Queen of the Roller Derby

I said that she was. "Lucky for her that she didn't show," someone said, "Or she'd be cooling her heels in here with the rest of us."

That's when all the connections came together in my head. Vicky had been palling around with Betsy. Then, the night she wants to meet at the Ruby Room, she skips out and the cops show up. I tried to put that notion out of my head, but all night, as we tried to sleep curled on the floor, or leaning against the wall, it kept creeping back.

In the morning, they lined us up to transport us to the courthouse. When we were in the paddy wagon, one of the hookers said, "By the way, ladies, I do accept female clients." Nobody seemed inclined to take her up on it.

We arrived at the courthouse, where they took us into a waiting room. It was nearly full, but at least there were enough benches for everyone to sit. They gave us each a blue card with a number on it. I asked what it was, someone said it was our docket number. Mine was 37.

Every few minutes the door would open and someone's name would be called. At first I thought they were going in to the courtroom, but they kept coming back. I asked Barb what was going on.

"Lawyering up," she said.

I was surprised when they called my name.

"You're Boyd?" the bailiff asked as I stepped into the hallway.

"Yes."

"Who had Boyd?" he called out.

A portly bald man stepped forward. "She's mine," he said, looking down at a stack of papers in his hand.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I'm your attorney. My name is Benjamin Levine."

"Did Myra call you?"

He looked down at his paapers again. "Miss Myra O'Connor, yes."

He asked me a lot of questions; about my background, what I was doing in New York, if I had been to the Ruby Room before, if I knew any of the other people who had been arrested. I gave him straight answers.

He seemed pretty satisfied. "We'll see what he can do," he said, "Go back into the holding room until they call your number."

I sat in there for almost two hours. For most of that time I was drifting in and out of sleep, until a sharp voice called my name. I stood up and a bailiff led me into the courtroom.

I don't think they have a retirement age for judges. If they did, the one I saw would have been long gone. He wore Coke bottle glasses that made him look like an owl.

Levine guided me behind the defendants table and we stood there while the court clerk called out my name and case number. The prosecutor read off the charges and then Judge Hoot Owl asked me if I wanted to enter a plea.

Before I could get a word out, Levine said, "Not guilty," then added, "Your honor, if I may. Miss Boyd was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. She's new to our city, an innocent Midwestern girl who was only in the establishment because she accepted an invitation from a coworker to meet her there. She is gainfully employed and has no history of any criminal record either here or in her home state of Michigan. We ask the court to dismiss the charges against this young lady."

The judge squinted at me, then at the prosecutor. "What say you, Mr. Van Holland?" he asked.

"Your Honor, this lawful police raid on an illegal establishment resulted in what I think could fairly be called a riot. Several police officers were injured..."

The judge interrupted him, pointing at me. "Mr. Van Holland, are you alleging that this girl injured a police officer?"

Before Van Holland could answer, he turned to me. "Miss Boyd, did you injure a police officer?'

"No, your honor. All I did was try to get out of there. I left the building and they arrested me outside."

"Your honor," Van Holland said, "If I may..."

The judge banged his gavel. "Miss Boyd," he said, "Go home. Stay out of trouble. And keep away from women with unusual habits. And you, Mr. Van Holland, stop wasting the court's time."

For exactly one minute I felt a sense of great relief. I thanked attorney Levine. "Don't mention it," he said, "That's what I get paid for."

But then I turned to leave and my spirits sank at once. Coach Holtzman was sitting in the back row of the courthouse, staring at me with his arms crossed over his chest.

He stood as I approached him. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"I guess so."

"Alright, let's go." He pushed the door open for me. I felt like my father was taking me to my room for a spanking. He didn't speak again as we left the courthouse and walked several blocks to his car.

We got in, he sat behind the wheel, but then he just stared into the distance.

I waited a few minutes, then said, "You're kicking me off the team, aren't you?"

"It's not my decision, Kitty. It's my partners."

"It's not fair. I didn't do anything wrong. All I was doing was sitting there having a beer."

"It's not even legal for you to be in a bar, Kitty."

"But that's not why I'm off the team."

"No. It's not."

"It's the kind of bar it is."

He rubbed his eyes like he was tired. "Of course, it is."

"You can't tell me that's fair."

"Life isn't fair."

"Because the people who could make it fair don't want to."

