Chapter 3: Raids and Religion I was still shaking from performing. I did a pretty good job, and all the girls were helpful to me in running the numbers and calming my nerves. I was introduced as the newest and nicest girl, "Lucky," which made the other dancers giggle. At around 2or so in the morning, Texas signaled the band to play, "The Prisoner's Song." The entire club, save my green self, seemed to understand this sign. "What's going on, Harry?" I asked, bewildered by the sudden roar of noise makers that Texas handed out to all patrons. "Grab your coat, kid. It's a raid," Harry replied. I did as I was told and threw a borrowed fur over my costume. On February 16th, 1927, after being in New York for less than 48 hours, performing as a Texas Guinan show girl, and drinking my first rye whiskey, I was being ushered into a taxi by Louie. The raid wasn't quite as flamboyant as I had imagined, but Texas made sure patrons got a show out of it. We all sang "The Prisoner's Song" at the top of our lungs and headed down to the West 47th Street police station. The streets were filled with patrons, and as soon as word spread to other speakeasies and clubs, taxi after taxi maneuvered their way along the crowded streets to deposit club-goers among the pulsing mob. Above the cacophony of laughing, shouting, and noise makers I could hear Texas' voice, steady, boisterous, and cutting through the noise like a razor, singing "The Prisoner's Song" over and over again. She managed to have millions of renditions of the song, each of which put the mob of patrons wandering the streets into a crazier frenzy. In the morning, Texas was released. She treated the remaining patrons, myself, Louie, Harry, Kitty and the other girls, and the officers and workers at the police station to a sumptuous breakfast ordered from the Waldorf. This was the first time I ate caviar and I loved the sensation of soft, salty bubbles exploding in my mouth. I fell asleep in the back of the taxi nestled between Louie and Texas. I woke up the next night to Texas shaking me awake. "I know, I know, it's the crack of dawn, Lucky, but duty calls," Texas said passing me a cup of coffee. "What time is it?" I asked, blinking awake. "It's 9 pm. I know, an ungodly hour. I'm gonna make sure they didn't padlock the joint. Get ready to go on tonight." The buzz of the raid made the club even more crowded than the night before. Around 3 in the morning, a plain looking woman came in, which was out of character from the other women with furs draped over their shoulders and their arms and earlobes sparkling with diamonds. She wore a simple, shapeless white gown that ended rather unceremoniously below her calves and a wool cloak that she tightly clutched closed with gloved hands. Texas rushed over to her, shook her hand, and treated her with even more cache than the glamorous film stars that she worked with in Hollywood that I heard visited the club on occasion. "Who is that?" I asked Harry. I had learned that Harry was not a man of words, so I reserved my inquiries to only pressing questions. He shrugged and continued wiping a glass clean with a towel that was always tossed over his left shoulder. Texas waved one of the girls off the dance floor that was doing a hula number and shushed the crowd. The din died down. Texas introduced the woman as a "great little girl from the Golden West, a wonderful, brave woman" who was going to say a few things. The rather plain woman stepped into the middle of the tiny dance floor and told us all: "Stop before it is too late! Behind all these beautiful clothes, behind those good times, in the midst of your lovely buildings and shops and pleasures, there is another life. There is something on the other side. With all your getting and playing and good times, don't forget you have a Lord. Take Him into your hearts!" The audience loved it. They shouted, clapped, rattled their noise makers, and the band added to the noise. "Let's give the little lady from the Golden West a hand!" shouted Texas and the applause increased. The woman raised her hands in the air to silence the crowd. "You are all invited to the Chapel of Glad Tidings tomorrow morning to join in the cleansing of our souls," she said. "That'll be a gas!" shouted Texas. "We'll be there. I'll bring the girls. And all you suckers better be there!" The patrons responded with raised cups and hoots. With that, the woman swiveled around abruptly on her left heel and headed out the door. The next day, Texas, I, and a few of the girls headed over to hear the woman, who I later learned was Aimee McPherson, preach. Texas lent me her silver fox fur that she wore the first day I arrived in New York. We sat directly in front of the pulpit, our fur coats padding the hard wood benches. Texas hooped and hollered, just like she did at the clubs. After the sermon, she shook Aimee's hand as reporters clicked photographs of the unseeming duo. "I don't suppose you know any hymns," Aimee asked, reminding Texas that the only way to heaven was through studying the word of the lord. "I know plenty of hims," Texas responded in a characteristic play-on-words. Then Texas shocked us all by bursting into a classical hymn. Us girls and the entire congregation joined in. "Come on, my chicks, let's get on to the club" Texas shouted over the singing and we stumbled onto the streets, singing and clapping, where a taxi whisked us away.