Georges chuckled. “Don’t mind the dog. I found her in the streets—a little bastard like me. I suspect she’s had a rough past.”
“What’s her name?” asked Anna.
“Monkey.” Georges came and sat beside Anna. She scooted away from him. He smiled resignedly. “My mother was a French dancer. Your father kept her in Paris. Kept us. I’m the first crop. You are the second crop.”
“What’s 436 times 645?” asked Anna.
Georges eyes flitted to the ceiling. “281,220.” He knit his brow. “Why?”
“What’s the capital of Uruguay?”
“Montevideo.”
“What has green hair, a round red head, and a long thin white beard?”
“Perhaps a radish?”
“How old are you?” said Anna.
“That one is easy. Twenty-seven.” He lifted his brows hopefully. “Did I pass?”
“It doesn’t mean he’s your brother,” said Joe.
But Georges had passed this one test. He seemed smart enough to be a Blanc, though Anna wasn’t ready to admit it out loud.
Georges continued in a calming voice. “Our father used to keep my mother in Paris. When he moved to California, he brought her with him. We lived at the Fremont Hotel just down the hill from your house half the year. Half here, half in Paris. He visited three, four times a week. Then, I went to boarding school in France when I was eight. I’ve been back and forth ever since. Last year, I moved here permanently.”
Anna took a long, deep, quivering breath and wondered if she knew anything at all about the world. This hard, fast line between the good people and the bad, the decent and the indecent, was leaving very little space for people on the good side. Anna wondered whether, in the end, anyone would remain on the right side of the line. She certainly didn’t plan to. She planned to do wrong, beautiful things with Joe.
“Are you upset?” Georges asked.
“Did my father love your mother?”
“Of course. But she was a dancer.”
“What about my mother?”
“I . . . I’m sure he did.”
“She died when I was very young.”
“I know.”
“Did my mother know? It must have hurt her.” Anna felt pain on her dead mother’s behalf, though she was merely a fuzzy memory, like a photograph out of focus.
“I don’t know. My mother knew, obviously. Having a mistress wasn’t the sin. It was his marriage. But I can’t regret it. Father’s not the faithful type. And it gave me you.”
“So, you knew about me? You always knew?”
Georges hesitated. “Not always, but for a long time.”
Joe strode over. “Don’t take this to heart, Anna. Not until we know for certain.” His eyes fixed on Georges’s diamond cufflinks. “What sort of business are you in, Georges?”
“Banking. It’s the family business. Right Anna? You should know that, Detective.”
“Should I?” said Joe.
Anna shook her head. “No Georges, our family bank went bust.”
“Father isn’t stupid. He’s quite ingenious really. He saw the end coming and divested, transferring his assets to me. He may be reduced in circumstances, but I’m not. And I have other ventures, too.”
“And you give him money?” said Anna.
“It’s his money, I’m just sheltering it for him.”
“It’s not his legally. Legally you could take the money and run away to South America.”
“Anna, he’s my father.”
“Well, he’s not my father. Not anymore. He won’t speak to me. He claims he never had a daughter, even though everyone knows he did. He gave me nothing. Not that I want anything from him. I don’t.”
“Anna, you don’t need him to give you money. In my mind, what he’s given me is half yours. Claim it.”
“Call your father, Anna,” said Joe. “Before this goes any further.”
Georges strolled into the hall and plucked up a telephone from a table. “Call the hello girl.” He handed the thing to Anna.
She met Joe’s eyes as she spoke into the receiver. “Hello, Central. Connect me to the Blanc residence please. 64242.”
The hello girl connected Anna and the phone rang. An unfamiliar voice answered—a new parlor maid perhaps. “Good evening, Blanc residence.”
“Hello. This is Miss Anna. Is my father there? I wish to speak with him.”
The parlor maid hesitated and then sighed. “No, I’m sorry.” She sounded very sorry indeed.
“You’re not just saying ‘no’ because he won’t speak to me, are you? Because I’m sure he’d want to if he knew what I know. It really is important. I’m . . . um. . . . dying—”
“I’m sorry Miss Anna. He’s out.” The line went dead.