Right before the cops had busted into the Ruby Room, Barb had told me to stop feeling sorry for myself. She'd been right. I had no more use for self pity. It was time to get mad.

We drove to the Brewery in silence. As Holtzman pulled into the parking lot, he said, "Kitty, I hope you know I don't have issues with you personally, or what you do..."

I wasn't interested in anything he had to say. If he insisted on keeping me on the team, his partners would have had to go along with him. I got out of the car, slamming the door behind me.

It seemed like time froze when I strode inside. Everyone stopped in place. Everyone, that is, except Betsy, who was skating laps, and kept going. No one said a word as I crossed to the locker room.

I opened my locker and took out the few items I had left there. Just a sweatshirt, a couple of pairs of socks, a few candy bars. I didn't need any of it. But I wasn't leaving the team without showing my face first.

I closed the locker and saw Vicky standing in the doorway. She was crying.

I stared at her for a minute, then said, "Why?"

She sniffled. "Kitty, they were going to snitch on all of us."

I didn't have to ask who "they" were. "They wouldn't have fired all of us if we had stuck together," I said.

My shoulder brushed hers as I walked past her.

"I'm sorry, Kitty," she sobbed.

When I came out of the locker room, I saw Ruth and Doris. There was fear in their eyes. I looked away. They didn't have any reason to be afraid of me.

Betsy was still skating, as if my exit was not even something worth her notice. But as I opened the door to leave, Tilly called out, "Maybe you can get a job at the Ford factory."

I walked out and didn't look back. I had never wanted to skate away from somewhere so badly in my life. I wanted to skate so bad that my legs itched. But I didn't have my skates. They were all the way across town in my apartment. The apartment they were certainly going to kick me out of as well.

I walked to the 23rd Street subway station. There was a row of phone booths on the platform. I had used the last of my change to buy my token, but I had a couple of dollars in my pocket. I bought a copy of the Post from the news stand, then took the change to a booth.

The station clock read 12:52. Myra might be at lunch, but if she was I could leave a message with the receptionist. I dialed the operator and asked her to put me through to A-1 Manufacturing.

"Please deposit twenty five cents," she said. I dropped a quarter in the slot. As soon as the phone rang on the other end, the receptionist answered. It sounded like the lady in the cat's eyes glasses. "One of Myra's girls," she had called me on that first day.

"I'd like to speak to Myra O'Connor, please."

"Who shall I say is calling?'

"Tell her it's Kitty."

"Oh," she said, dismissively. It was definitely Cat's Eyes.

There was a moment of silence, then I heard Myra's voice.

"Kitty! How are you? What's going on?"

"It's all okay," I told her, "But can you call me back? I don't have much change."

"Of course."

I gave her the number, then hung up. She called back in a matter of seconds.

"That lawyer was good," I said, "He convinced the judge that I was just some innocent virgin from the Midwest."

"Well, you are, aren't you?"

"I guess so. But the bad news is, the Gotham Gals kicked me off the team."

"Oh, honey, I am so sorry."

"It was Betsy who called the cops. She got a bunch of women beat up and arrested, just because I was getting more attention than her."

"So, are you coming home?"

I hesitated before answering her. "Not yet."

I could hear the frustration in her voice when she said, "Kitty, there is nothing there for you now. Come home."

"I can't."

"Why not."

"I'm not finished here."

CHAPTER NINE

The next morning, I skated across town to Pier 46 and bought a ticket on the Hoboken ferry.

As the boat neared the New Jersey shore, I thought that maybe I ought to get off and keep skating west. How long would it take me to get to Detroit?

But that was just a fantasy. I had unfinished business to deal with before I went home.

There was a line of taxis at the Jersey dock. I asked a cabbie for directions. He wasn't really clear, and I made one or two wrong turns, but eventually I found my destination.

I saw a billboard on the roof, a bright red cartoon woman with horns and a pointy tail, wearing a pair of roller skates. In big red letters it read "Home of the Devil Dolls."

It was on top of a big brick building. The front door was locked. I banged on it and a tiny old lady answered the door. She had a cigarette hanging from her lip that was about two thirds ash. I couldn't help staring at it, wondering how the ash didn't fall.

"What do you want?" she asked, not sounding like she cared.

"I'd like to talk to the boss."

"Why would he want to talk to you?"

"Tell him it's Kitty Boyd."

She shrugged and turned her back to me. She went into a glass windowed office on the left. The blinds were closed, I couldn't see inside. There was another office like it on the right. But what got my attention were the double doors ahead of me. I could hear a familiar sound coming from behind them. Wheels on wood.

The old lady came out of the office. "We got enough skaters," she said.

"Not like me, you don't. Tell him it's Kitty the Comet."

I heard a grumbly voice from inside the office. She leaned back and looked in, then, without even glancing at me, crossed the hallway, saying, "Mr. Ferlito will see you now."

The guy behind the desk was huge, over 6 feet tall and probably topping out at three hundred pounds or more.

"Take a load off your wheels," he said.

I sat down. He looked at me as if he was wondering if I would taste good deep-fried.

"So the Gals give you the old heave ho, did they?" He picked up a paper cup of coffee and slurped loudly. I was surprised that he already knew, and wondered how much he had heard.

"Yeah, they did."

"Word is, they terminated your contract on the morals clause because they found out you was queer."

I stared at him, hoping I looked like I didn't give a shit what he thought. "That's about the size of it," I said.

"For Chrissake, half the fuckin' broads in this league munch on the carpet. Personally, I think that's a good thing. Fewer husbands and boyfriends coming around causing trouble. But there had to be more to it than that." He squinted like he was either thinking hard or needed to crap.

"Betsy," he said. He clearly wasn't as dumb as he looked. "She didn't like you showing her up. So you're looking for another gig."

"Yeah," I said, "And you're looking to beat New York."

He took another slurp and said, "I can offer you a standard contract for the rest of the season."

"No, you can pay me what New York was paying me."

"I already got a pretty high payroll."

I stood up. "All right then, I'll just go to Detroit."

"What the fuck is in Detroit?"

"That's where I left my carpet."

"Maybe I can do better."

I had a copy my contract in my back pocket. I handed it to him.

He looked it over and said "I got no apartment for you, but we got what the girls call the bunkhouse upstairs. You can stay there."

He pushed himself up from his chair. "Follow me," he said.

We crossed the hall to the old woman's office.

"Gladys," he told her as he dropped my contract on her desk, "Copy this, but leave off that bullshit about providing a residence."

She glanced over the contract, then looked at me like she suspected me of rifling through her purse.

"You sure, Leo?" she asked.

"Nope, but do it anyway."

He led me into the main room of the building. "This used to be a fire house," he told me, "This is where they parked the engines."

The Devil Dolls were in the middle of a scrimmage. There was a raised platform next to the track. A skinny guy with a David Niven mustache stood on it, hollering instructions to the skaters through a bullhorn. I recognized him as the New Jersey coach.

"Doyle!" Ferlito barked.

The skinny guy jumped like someone had poked him with a stick, then scurried down the ladder.

"This is Kitty Boyd," Ferlito said, jerking his thumb at me, "She's with us now."

Doyle's eyes grew wide. "You aren't with the Gotham Gals anymore?" he asked.

"Nope, not anymore," I said.

As he turned away, Tony put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed hard. "Don't fuck up," he said, "I don't like wasting money."

Coach Doyle hollered into his bullhorn, calling the team to gathered around. I heard a few murmurs. They all knew who I was.

"This is Kitty Boyd," Doyle told them anyway, "She had left the Gotham Gals and she's signing on with us."

"Holy shit," someone muttered.

"Maggie," Doyle said, "Show her around, get her set up."

Maggie O'Leary was the team captain. Her red hair and freckles made me think of Myra, but I did my best to put that from my mind.

She rolled over to me while the rest of the team went back to the track and Doyle climbed up to his perch.

"Wow," she said, "Kitty Comet. If you don't mind me bringing it up, we heard a rumor about you getting fired from New York..."

The biggest city in the world was still just a small town when it came to gossip. Word spread fast.

"Yeah, I got arrested for being at a place called the Ruby Room."

"Yeah, I know about that place. A few of our girls go there. But, still, a couple of years ago they had this chick, she went by Dangerous Dinah. She got caught in a prostie racket. They let her play out the season. And I know for a fact that some of the girls in Philly smoke reefer. Nobody fires them."

"I guess I'm special."

She showed me the locker room, and found an empty locker I could use. We took off our skates and went upstairs.

"This is where the firemen lived," Maggie said. There was a lounge area, and a kitchen, at at one end, a row of bunk beds.

"Anybody staying here now?" I asked.

"Yeah, Rosie and Maria. I hope you don't mind, they are Puerto Ricans. I guess they were living in some hell hole in Newark that was so bad, this was better."

I didn't mind. I was wondering if they could cook like the women in my brownstone.

"Hey, where is the fireman's pole?" I asked.

Maggie laughed. "Leo had it taken out. Some of the girls would put on their skates upstairs, then slide down it, and he said the noise of their skates hitting the floor drove him nuts. Can't say as I blame him. It sounded like a truck hitting a wall."

"How is he to work for?"

"His bark is worse than his bite. He probably won't try to ask you for a blowjob because you're...you know...but if he does, just tell him no. If he bothers you again, don't go to Doyle, come to me. I'm the captain, I look out for my team."

As we went back down the stairs, she said, "I don't think any of the girls will give you any trouble, but just so you know, we all hate the Gotham Gals with a passion."

"Not as much as I do," I told her.

"Then you are really going to fit in."

I sat in the stands and watched the practice for the rest of the afternoon. The blockers were really good, especially Maggie and another big girl, Arlene Abramowitz. With her dark hair and olive complexion, she looked nothing like Maggie, but the team billed them as "The Slammin' Sisters." I remembered them banging the hell out of me when the Gals had played the Dolls. I was glad to have them on my side.

I was worried that, like with the Gals, there would be some resentment about me coming in and taking someone else's spot. When the practice ended, I went into the locker room, and put the issue right on the table.

"Listen," I said, "I don't want anyone to feel bad about me joining the team, so if someone has a problem, maybe we can talk about it right now."

It turned out that nobody did. None of them really wanted to be jammers.

"You're everybody's target," someone said, "How do you keep them from beating the shit out of you?"

I shrugged. "Don't let them get close enough."

I practiced with the team the next couple of days, then skated my first bout with them, a home match at the Newark Civic Arena against the Hartford Hornets.

Maggie and Arlene were faster than I expected, and with their blocking, I was unstoppable. The bout was shown on a local television station, and one of the announcers said that I was the first jammer he ever saw score a hundred points in a bout.

Afterward, I called Myra to tell her all about it. She was happy for me, but she was in a sour mood, because the Comets were not doing well. I was so excited about my own good news that I barely listened to her, and after we finished the call, I felt guilty and ashamed of myself.

We went on the road, and scored easy victories in Scranton and Buffalo. The Gotham Gals had clinched first place in the East Division, and we were building a solid lead in the West.

Our biggest rival in the division was the Philadelphia Liberty Belles. They came to town with only two weeks left in the season.We needed to beat them to lock up our chance to face New York for the championship.

Maggie made that point in the locker room before the bout.

"If you want to beat New York, we have to beat these bitches first," she told the team. "So play them like they are New York."

If we could play New York like we did Philly that night, we'd be drinking champagne from the trophy cup soon. This bout was on local TV as well, and there was a reporter there from the Newark Star Ledger. The next day, when I came to practice, everyone was waving around copies of the paper.

The story was on the second page of the sports section. The headline read "The New Queen of the Roller Derby. Underneath it was a picture of me and Maggie, coming around one of the turns.

"This is really going to piss off Bitchy Bomber," Arlene said, and sure enough, two days later, in the New York Post, there was an article about the upcoming championship bout. In it, the reporter asked Betsy about me, and she said, "She may be the queen of the roller derby in Jersey, but she couldn't cut the mustard in New York."

I think I was the only one on the team that didn't get hot under the collar about that. I figured, the bigger the grin on Betsy's face, the more satisfaction I would get out of wiping it off.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It turned out, the only thing Rosie and Maria could cook was beans and rice. It wasn't bad, but most nights we ate Campbell's Soup or pizza from a place down the street called Dino's, washed down with YooHoo. But the night before the championship game, the whole team gathered in the bunkhouse for a pot luck supper.

There was ham and spaghetti with meatballs and tuna noodle casserole, and some pretty scary looking jello molds. Leo brought cannoli's from a bakery in Little Italy. I don't think I had eaten so much since I left the Budzynski's house.