Dominique's Confession: A Roaring Twenties Dark Romance

By Christopher of Detroit

How far will Dominique go to keep her secrets?

In Prohibition-era Detroit, Dominique, an enigmatic taxi dancer, searches for redemption. When Dominique meets Jonathan “Gamble” Blackburn, a wealthy occultist, she finds herself intrigued by his world of disturbing seances, tarot readings, and prophetic nightmares. As they grow closer, Dominique must confront an even greater truth: the terrible secret she keeps from him. She has finally found someone that can match her, so what could possibly go wrong?

This gripping story of love, passion, and mysticism will captivate readers. If you enjoyed F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Great Gatsby” or Libba Bray’s “The Diviners,” you’ll love Dominique’s journey through the magical underworld of 1920s Motown.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher of Detroit
• Release date: Jul 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005761356

Book preview

23 August 1976

He entered my life fifty years ago today, on a Monday, in the city of Detroit.

Back then, I marched to a different drummer. Barely twenty-years-old, I plunged into the days’ fashions. I savored the bohemians’ avant-garde experiences. It was true—my senses controlled me more than most, yet I yearned for freedom, to live in the moment. These days, one catches a glimmer of that precocious young lady but only from infrequent smiles during these sessions with my handlers.

The 18th Amendment, or American Prohibition, passed in 1919. It made the sale, consumption, and manufacturing of alcohol illegal. Yet nobody stopped drinking—certainly not us. With Windsor across the Detroit River, we gained easy access to booze. 70 percent of smuggled US alcohol came across the Windsor-Detroit border and because of that, the city thrived. The Volstead Act inspired an artistic underground and the razzamatazz of the Jazz Age glittered around us. The Nouveau Riche ruled the day as 20,000 speakeasies littered the city—one on every corner controlled by the Purple Gang, a Detroit equivalent of Al Capone’s Chicago Outfit.

A year earlier, in 1925, I arrived and settled into the borough of Black Bottom, known these days as Lafayette Park. Unofficial boundaries contained the neighborhood with Gratiot Avenue to the north, Brush Street to the west, Congress to the south, and the Grand Trunk railroad tracks to the east. Despite its name, Black Bottom wasn’t a colored area. Early Frenchmen named it after the rich black soil below. Still, most Negroes settled there during the Great Migration to escape the South’s Jim Crow laws. Along with the Blacks, countless Italian, Syrian, Lebanese, and Jewish immigrants found jobs in the auto factories. Informal segregation forced the outsiders into older, less expensive rental housing. Germans and Jews owned the stores. Whites owned the real estate.

From its pioneer days, Detroit’s blend of ethnic and racial backgrounds created a challenging melting pot. In the early days, the city survived on fur trapping and trading before it moved on to industrial iron ore, building stoves, railroad cars, and Henry Ford’s luscious automobiles. Detroit became a boom town and by the twenties, it was the fourth-largest city in the United States.

In the thick of it, I made my living as a taxi dancer known as Dominique. Typically, male patrons paid me to dance with them but the occasional lady also wanted the service. Patrons of taxi-dance halls purchased dance tickets for ten cents each, which bought a single song. Dancers earned a commission on every ticket collected.

My alias hid my real name, and that was for the best. As far as my neighbors knew, I waited tables at Marie Scott’s café. Housed in a building leftover from the century’s turn, the Hit Café, the street business, allowed Black Bottom residents to nab an espresso or a Ward’s Orange-Crush. However, behind a double sliding wall in the back another world existed. Named after the six-cylinder engine, Hit on All Sixes, acted as a bootleg bar, a domain of petty gambling, debauchery, and excesses. Initiated customers called the club simply Sixes. The modern parlance would be a speakeasy or blind pig, but in those days, we called them clip joints.