Anna melted like a candle in the sun. He was home. She just knew it. She glanced at Joe, who seemed unnaturally interested in his shoes. He knew it too.
Ending an uncomfortable silence, Georges said, “We’ll call tomorrow. He’s probably at his club. In the meantime, can’t we celebrate? Get to know each other a little? I have a very good bottle of scotch.”
“I don’t think Joe would—”
“I’ll drink your scotch,” said Joe. It sounded like a challenge. He gestured to a cedar humidor. “And, I could use a cigar.”
Anna frowned at Joe’s deliberate rudeness.
Georges filled a crystal glass for Joe and one for Anna. “I could use a cigar, too, but I don’t smoke in front of ladies.”
“Oh, that’s taffy,” said Anna.
“Very well.” Georges offered the cedar box to Joe, who helped himself. Joe used a cigar cutter and lighter that rested on the side table. He took a deep inhale, then sent smoke streaming through his teeth. “Good cigar.”
“The best you’ve ever had, I’m sure.”
Rude, but true, thought Anna. Joe only smirked.
The bell rang. It was the porter with a cold steak. Georges tipped him and put the steak over his swollen eye.
Anna took the cigar from Joe’s fingers and placed it between her own lips. She leaned back and began blowing smoke rings. They floated up and were lost in a splendid chandelier.
Georges grinned and offered Anna the humidor. “Have your own, Anna. No, have the whole box. They’ve come all the way from Cuba, just for you. They are the best, and you deserve the best.” He looked skeptically at Joe and lit up.
“You don’t mind if I smoke? Because when Father heard I had a cigarette, there was a big hoo ha.”
“No hoo ha. You do as you like. You are a grown woman.”
Anna smiled incredulously. Dare she even think it? If she did have a brother. She would want him to be like Georges.
The scotch was very good, indeed, and Anna had another. And another. She kept up with the men, who seemed engaged in some manly ritual, glaring at each other, tossing back scotch. The air was pungent with cigar smoke.
Georges asked Anna questions about her police work and listened intently as she answered them at length. Joe interjected with sordid tales of what jail was like and the penalties for running cons. Georges spoke of relatives in Paris that Anna had never met—people from a dream.
Georges’s steak had made its way to the floor. The little dog hopped off the chair and dragged the meat off into a bedroom.
Anna’s face felt hot, and her head began to swim like a disoriented goldfish. She dropped her cigar on the Persian carpet.
Georges got up for another bottle. Anna, whose glass was empty, tilted her head back to watch his progress. He looked like a Blanc, despite his shiner, with long lashes, bright gray eyes, and thick, wavy hair. She smiled up at Georges, who leaned over and kissed her forehead on his way back to his chair.
“Don’t touch her!” Joe sprang inelegantly to his feet, knocking over an embroidered footstool. He charged over to Georges, his fists tight.
Georges slurred, “You don’t mind, do you Anna?”
Anna said. “Don’t sock him again, Joe darli
ng. If he’s my brother, I don’t see why he can’t kiss my forehead.”
Joe said, “Who else would know if he’s your brother, Anna?” His eyes were glassy from liquor.
Anna pulled fuzzy, scotch-soaked thoughts from her head. “Edgar Wright? They were in business when the bank was failing, when father was supposedly shoveling money to Georges. And borrowing money from Edgar.”
Edgar had been Anna’s fiancé, but her undercover police work had come between them—especially her undercover work with Joe.
Joe said, “He’s not going to talk to either one of us.”
“I think he would,” said Anna. “Edgar is very decent. And he’s in LA. I saw it in the paper.”
“You stabbed him.”
“It was an accident.” Anna picked up the receiver and spoke. “Hello, Central. Get me Edgar Wright, please. 31026. Yes, I know it’s very late, thank you. This is an emergency.”
Edgar’s butler answered and soon her groggy ex-fiancé was on the line. Anna felt suddenly shy. She hadn’t spoken with Edgar since she’d burned down his farmhouse. “Hello. Edgar, dear? Are you well?”
