didn't have any gin on me when I got snatched. Did that cop tell you so? I knew he was a stinker-"

"Miss McKee, it's a simple question. Are you guilty or innocent?"

She wet her lips, knowing her next answer would determine how much money she'd be coughing up. She also knew she didn't have any to spare, not even for a dozen eggs.

"I'll speak for her, your honor. And the rest of these young ladies." A youthful male voice exclaimed as the doors to the courtroom slammed shut.

Ivy peeked over her shoulder as a well-dressed man of medium height and slight build strode up to the judge without a glance in her direction.

"And who are you?" The judge finally looked up... once he heard it was a man addressing him.

"Mallory Astor-Smith III," he replied confidently, a homburg hat held loosely in his hands. His gleaming brown hair was combed back with pomade. Handsome in an endearing, boyish way, he exuded self-assurance.

"Well, Mr. Astor-Smith, what gives you the authority to speak on behalf of these degenerates?"

"Because I now own the Gilded Cage Theater. I finished my business transaction with the unfortunate Jim Robin last night. Bought the place from him with plans to reform it into something respectable. Seems Mr. Robin is going to be coming before you later today for embezzlement and mob dealings. He also just declared bankruptcy." Mr. Smith jerked a thumb in the direction of the table of dancers, the girls sitting on the edge of their seats. "I'd like to pay all their bails."

The state defender rose and handed the judge a paper. The old man adjusted his glasses as he studied it, his eyebrows lifting in interest. "When you say Astor..."

"Yes, your honor. That Astor."

"Hmm..." The judge scratched his chin. "Seems to me like these young girls were only the victims of a dangerous deviant in the form of Mr. James Robin. With Mr. Astor-Smith here to defend their characters, I will dismiss this case and all charges brought against them."

Betty burst into tears that mingled with a garbled utterance of a Hail Mary. "I swear, I'm going straight back to California to join that convent like my mama wanted."

Ivy stared at their surprise savior as the man signed a paper handed to him by the judge. Without another word, Mr. Smith strode from the courtroom, whistling a church hymn as he pushed through the doors.

"What do yah think of that?" Daisy exclaimed as the five dancers trotted out of the courthouse and down the marble steps. "A regular knight in shining armor, don't you think?"

"I call dibs on him," the Brooklynite, Trudy, said. "Did you see that suit? He's something sharp."

"And an Astor," Betty added, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. "And a war hero to boot. He got the Medal of Honor after some skirmish in the Argonne Forest over in France."

"Did he mean the old money Astors?" Ivy asked, crossing her arms over her chest. "Was it his daddy that died on the Titanic?"

"No, that was his uncle I believe, though his family is still rolling in it. Townhouse in Manhattan, mansion in the Hamptons, hunting lodge up in the Catskills, the works," Betty said.

"Gee, Betty. For a girl heading to the convent, you sure know your eligible bachelors," Trudy teased. "I'm beat. And I don't even know if I have a job anymore so I'm going home and sleeping till the Apocalypse."

"My plans exactly," Daisy agreed. "You want to catch a cab with me and Trudy, Ivy? We're all heading for Brooklyn."

Ivy shrugged. She had no spare cash for a fare, even to split one. It would be the subway for her, all the home in her hot shorts. "Thanks but I think I'll walk, I need a breather after that scene."

"Suit yourself."

Ignoring the whispers and stares she received, Ivy skirted down the sidewalk. So the Gilded Cage was kaput. It wasn't the first establishment where she'd danced, she could find another job. But with all the jazz babies in the city yearning for their shot at the spotlight, she wondered how long she would have to go without a pay check till another chorus line came along.

"Say, Sticks," a cat call came from an alley she passed.

Used to hoots about her legs, she kept on walking. "Nice try, buddy."

"Is that any way to speak to your new boss?"

Ivy halted. In the alley way beside a Jewish delicatessen stood the man that had single-handedly saved them all from another night in jail. He certainly didn't strike her as a war hero, the son of millionaires. There was something appealing about him though, his disarming grin reminding her of David, her long dead beau.

He drew the cigarette from his mouth, his homburg cocked on his head. "You look like you could use a ride. Don't want to get picked up by the cops again so soon after getting out Scot free."

Ivy tapped her toe. "What do you mean my new boss?"

"You've still got your job. All you dancers do if you want it," he said. "This city is rough for someone barely making it. I'm not about to cut off a bunch of dames from a good pay check to make a point. Besides, you're all pretty good. Especially you."

"How would you know?"

"I was there last night. Well, up until the police came then I had to beat it. Family reputation and all." He ambled forward. "So, you want that ride or not?"

Ivy glanced over at the dark green Rolls Royce that pulled up to the curb. She half expected to see the Chauffeur driving it but it was a stranger in the front seat. She sighed.

"Alright, but just a ride. I'm not one of those casting couch girls."

"I wasn't expecting anything else. What's your name again?"

"Ivy McKee."

"Nice to meet you, Miss McKee." He stood in front of her and stuck out a hand. "Please. Call me Mal. Mal Smith."

An unassuming name and an unassuming man but there was something magnetic about him that made her comfortable. The opposite of what the Chauffeur ignited in her. He smiled boyishly.

She noticed his eyes for the first time. The strangest shade of light brown. Not brown really, but golden.

He waved a hand towards the Rolls. "Shall we?"

****

Author's Note: So someone finally made an appearance... muhaha. I owe so much inspiration for the 1920s plot and scenes to Joan Crawford and Franchot Tone and their chemistry in films. Even though I have 1920s starlet Louise Brooks in mind when I write Ivy. Thus the beautiful tribute video at the beginning that I found on YouTube, credit to shoopdancer2504.