Age seeped from the wood-paneling. A brass-covered bar stood against the back wall inlaid with aluminum and mounted with brass fittings. Dented and dinged, the damage added character and invited intimate discourse. Lacquered homemade bar stools inlaid with masterful wood and chrome Art Deco designs filled the room. A mysterious disposition dominated the space as if stories over the years remained alive in the walls, accessible to those who listened: star-crossed lovers proclaiming their affection, a planned heist gone wrong, or a factory-mangled ghost story told in hushed whispers. One caught a flash of these spirits skimming by the chandeliers or disturbing the candelabras’ flames as they sipped Marie Scott’s liquid gold.

Red velvet draperies hung in various locations about the room. These curtains hid secret alcoves from prying eyes: small rooms where people drank alone, made merry in intimate groups, or did something more alarming like in those risqué stag films. Some dancers crossed that line, but that wasn’t my style. I didn’t mind dancing with a fella, but that transgression I saved for someone special.

Marie Scott acquired the bar in a surreptitious contract. Some said she won it in a Gin Rummy game. Others said it came from an inheritance. And still others claimed she murdered a man for it. I never believed such nonsense, but in those days anything could happen. The woman had a past. Her disposition conveyed wisdom beyond her thirty years, but a murderer? She gave me a life. But we had no illusions; if it came to business or me, I’d be the first to go. I understood.

On that fateful Monday, Rudolph Valentino died at 31, but nobody knew that yet. Days after, despondent fans committed suicide and an all-day riot erupted, but oblivious to the tragedy, I stepped into the bar ready to start my shift.

In those days, I stood tall with a slender athletic build, but more food might have helped. Dark brown hair, slicked in the flapper style, but wavy and longish, fell over my high forehead. Hazel eyes, large and inquisitive, carried fewer lines and less hidden depth than nowadays. Ruddy lips and cheeks reinforced my hunger chic. Age stole these gifts from me, but my fashion taste hasn’t changed, and my current predicament can’t steal my exuberance.

I strode across the room with purpose and halted at the bar. I signaled to Marie, ordered my standard, and scanned the room for a dance. Full as usual, Sixes popped with activity. Most people in the speakeasy bored me, but a precious few held my attention.

Lower-class bohemians mingled with upper-crust aristocracy; economic disparity between the haves and the have nots created a nuanced environment. That place would never work now. Then, however, artists, dancers, and musicians mixed with rival bankers, real estate tycoons, and high-finance bean counters. Off-duty cops sipped their drinks in dark corners. Hoods from the Purple Gang came and went. Society ladies filled the place dayside but blue-blooded tramps claimed ownership when the moon rose full. Gadabout trollops littered the dance floor late into most nights.

In a far corner, Detective Frank Edwards chatted with mayor John W. Smith and future mayor Charles E. Bowles. They discussed Black Bottom’s tribulations over glasses of iced rye.

Edwards treated me well. He wasn’t handsome per se but his no-nonsense demeanor made him likable. Most days, we wore a wide brim fedora, tan with a dark chocolate band. His suit and overcoat covered other brown hues. His eyes small, set close together, darted from one person to the next assessing innocence or guilt. A Germanic angular face fell into a point with a cleft chin as his mouth stretched from one cheek to the other. His hair color remained a mystery because the fedora swallowed his head like a boy wearing his father’s hat. A cop’s salary didn’t allow for dancehall coquetries so I left him alone most days.

Local pigs like Edwards knew about the speakeasies and what we did. Most times they took part, so bohemians didn’t have to concern themselves with a well-greased copper. As for the future mayor, Bowles had ties to the Ku Klux Klan—popular in Michigan in the twenties. When Bowles later entered office in 1930, he claimed a solution to corruption and then announced his strategy: Let the criminals bump each other off. A Detroit answer, if there ever was one.

Detective Edwards caught me observing him. I nodded. He returned my greeting.

I turned to Marie and asked, Same ole night? Any boozehounds giving you trouble?

Baby, there’s so many Bug-eyed Betties in here. I can’t take another minute.

