Vixen

by Jillian Larkin

  Lorraine had no choice but to follow.

  She pulled over, doused the lights, and hoped Gloria hadn’t noticed her.

  Once Gloria had rolled the car out of the driveway and turned onto the street, Lorraine switched on her lights and stepped on the gas, gunning the sedan into the shadows and toward the city.

  Lorraine trailed her friend all the way through the light traffic of Lake Forest, down through the North Shore, onto the packed streets of the city. At first she hung back a few car lengths, worried that Gloria would look into the rearview mirror and see her, but Gloria was far too self-involved to do that.

  By the time Gloria nosed the Mercedes onto North Broadway Avenue, Lorraine was right on her tail, practically bumper to bumper. She toyed with the idea of stabbing her foot against the pedal and crashing into the back of the car. That would get Gloria’s attention. Gloria hadn’t just forgotten her best friend; she couldn’t even see her when she was right behind her. It made Lorraine furious.

  They passed the Wrigley Building, then the Drake Hotel at the north end of Michigan Avenue. Lorraine’s only guides were the streetlamps that brightened the black sky, and the taillights of Gloria’s car up ahead.

  Lorraine had no idea where Gloria was going. But then, lo and behold, the buildings started to look familiar. Lorraine watched as Gloria pulled up a few blocks from the Green Mill. Oh, how the plot thickens, Lorraine thought. This is unexpected.

  She watched Gloria park and hurry down the street, in perfect flapper raiment from head to toe.

  From the outside, one would never know the Green Mill even existed: It was below a dark storefront between a funeral home and a shady-looking barbershop. The building looked as if it’d been vacated years ago. There were a few men in suits outside smoking cigarettes, but otherwise the street was vacant.

  Lorraine parked in a spot around the corner from the club. She looked down at herself and grimaced. She’d been more or less ready for bed before hijacking the Duesenberg, wearing a silk negligee that she’d bought last summer in Paris—black silk with white French lace trim—that might do for a flapper dress.

  Luckily, Marguerite—stupid girl—had left Lorraine’s mother’s dry cleaning in the back of the car. Thank the Lord her mother didn’t dress like Mrs. Carmody. Lorraine climbed into the backseat and dug through it.

  Thank you, Mother, for dry-cleaning your mink stole for my benefit. Lorraine slipped the stole over her nearly bare shoulders. Parfait!, as Madame Cloutier would say. At least that would be one word Lorraine got right on the examen tomorrow.

  Her mother’s emergency stash was in the glove box, as she’d hoped—coral-pink lipstick to double as cheek rouge; Vaseline to double as hair shine. She wasn’t wearing the right brassiere, but considering the circumstances, this would have to do.

  Lorraine descended the stairs to the door of the Green Mill and found a clutch of flappers swarming around the entrance like vultures around a corpse. They loitered here, out of view from the street, so that they’d be invisible in case the police drove by. Not as if that really mattered, anyway—most of the cops were bought and paid for by the Mob.

  Lorraine hated every single one of these girls. They were all wearing actual dresses. They made her feel naked and cheap—and she was probably richer than all of them combined! She could have outdone their sparkly getups, if only Gloria hadn’t pulled this impromptu stunt. One of the girls had a beaded violet purse. Lorraine’s own purse seemed grimy in comparison.

  Insecure, Lorraine stood back in the shadows. She needed an entrance strategy before she made her move.

  A rail-thin brunette in a gray fur coat aggressively swaggered up to the door.

  The girl banged till the slot in the door slid open. The Eye surveyed her. “Well?”

  “My boyfriend’s cousin Anthony has a table in there.”

  “Anthony who?” the Eye barked.

  “My boyfriend’s last name is Wood, and he’s inside at the table already—you must have seen him, he’s tall with—”

  Even Lorraine could hear the Eye laugh. “You want me to get him for you?”

  “Oh, gee, could you?”

  “No!” The slot shut.

  Lorraine would have to resort to the oldest trick in the book: If you’ve got it, flaunt it. At least she could use what these other girls lacked. And that was skin.