Anna threw a glance to Joe to see how he would take this familiarity. His face screwed up.
“Yes, Edgar. You’re not dreaming. It’s me, Anna. I’m sorry about everything. So, so sorry. Don’t hang up. It’s important. Wait. Please. I need to know. Do I have a brother? Do you know a Georges Devereaux?”
Anna closed her eyes and let the telephone rest on her chest while she listened. She hooked the receiver back in its stand.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Joe said.
“Edgar seems fine, a little cranky. He hung up on me, but . . . I have a bastard brother.” She turned to Georges and stared wondrously. “Georges Devereaux.” Anna took both Georges’s hands in her own, her eyes welling with inebriate tears. “I always wanted a brother.”
He brought her hands to his lips, “Ma petite soeur.”
Joe looked displeased. “It’s getting late. We have to be at the station early.”
Anna gazed up at Georges. “Father still won’t speak to me.”
“I’ll work on him.” He smiled, linked his arm through hers, and escorted her unsteadily toward the door. At the threshold, he turned her to face him, both hands on her shoulders. “You will always have me, Anna. I promise.”
“And you will always have me,” she said, effusively, her eyes tearing up.
Georges extended his hand to Joe. “It was nice to meet you, Detective Singer.” As they shook, Georges leaned in close and whispered in Joe’s ear, slurring his words. “If you ever hurt her, you will suffer. Believe me.”
Joe whispered back, struggling to get the words out. “And if you turn out to be a fraud, I’ll make sure you do time.”
Anna frowned at her men. It was rude to whisper. She could hear them anyway. But they were both drunk. So was Anna.
When the door closed, Joe took Anna’s arm and held it as they negotiated the hallway toward the fancy swirls of the wrought iron elevator, neither steady on their feet.
“It’s late, but I don’t think I’ll sleep. My mind is racing. What if someone sees us leaving the hotel together? I should have worn a disguise—a false nose or something.”
Joe lifted Anna’s silk cape from her shoulders and draped it over her head. “There.”
She giggled and readjusted the cape so she looked like the Virgin Mary.
The boy who ran the elevator paid them no mind as they rattled to the first floor. He was struggling to keep his eyes open. Anna kept her head down and thought about Georges. She couldn’t stop smiling.
When they stepped out of the elevator, Anna spied a most unwelcome sight. On the sidewalk stood Mr. Tilly, one horrid newspaper reporter who was always sure to report the truth on Anna when it was most unflattering. And when the truth was flattering, he’d distort it. Luckily, he faced the other direction. She’d know the back of that ginger head anywhere. Something—no doubt a story—had kept him out after dark. She just hoped that story wasn’t her. It could cost her a job. Then she’d have to move in with Joe.
Or maybe Georges because she wouldn’t have to get married and he had much better furniture.
But Tilly stalked all kinds of people, hoping to uncover a scandal. She had no reason to think he stalked her tonight. Sometimes he just lurked outside hotels and brothels, gambling joints and saloons. Also, Tilly hadn’t seen her. Still, Anna quickened her step, pulling Joe along until they were well around the corner. “Georges is awfully proper for a bastard.”
“He’s so proper because he is a bastard. He has something to prove. You came with a pedigree.”
“That’s right. I don’t have to try.” Anna lifted her chin and exaggerated her ladylike walk. She stumbled.
“I’ll escort you home.”
“Aren’t you going to sleep with me?”
Joe’s face assumed a pained expression. “Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re drunk.”
“No, I’m not. The cold air has sobered me up.”
“And because if I’m going to make love to you, I want you to myself. And right now, your mind’s on Georges Devereaux.”
“Of course it is. He’s my brother.” Anna said this with a silly grin. “I know you don’t like him, but I like having a brother, Joe. I do.” She squeezed his arm. “You’ll grow to tolerate him. Maybe even love him, because he’ll be your brother, too. Wouldn’t it be delicious if we could all three hunt criminals together?”