A lot of dogs, eh? I said as I studied her. Not pretty, but tough and capable, Marie carried European heritage but never admitted her birthplace. An impish smirk highlighted her features at all times. Dressed in gypsy style, trinkets adorned her second-hand clothing. She wore her hair piled atop her head like a nest. Sometimes, feathers decorated it; where her mane ended and the plumes began became a point of contention. Large hoop earrings resembling a Chinese magician’s linking rings hung from her ears. About a thousand different necklaces with colored beads tangled around her. Her giant impractical witch boots, laced up to her knees, always amused me.

I gestured to the cop table and said, Anything up?

Not sure what they’re chatting about. Doesn’t concern us.

I nodded. Dread filled me with them around. Did they know about my past? They also held the power to shut us down. But Marie’s strength of character remained legendary. A great conversationalist, she knew everything about everyone. As their priest-confessor, secrets became currency. Discretion suited her business. How did she stay alive knowing their dalliances? Perhaps she spread information around as an insurance policy. If she disappeared, evidence would surface like a bloated body from the Detroit River.

I said, Where are the others?

It’s a slow night. Just you and Moxie.

I continued scanning the room for potential men who wanted to dance.

Then, I found one. He stood over in the corner next to a fine-looking Negro gentleman. The man held mystique, well-groomed and dressed in a custom pin-striped suit and bowtie. Overdressed for the occasion, but like that wherever he went, the man stood with quiet confidence, a grandee used to fine dining and expensive cigars. A lowball glass with its special insignia identified his weapon of choice: Templeton Rye, a whiskey made in Iowa.

His companion, cacao-skinned and lanky, wore his hair long and wooly like the Nubian hairstyle now called an afro. Back then we didn’t have that term. The urbane man held a dirty martini in a cocktail glass and leaned into his friend laughing. Comfortable body language illustrated fondness between them, but to me, they appeared smug. I loathed them, but money begets money, and they had it.

A gaggle of women surrounded them, listening to their banter. Regardless, the Templeton Man looked desperately alone. I appraised him as I sipped my drink.

He stood tall and ready for the world with eyes holding supremacy. His pencil-thin mustache added to his sophisticated demeanor. His hair, black as the witching hour on a New Moon, matched a philosophical essence in his soul. As he looked around his eyes devoured everything. Steel-blue and piercing, they conveyed a startling intelligence that speculated about life.

He finished a cigarette, a Lucky Strike by the look of it. Flicked it to the floor. Stepped on it with his wing-tip. Opened his silvery cigarette case. Twirled a cigarette between his fingers like a magic coin. Raised the Lucky to his lips. Dragged hard. His other hand protected the match’s flame from the overhead fan. He did that in a clean, practiced maneuver.

I leaned over to Marie and asked, Do you know that bird? The one over there who thinks he’s the bee’s knees lighting the fag?

She looked at him as she answered, Nope. No idea. Ask Moxie.

I scanned the room for Melody Moxie Smith, the closest thing to a friend in the city. I spotted her talking to a man at the bar’s end. Petite in stature, but big in heart, Moxie preferred a subdued panache like Louise Brooks. With vintage sweaters and librarian chic, she dazzled guys who appreciated her unorthodox choices. She dolled up that night—trying to impress a big name. She wore her hair with short bangs and curled ends that touched her cheeks. An ornamental bandana contained her mop framing her face.

I crossed the room in her direction. Eyes widened as people moved around me as I passed. Sometimes my intensity intimidates people, but I don’t mind. I stopped in front of them and yanked her away. She acted miffed but said, Jeez Louise. What’s the rush?

I stared her in the eye. Normally, she never made eye contact with me, but she noticed my alacrity. Dark liner framed her eyes like Horus. Rouged cheeks resembled a porcelain doll. Lighter lipstick drew attention away from her mouth to her roaming eyes.

I gestured over my shoulder with my chin. Do you know him?

She looked.