  She waited till there was an opening in the crowd, then tapped gently on the door.

  The slit opened and the Eye gave her the once-over.

  She stood tall and dramatically unwrapped her mink stole, exposing the slip.

  Jackpot. The Eye blinked. “Who you here for?”

  “Myself,” she said, lowering her right shoulder so that the strap slipped off it. “Oops,” she said, catching the strap before it exposed too much.

  “Hey!” the flapper with the violet purse called out. “We were here first!”

  The Eye ignored her. “Which party sent for you?”

  “My half-birthday party.”

  The Eye looked her up and down. “You’re telling me you plan to celebrate alone, in those glad rags?”

  “If you let me inside, I won’t be alone.”

  “All right,” the Eye said. “There’s always room for a working girl.”

  Lorraine didn’t really know what he meant by that—working girl? She had a trust fund; she’d never worked a day in her life!

  But when the door opened, the other flappers yelling out in protest, she didn’t dwell on it. There was no feeling Lorraine loved more than being in. And if Gloria was going to exclude her, she’d just be left to her own devices to make sure she wasn’t left out.

  Lorraine headed straight for the bar, walking along its length until she reached the end—a prime spot to perch and spy. She took a stool, slouched against the counter, and hoped she blended in with the rest of the crowd.

  Stretching away to her left were the plush green booths typically filled by the wealthiest patrons and the owners of the club; to her right were small, high tables that people—mostly flappers—rested their drinks on while they went to cut a rug on the dance floor. And straight ahead lay that dance floor: tiny but packed with dancers, their heads bobbing and arms swinging as they did the Charleston with looks of bliss on their faces. Lorraine watched them and felt a twinge of envy. They were having fun, and she was having—

  “Miss?” It was Leif, the bartender. “I asked you what you’ll have.”

  “A martini,” she told him. “Make it dirty.”

  Past the dance floor was the stage, where the black musicians were sitting, their instruments shiny with the reflected lights. They were laughing and joking with each other.

  Nothing there. Lorraine began slowly scanning the smoky room for Gloria and locked eyes with a smoldering gentleman sitting at one of the booths opposite her.

  Let him come to me, she thought, wheeling around on her stool so that her back was to him. In about thirty seconds, he had slid into the spot next to her. Men were so predictable.

  “I couldn’t help noticing you from across the room,” he said, signaling Leif. “The usual for me, and mix something special for the doll.”

  Up close, he looked younger than he had from a distance—maybe early twenties. Lorraine was instantly drawn to his foreignness. He was so different from the prep school boys she was used to. This man had dark eyes and dark, short hair to match, almost hidden by thick black brows. His lips were thin but wide, planted around a cigar, giving him a permanent sneer—albeit a sexy one. He was a total sheik. Plus he was wearing the classic gangster getup: an impeccably tailored gray suit with a navy ascot and silver cuff links.

  “What did you notice?” The bartender had set down a pink cocktail for her. Now she had two drinks. She picked one up and sipped at it.

  “I noticed you look different than the other girls. With your raven hair and raven eyes,” he said, dabbing with his handkerchief at a drop of her cocktail that had slipped down her chin. “Like a black bird of pre
y.”

  Lorraine liked him immediately—liked the dangerous image he painted of her, and his rough finger on her chin. She didn’t really know what his banter was about, but what did it matter? She, too, could be bold; strange men could find her interesting. To hell with Marcus Eastman.

  She was about to respond when she caught sight of her target: Gloria talking to—almost touching—that black jazz pianist in a far corner of the club.

  Since when had Gloria ever not trusted Lorraine as a confidante, as an unconditional secret keeper? They told each other everything—or they had, until Gloria had gone off and gotten engaged to that stuffed shirt. And now she was living a double life sans Lorraine. Was Marcus going to pop out of the woodwork, too? None of it made any sense. Lorraine had never before felt so betrayed.

  But as she observed Gloria and Jerome, a different story suddenly became clear: the way her upper body curved in toward his; the way each one’s eyes were locked on the other’s face, as if there were nobody else in the room. Something was going on between them. Something … sexual.

  No, that was crazy. Aside from the fact that she had a highly publicized engagement, Gloria was cautious. Gloria was proper. And that musician was black.

  The man next to Lorraine nudged her, bringing her mind back to the bar. “You think I’m worth your while?”

  Lorraine had forgotten herself. She looked around, at the sweating faces of all these men and the desperate antics of the flappers, at the look of contempt from the mustachioed bartender—what was that about?—and then at her empty glasses.

  “She’ll have another,” the man said.

  “I’m sorry. I thought I saw someone I knew, talking to the pianist.” Lorraine was already feeling a bit fried.

  “You mean the club’s new torch?” He pointed at Gloria. “She’s some hick chorus girl—pretty, but right off the farm wagon. Coulda fooled me. I didn’t know they made ’em like that out in the cornfields.”

  “That girl?” Lorraine laughed. “Banana oil! She’s not from the—” She stopped herself. “Wait, where’s she from?”

  “Ohio? Or was it Pennsylvania.” He shrugged. “Beats me. But I doubt a sophisticated city girl like yourself would know her.”

  “You’re right. I wouldn’t know a girl like that.” Lorraine felt sick. Gloria was singing? She had a good voice—Glo would surely be the toast of the Chicago underground. How was that fair? Lorraine was the trailblazer, the one who championed the flapper lifestyle, the pioneer. But, as usual, Gloria got all the love.

  Wait. The mobster had just called Lorraine sophisticated. That was something, wasn’t it? Lorraine found herself oddly attracted to him. Not in the way she was attracted to Marcus. This was different. Best of all, according to this man, Gloria didn’t hold a candle to Lorraine’s “sophistication.” How about that, Glo? Lorraine wanted to shout across the club.

  Maybe, Lorraine had to admit, what made her a sometime embarrassment among the other Chicago debs—her brashness, her say-it-as-it-is attitude—made her perfect for this world of gangsters and gin, of flappers and jazz. Gloria was trying desperately to belong, but Lorraine truly did belong. Didn’t she?

  Lorraine watched as Gloria and Jerome slipped away through the curtains near the stage. Oh, there was something going on for sure. Something not on the level.

  “You gonna make a dent in that drink?” The man tapped her glass—the bartender had already refreshed it—and she saw then that his gold pinkie ring was engraved with the initials C.M.

  “How ’bout I rain-check you on that one?” She stood up from the bar and the room spun around her.

  “Hey there, you half overboard already?” He put his hand on her waist, steadying her. “You need someone to teach you how to hold your liquor.”

  “Tell me where I can apply.”

  “The next time you come, just say my name at the door: Carlito. Not like they would give a girl like you trouble.”

  “Ha,” she said, and sauntered away.

  And then he slapped her ass. But Lorraine didn’t turn around. Clearly the outfit wasn’t a total washout after all.

  Especially if Carlito Macharelli—the twenty-year-old son of one of the men who owned the place—had chosen her to talk to, flirt with, buy drinks for. Her over every other girl in this joint.

  Lorraine stomped out of the club, pushing through the desperate flappers still clogging the entrance. She wasn’t one of them anymore. Like Gloria, she had an insider’s key. But Gloria had already had her moment: her photo with Bastian in the Tribune, the ring every girl wanted from the man every girl wanted. She even had Marcus Eastman. Now she was going to be the toast of the speakeasy scene, too?

  Gloria couldn’t have everything. Or at least, she couldn’t have both.

  It was strictly a matter of fairness.

  Lorraine would have to square things.

  “So this is how a bachelor lives?” she called out in the direction of the kitchen.

  Lorraine wandered the edges of Bastian’s living room, which was lined with windows that overlooked the sparkling Chicago skyline. It was a beautiful apartment. Beautiful and cold.

  She’d only been to his penthouse once before, when he’d hosted an afternoon cocktail party after the engagement was announced. The apartment had been filled to capacity with his mostly male social circle: colleagues from the bank; fraternity brothers; tennis partners from Oak Lane Country Club—all either old men or men waiting to get old. But back then, everyone had been laughing and flirting and celebrating.

  Tonight, that day felt like a lifetime ago. Lorraine was out of place in the masculine emptiness of the room. Sebastian’s golf clubs were in the corner, next to a framed oar and his Harvard diploma She stopped by the mantel and picked up a photo. Gloria on a beach, looking curvaceous in a one-piece bathing suit, stared back at her. Lorraine immediately set the frame down and backed away.

  Beads of sweat had begun to pool above her lip and below her eyes. Nerves. She needed to blot her cheeks and forehead before he came back into the room.

  Lorraine opened a door, which she assumed led to the bathroom, only to realize that it was Bastian’s bedroom. The room was dominated by an enormous, neatly made bed, decked out in a pleated red silk comforter. It was a loud reminder that she was in the apartment of an actual man—she and Gloria both still had single beds.

  She wondered how many women Bastian had slept with in that bed. A man of twenty-three years old, who looked like Bastian and had Bastian’s last name, could easily have slept with a dozen girls. Maybe more. Even though Gloria hadn’t yet been made a notch on his bedpost.

  The rest of the room was equally stark: a dark-colored dresser, a night table with a small ceramic lamp, and a book whose title Lorraine couldn’t make out. The walls were a muted gray, and there was a framed painting of some mountains—which ones, Lorraine didn’t know—near one of the windows. The carpeting was plush beneath her feet, the deep color of red wine.

  “Looking for something?”

  Lorraine twirled around in the doorway.

  Bastian was standing right behind her, holding out two glasses of ice water. He was wearing a white undershirt and linen trousers. It was the first time she had seen him without a suit on. She’d never realized how athletic he was: His broad chest tapered to a narrow waist, and his undershirt clung tightly to his flat, muscular abdomen. His features were perfectly symmetrical, the angles of his face sharp and strong.

  He walked toward her. “There’s a bathroom in my bedroom, if you’d like to use—”

  “No! I’m fine!” She laughed nervously, stepping back into the living room. She maneuvered around the coffee table and slid onto the sofa, resting her arm on the soft, dark fabric.

  “What brings you here so late, Raine?” Bastian came up behind her and handed her one of the glasses.

  “I just happened to be driving by—”

  “At this hour?”

  He sat down beside her, and she began to perspire again. “I was a
t the—a party. In the neighborhood?”

  “Are you asking me, or telling me?” Bastian said, leaning back into the sofa.

  “Telling.”

  Bastian smirked. “That would somewhat explain your choice of clothing,” he said, fingering the strap of her dress. “Or lack thereof. You’re quite the fashion plate.”

  Lorraine’s breathing stopped. Compared to Carlito’s callused fingers, Bastian’s felt silky. When he removed his hand, her skin prickled where he had touched her. “It was practically a sauna inside this party. I nearly wilted.”

  “Then drink up. Or I’ll have to cut your stem.”

  Lorraine laughed uncomfortably again, taking a long sip of water. “I’m sure you don’t approve of partying on a school night, but don’t worry, I won’t make a habit of it.”

  “You’re not mine to worry about.”

  “And if I were?”

  Bastian looked thoughtful for a moment. “Then I would give you a curfew, and punish you if you weren’t in bed by a certain time.”

  She had always thought his eyes were hazel. Now she realized they were quite green, but pierced with pewter, steely almost. Lorraine cleared her throat. “Whose bed do you mean? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

  “Hypothetical questions aside for now,” he said, setting his glass down on a coaster, “let’s address the more pressing question: Why are you here, Lorraine? It’s late, and I’m tired. I have to work early in the morning.” He studied her carefully. “And you have school.”

  Lorraine felt her face flush. She was here because his fiancée was living a double life as the singer at a speakeasy infested with booze and mobsters, and maybe even worse—as the soon-to-be whore of some low-class black jazz cat. She was here because Gloria didn’t deserve Bastian, didn’t deserve his trust—he was boring, sure, but on paper he was perfect. She was here because her best friend had betrayed her. Because she felt used, abused, and hurt. Because she couldn’t believe Gloria would lie to her, would keep things from her. And she was here because she had nowhere else to turn.