“I don’t dislike him, Anna. Maybe a little, but not if he’s nice to you. I’m reserving judgment. I just don’t trust him.”
“How can he prove to you he’s the genuine thing? He resembles my father. He has pictures of my father. He’s smart and looks like a Blanc. Edgar says he’s my brother.”
“Edgar could be toying with you.”
“No. Edgar would never. He’s too good. Must you see Georges’s birth certificate?”
“No, because he’s rich and those things can be bought. Plus, it’s going to be in French. I’ll believe it when I hear it from your father’s lips.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen. If he doesn’t speak to me, he’s not going to speak to you. He blames you for my career as a police matron, which he blames for my break with Edgar, which he blames for the bank failure. He would hate you if he believed you worthy of his notice. If he knew we were lovers . . . Oh my. I can’t think of it.”
“My pop’s not crazy about you, either.”
“And I don’t like him.”
“This conversation isn’t helping.”
“No, it isn’t. Are you mad at me?” asked Anna.
“A little.”
They walked in unsteady silence from lamppost to lamppost until they reached the side of Anna’s apartment building. A two-story advertisement for an undertaker decorated the brick wall. She pulled Joe to a stop in the shadows beneath the fire escape. She heard her landlord snort in his sleep through an open window. “Don’t go to bed angry, my love. Go to bed with me.” She gave Joe an eighty-proof kiss, missing her mark, catching the corner of his mouth with her sweet, scotched lips.
Joe kissed her back. Anna felt her head spinning, her knees weakening, her mind drifting. She fell asleep standing, with her lips pressed against Joe Singer.
CHAPTER 11
The next morning, Anna had a headache, a vague memory of an awkward conversation with Edgar Wright, and no memory of how she got home. Still, she sang a little song in her head—one she wrote herself—about a desolate girl, alone in the world, who finally found her long lost brother. He would remember her birthday, take her side in any fight, celebrate her victories, and comfort her in dark times. They could laugh about their father and cry about him, too.
The song was absolutely true.
Two slightly disreputable Blancs, when added together, would surely equal one respectable Blanc. People might invite her to parties again. Once she and Joe were mar
ried, if misfortune befell her and she were to have children, Georges could open his wallet and provide her with an army of nannies. This would allow her to continue work as a police matron.
“Georges Devereaux,” she said out loud to the mice she heard scurrying about her cupboard. She loved saying his name. She shivered with the joy of it. With the joy of having a brother, of not being alone in the world, and of having a future.
Of course, there was Joe and he counted immensely. But he wasn’t blood. He might not still love her if she got old or grew carbuncles, though she would love him always. She would always want to kiss him, even if crazy old man hairs grew out of his ears. However, she would insist that he pluck them.
Anna took a double dose of headache powder and walked to the station. She passed Joe on the winding stairs as he carried a female patient up to the women’s department of the receiving hospital accompanied by the surgeon, Doctor Feldheim, who was as old as the hills. The lady, too, looked a thousand years old, but perhaps the wrinkles were mere fruits of hard living. Anna had seen young female inmates robbed by life of their beauty and their teeth. The patient thrashed and dripped sweat, eyes protruding like a terrified insect.
Joe said, “Poor dear’s got delirium tremors. Who knows what she’s seeing.” He struggled to hold her, so the doctor grabbed her feet. Anna grabbed her hand and squeezed to reassure her. The lady’s hand slipped loose and smacked Anna on the cheek. She felt heat flooding the spot and her head began to throb. Anna stopped trying to help.
It was a ridiculous way to transport patients. They should have put in an elevator or had the beds on the first floor. But no one had asked Anna’s advice when designing Central Station. She could have told them that this would be a problem, though she hadn’t been born at the time.
Anna’s eyes followed Joe, the surgeon, and the thrashing old lady into the women’s department of the receiving hospital. Two beds, Matron Clemens, and the men crowded the small room. It smelled of sickness and medicine. Anna stood outside the door pretending not to wait for Joe. He came out alone and winked at her. She fell in beside him on his way down the stairs. He had dark circles beneath his beautiful eyes.
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