Oh, that fella? Sure. She pronounced sure like shoo-ar. Then she added, Last week. I met him. He’s new.

I yanked her shoulders, turned her to face me, and said, I wanna meet him. Introduce me, kay?

Okay, if you insist. Jeez. Her voice always sounded like a honking goose.

As we walked over to him doubt crept into my confidence. At Sixes, I tried to dress for the occasion. My open-backed blouse littered with rhinestones fit my slender body in a way that made me look severe, but that’s the style I wanted to convey. My earrings resembled teardrops of sacred geometry bedazzled with fake diamonds, but elegant all the same. I didn’t want these men to think of me like a cheap whore—someone to bed easily. I danced with them to make money, and that was all.

As we walked over to the man, I felt underdressed. But then we arrived. Too late to back out. The man glanced my way. People spoke of my attractiveness, but at that moment, his eyes made me feel otherwise.

He finished divulging the contents of a story to his entourage as we approached. He spoke well, charming to all who hovered about him. At first impression, he embraced the stereotype of a person people loved to drink with, a teller of witty tales and tall extravagances. Later, I discovered he was anything but.

The man chatted to his acquaintances with a politeness of spirit, but I felt like they were merely that to him—acquaintances. He carried himself like a man with few genuine friends. I considered the few companions I possessed, and I smiled because of commonality.

Moxie spoke first. Um, Mr. Blackburn. Do you remember me?

He turned to Moxie and saluted. In a debonair cadence, he said, Yes, of course. It’s… It’s… He snapped his fingers searching memory for the name. Finally, after several snaps he said, Don’t tell me. It’s on the tip of my tongue.

Moxie spared him the embarrassment by saying, Melody. Remember?

Oh, yes. Melody Smith. Moxie as it were. We met the other night.

Yes, that’s right, Moxie paused, smiled, and added, I’d like for you to meet my friend. She gestured to me with a curtsy and said, This is Dominique.

A queer expression passed over his face. After a moment’s hesitation, he offered his hand. I raised mine with reluctance but presented it to him. He took it. Our hands touched, inflamed with the unknown. Something inside stirred like an animal waking from slumber, a primeval instinct to know him better. An unnamable emotion compelled me to want to slap his face, but hold him tight. Thank God, I did neither.

Hello miss. My name is Jonathan Gamble Blackburn, but you may call me ‘Gamble.’ My friends call me that and I’d be honored if you did the same.

I swallowed and ignored his request by replying, Hello to you, Mr. Blackburn.

An awkward moment passed between our party. We all exchanged glances. Everyone felt a glamor between the gentleman and myself, but nobody wanted to acknowledge it. After another moment of stammering and shuffling about, I broke the silence. It’s a pleasure to meet you.

He smiled and replied, The pleasure is all mine, indeed.

Again, an awkward moment passed. I looked to Moxie. She wore a curious expression with plucked eyebrows raised; it said, He’s rich and handsome. A good catch! Her grin reinforced her approval. She must have noticed the energy pass between us.

Gamble began and finished another story, but I heard none of it. Many of his women left our circle. I felt thoughtless. I shouldn’t have come over. Out of desperation I blurted, What is it you do, Mr. Blackburn?

An enigmatic starlight emitted from his gaze as he studied me. His eyes seemed too large for his face and an agelessness gleamed from them. He appeared unafraid and his power created a disturbing forcefulness. Every moment, he wore an intense half-smirk as if an amusing theory played around his head. His slicked hair resembled black licorice, sweet yet bitter. His facial structure looked like a roaming hawk, alert yet dangerous.

He studied me with his head tilted forward; his eyes penetrated me like he forced himself to look at an obscenity—not revulsion, more fascination. Regardless, he seemed taken with everyone so I wasn’t sure about his intentions.

He mumbled, Oh, I have certain interests.

His friend added, More than he likes to admit. That’s for sure. The black man jabbed an elbow into Gamble’s stomach and they laughed. Then, his friend turned to me and said, Pleasure to make your acquaintance. The name’s Jay Em. And this handsome miscreant here is my bestie, so don’t break his heart or anything. He hooked his thumb to Gamble.

I shook my head in acknowledgement. I have no intention. Pleasure to meet you, Jay Em.

While the others spoke, I assessed Gamble’s friend. Many Negroes in Black Bottom held lower stations in life, but Jay Em seemed like a self-made man. His near-perfect English grammar made it obvious to me. How he fit in with the luminaries at Sixes remained anyone’s guess. Jay Em had some higher education, but how did he gain it? Yes, there were Negro doctors like that unfortunate Ossian Sweet who they charged with murder in 1925. Sweet and some friends used armed self-defense against an aggressive white crowd protesting his move onto Garland Street, an all-white neighborhood. Protesters threw stones, broke windows, and then fired shots at the house. Blacks defended the dwelling until one white man died and they wounded another. Police arrested and charged Sweet with murder. Like that sad day for the black community, would Jay Em’s fate be the same? A lot of Whites didn’t like Negroes rising in station, but I wasn’t one of them.

Listening to them exchange words, Jay Em and Gamble matched each other well. Jay Em seemed like someone who didn’t mince his language, a loyal comrade. Despite my initial false impression about their smugness, I liked Jay Em immediately, and I imagined even if Gamble didn’t exist, Jay Em and I might still be friends.

Our group chatted for a few minutes until Jay Em declared he wanted to get another drink. At that, the others in the assembly dispersed to the bar to snatch a five-dollar bottle of demon rum. Suddenly, Gamble and I stood alone.

Mr. Blackburn, what interests you?

Please call me Gamble? He shifted his drink to his other hand.

Okay, Mr. Gamble.

He laughed and sighed. No, just Gamble. Please.

I held my laughter. I’ll do my best. So, what interests you?

Oh, certain things. It’s all very dull and I wouldn’t want to chatterbox you to death with it.

Oh, I doubt it’d chatterbox me. The men who come in here are rather boring. I realized my comment might have seemed directed at him. Instead of learning from my mistake, I doubled-down with, You look like a married man. Do your interests involve a steady-company woman in your life?

He looked to his feet. Then, he spoke in a measured tone, I’d rather not talk about it. I do have a wonderful sister named Ruth and my mother’s name is Therese.

My eyes fell to the ground. I looked off to the side to hide disappointment, to act normal. I wasn’t sure why his vagueness dissatisfied me so, but a strong pang of jealousy overtook me.

He noticed my reaction, so he said, Are you married?

His question broke me from my trance. I answered, No. Never. I paused. I’m not against it. It just… never happened.

Hard to believe. His eyes revealed a flash of lust.

He assessed me. I bit my bottom lip and my eyes drifted into space like Moxie. I became conscious of her tick so I tried to break it. I looked at him again and whispered, Why?

Because you’re a charming woman. I’m sure you have many suitors.

No, not too many. I rub people the wrong way.

Again, hard to believe. Why would you say that?

You don’t know me.

I’d like to if you’d permit me.

I’m a complicated person. Ruin has taken my whole life and I’m done with it. I like creation more. Some people can’t deal with me and my past is—

Before I could answer, Moxie, Jay Em, and the others returned from the bar with drinks.

I blurted, Okay, Mr. Gamble. What is it you do… for a living, I mean?

He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. I won, and he knew it. He laughed. Ha-ha. Again, just Gamble is fine. I don’t want you to be formal with me. Never. His eyes revealed something. I have money in certain ventures. I’ll ride Prohibition’s spoils until I get my kicks.

He said it like his money came from a dirty place. Therefore, he was a businessman who smuggled liquor from countries such as Canada, or he was something more nefarious. In my head, I guessed smuggler. They offered the booze to restaurants who would pay them to stock their menus. It was a lucrative business; everyone knew. Later, these smugglers became known as bootleggers or rum-runners.

Instead of answering with smuggler, Gamble surprised me with, I import items from the Orient, certain proclivities.

I eyed him more intensely. He caught my appraisal and said, It’s rather boring. I import Chinese lamps. Gamble looked embarrassed but a perplexing expression crossed his features so I imagined more to that story. Our conversation reached its conclusion. I didn’t want to push, so I dropped it.

After a few minutes of chit-chat, we sipped our drinks. The band started playing Breezin’ Along made famous by the Seattle Harmony Kings. The song made Jay Em whisper into Moxie’s ear, he gave her a ticket, and then they glided onto the dance floor. A few drinkers in the place eyed them with suspicion. A white woman dancing with a colored man was unheard of in that time in Detroit.

Gamble looked to me and said, I’m not much of a dancer, but would you do me the honor?

Well Mr. Gamble, I’m not a typical lady on a night out. I wanna be straightforward. Marie Scott pays me to dance with fellas like you.

Gamble looked confused but said, So?

I shrugged. He presented a ticket.

He added, That’s what I want to do, so where’s the problem?

My occupation felt heavy. I wished I had met him under different circumstances. He ignored my sullen pout, grabbed my hand, and led me to the dance floor.

The two of us boogied the Fox-Trot, an outdated dance. I preferred the Charleston or Shimmy, but Gamble didn’t seem to know those. After a time, we grew tired of dancing. He and I retreated to a table in the corner as Moxie and Jay Em continued to jig.

Gamble ordered us two more drinks. Marie brought the libations. Then, we sat in silence, sipping our cocktails as we watched our friends dance.

After several minutes, he broke the stillness with, Dominique, what’s the worst thing about this job?

I glanced at Moxie and Jay Em dancing. Sometimes, I hate it but it pays the bills. I made dresses in a factory once but it doesn’t pay enough for the work.

Why do you hate dancing? Do you have to put on airs?

I mulled over his question for a moment and said, When men ask me to smile it infuriates me. I’m not a trained animal. Yeah, I’ll dance with them. That’s my job, but I don’t have to smile while doing it. A smile is precious. Meant for special moments with special people. Liars smile on command.

He shrugged and said, Yeah, I can imagine that would seem disingenuous.

I changed the subject. Do you have any bad habits?

I drink too much. Some other things. You?

I wanna follow through but I always run. I noticed a gold ring on his marriage finger. I tried not to stare at it, but I couldn’t resist. The band had an inset cross with a rose carved in the center with beams of shining lines spoking out and the letters F.R.C. under the crucifix. It didn’t look like a wedding ring.

Besides your sister and mother, do you have any other family? I said taking my attention away from the ring.

I spend a lot of time away from family because of my studies and business, but my mother and sister are the center of my life. I have a few friends. I’m possessive of my loved ones. He looked me in the eye and I saw that lust again. He added, Do you have any family?

I didn’t answer and looked away. He noticed my discomfort, so he dropped it. Instead, he asked me a question I wasn’t expecting.

Dominique, have you ever heard of magic?

I frowned. I wasn’t sure what he meant. Thinking a moment, I replied, Do you mean like that fella Houdini?

No, real magic not stage magic.

I laughed and answered, Bloody hell, you must think me a fool, Mr. Gamble. What do you take me for?

You’re anything but a fool. I assure you.

I frowned, but his comment pleased me. I hate when men think I’m below them.

He said, "I don’t hear Americans say bloody hell much. Where did you pick that up?"

England. And what’s this about real magic? What on earth do you mean?

A lackadaisical expression passed over his features as he said, The Lifeblood of the Universe, the Universal Solvent, the Great Mystery. The force that pushes us into the unknown. His words made me think they held great importance, like clues in a mystery.

A similar expression crept over my face as I listened to his grandiose language. I waited for him to finish and then said, You’re talking in riddles.

No, not likely. I would never do that. I’m a direct man.

My voice lowered. "Then I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell