Vixen

by Jillian Larkin

  Gloria wouldn’t be causing scandals or getting her name in the gossip columns as Mrs. Sebastian Grey III. Her mother would be secure. There was so much that made sense about the wedding.

  Nothing about her and Jerome made sense at all.

  So why was she standing here the next day, paralyzed, at the entrance to the Green Mill? She had rehearsed this. She’d written out a script during study hall, treating it like a cut-and-dry English class assignment:

  Our worlds are too different, Jerome. There’s too much at stake, too many people who could get hurt. We need to be mature adults and admit what this really is: nothing more than the thrill of the forbidden. But we both know it’s wrong. A setup for disaster. A mistake.

  Leif opened the door at her knock. The club was nearly deserted.

  “Red! What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Forgot something backstage,” she said. “Is Jerome here?”

  He shrugged and went back to the bar. “He’s around here somewhere.”

  She strolled past the bar as if she belonged, and climbed onto the stage. In the dressing room, she found the dress she’d changed out of for her debut. It lay crumpled in a corner on the floor like a snakeskin coiled up on the side of the road.

  She picked the dress up and clutched it to her chest, breathing in. It smelled like dust and varnish. Like this dingy little room in the Green Mill. Don’t cry, she warned herself. Do not cry.

  “Well, if it isn’t the doll I’ve been waiting to see.”

  She turned to the door. It was Carlito Macharelli, in an impeccably tailored dark suit as usual. Even in the dull light of the dressing room, his dark hair shone. When he pushed back his coat to rest his hand on his hip, Gloria caught a glint of light on metal: a pistol in a holster.

  She’d had only a handful of encounters with him after her audition. A few times, he had sat in on the band’s rehearsals, observing silently from the dark back of the room, visible thanks only to the red coal of his cigar. And then he’d come backstage that first and last night to wish her good luck, with Maude and that midget.

  Now he was blocking the doorway, wearing a smile she didn’t trust. “That was some act you pulled the last time you were here.”

  “I know,” Gloria said, edging toward the door.

  “Let me tell you, you stirred up more bedlam than this club has seen in years. It takes one hell of a girl to do that.”

  “I’ve been meaning to apologize,” she said uneasily. It had been more than three weeks already, but the horror of it was still as vivid as yesterday.

  “Meaning to and doing are two very different things.”

  “I know. That’s part of why I’m here. I never meant to cause any trouble—”

  “There’s another reason?”

  She couldn’t mention Jerome. “To pick up my dress,” she said, holding it up as if it were an exhibit in a trial. She could smell Carlito’s Brilliantine. It smelled like menace. She had never spent this much time alone with the gangster, and the club was empty. She studied Carlito’s face. Was he dangerous? Where was Maude—had something happened to her? “I left it here.”

  He chuckled and stepped closer, shutting the door behind him. “You know, I’m a very forgiving man, Gloria. In fact, I pride myself on my ability to forgive. But what you did that night caused a lotta trouble. And cost a lotta dough.”

  “I know, it was all my fault—”

  He put a finger to her lips, silencing her. His closeness made her intensely uncomfortable; she could smell the tobacco on his breath and practically taste the Scotch oozing from his pores. “That fiancé of yours is a pretty powerful man in this town, isn’t he? If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t be in such a fortunate position.”

  Gloria didn’t want Carlito to sense her fear. “I am truly sorry, Carlito,” she began. “I had no intention of causing trouble. All I wanted to do was sing.”

  “But you ain’t a singer, baby, you’re a socialite.” He traced her lips with his finger. “Girls like you should know better than to play with fire.”

  Gloria was now backed up against the wall. The dress, clutched against her chest, was the only barrier between them. “I said I was sorry—”

  “An apology ain’t enough,” he said, his eyes fierce and terrifying. “Even out of the mouth of a beaut like you.”

  With one hand he caught her by the waist, his thumb digging hard into her left hip. With the other, he wadded up her dress around her hands. “There is a way to make it up to me.”

  “Stop it! Please!” she cried out, attempting to push him away, but she was no match for his strength. He kissed her hard on the mouth.

  “Stop!” she screamed in the second she managed to break from his kiss. He was tearing at her now, crushing her. “Stop, please!”

  His tongue felt like sandpaper. She closed her eyes, hoping he would stop. Please let him stop.

  And then, suddenly, he did.

  Gloria opened her eyes and watched as Carlito stumbled back against the far wall, violently yanked away from her. And then watched as his head snapped to the side from the force of being struck again.

  He fell like a tree at the feet of Jerome Johnson.

  Relief and excitement flooded through her. “Jerome!” she gasped.

  “Hush,” he said. “We’ve got no time for anything but getting out of here. So just be quiet and come on.”

  They walked quickly and quietly out of the dressing room and back into the heart of the club. The bar was still empty.

  Standing directly before the front door, though, was Thor, the midget Gloria had met backstage on the night of her performance.

  Thor rocked back and forth on his heels and stared at them with a smug expression. He was dressed in a tiny dark suit and a black hat. His arms were crossed in front of him. Despite his stature, there was something scary about him.

  “Where’s Carlito?” Thor asked.

  Gloria glanced at Jerome. “We don’t know. If you’ll excuse us, we have to get going.”

  The midget removed a pistol from his jacket, grasping it with both hands. “Nobody goes anywhere till Carlito says they can. Now put your hands up in the air, where I can see ’em.”

  Gloria and Jerome reluctantly raised their hands. Carlito was bound to come to at any moment, and then what? He would hurt Jerome. From the corner of her eye, Gloria saw Leif coming at Thor from the side. The bartender snapped his leg out and kicked the gun clear across the room.

  “What the—”

  Leif swept Thor up and tucked him under his right arm. “I never liked you, little man,” he said.

  “You’re dead, bartender!” Thor screamed, squirming and kicking.

  “Oh, right,” Leif said. “Forgot something.” He fished a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and stuffed it into Thor’s mouth. “There, that’ll shut you up. I got just the place for you. Empty cupboard behind the bar.”

  “Leif!” Gloria cried out. “What are you doing? You’re going to get in trouble!”

  “Saving your caboose is what I’m doing. I figured you two might need some help,” Leif said. Thor stopped kicking.

  Jerome said, “Thanks, Leif. We owe you.”

  Leif broke out in a toothy grin. “Don’t worry about me. I was done with this place a while ago. Good luck, Red.” He turned to Jerome. “Take good care of her.”

  “I will,” Jerome said. He was already pushing open the door, the cold air rushing at Gloria and filling her lungs.

  “Come on,” Jerome said. “We’re not clear yet. Now we’ve got to run.”

  They pounded along the pavement, holding hands as they barreled down the avenue past curious onlookers. What did the bystanders think, seeing a young black man running hand in hand with a young white woman? Gloria realized she didn’t care. She clutched Jerome’s fingers as tightly as she could, never wanting to let go.

  If it hadn’t been for the wrinkled dress clutched in her other hand, she would have completely forgotten that she had come to th
e Green Mill to say goodbye.

  They had reached the entrance to the Navy Pier. They hadn’t spoken a word since they’d run out of the Green Mill.

  The Navy Pier was practically deserted, the frigid weather driving away the usual hordes of tourists. There were only a few straggling couples, the women tucked beneath the men’s arms, strolling in silence.

  Gloria peered out at the lake, the water shining like a sheet of metal. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she blurted out. “Carlito will have you killed.”

  Jerome inched closer, wrapping a hand around her waist. “Would you rather I’d left you there, for him to take advantage of?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then what was I supposed to do?” he asked. “I love you. I had no choice.” Jerome pressed his nose against Gloria’s. She felt so safe in his arms. “I’ll see to it that that creep doesn’t lay a finger on me, or you, ever again.”

  Even though she was scared of Carlito, Gloria was taken aback. “Wait—did you say love?”

  “Didn’t you know that I’ve fallen for you, Gloria Carmody?” he said somberly, planting a soft kiss on her forehead. “I love you.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “What’s to understand? I love you. Simple as that. I love you.”

  Gloria stared at him, her eyes wide and unblinking. His words seemed to sink into her body. She wanted to say them back to him—because she did love him back, didn’t she?—but the sentence stuck in her throat. She remembered the first time she’d said “I love you” to Bastian: They had taken a carriage ride through Lincoln Park, during that innocent spring when she’d thought she knew what love was.

  What a fool she had been.

  Jerome took the dress from her and draped it over his shoulder. They walked toward the water. “Listen, I need to say something,” he said. “And I don’t want you to interrupt or protest or argue.

  “You deserve a life of happiness, Gloria. There is plenty of suffering in the world—the last thing we need to do is pile more trouble on top of the heartbreak life dishes out to you.

  “And after tonight, I think I gotta be the one to say it: I’m no good for you.”

  “Jerome, wait—”

  “No, listen. I may love you, but I can’t promise you a life of happiness. I can’t promise you any kind of life at all. And that’s why you got to do what you originally planned, and marry Sebastian.”

  “You don’t mean that—”

  “Yes, I do! You’ll have your family, and you’ll have your friends. You’ll have beautiful children who will go to good schools—”

  “Stop it! Stop!” She couldn’t listen to another word. She stared into Jerome’s eyes and felt her entire body tremble. “How can you say that to me! How can you tell me you love me and then send me away!” She buried her face in her hands.

  “Gloria,” he said, wrapping her in his arms. “Gloria, look at me.”

  “Jerome, what’s the point of living if it’s going to be easy? I’ve already wasted seventeen years of my life on that. I don’t want to spend the next seventeen doing exactly the same.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  She was silent.

  “Say it,” he demanded. “Tell me what you want.”

  It was as though a veil had finally been lifted and everything was perfectly clear. “I want to leave Chicago,” Gloria said.

  “Then that’s what you should do.”

  “No, Jerome. I want to leave Chicago with you.”

  For the first time since she’d met him, Jerome looked scared. “We have to be realistic, Glo—”

  “You and I can’t stay here! We’ll both die—you’ll end up gutted in the basement of the Green Mill, and I’ll end up trapped in a dead marriage. You said you loved me. Did you mean it?”

  His eyes widened. “Of course I meant it. I love you, Gloria. I’ve never loved anyone more in my entire life.”

  “Then that’s all I need to know. Let’s go to New York. We can figure out the rest once we get there.”

  “You know what New York will mean for us, don’t you?” he said. “We’ll be slumming it. No more mansions. No maids or drivers. No more country clubs or Paris dresses—”

  “I’ve had all that, and look where it got me.”

  Jerome thought for a moment. “If you mean what you say, if this isn’t just some crazy whim, I’ll be waiting for you in front of my apartment tonight at ten sharp. We can catch the midnight express train to New York City.”

  She threw her arms around his neck. “I’ll be there.”

  Jerome let out a laugh. “You are wild, Gloria Rose Carmody. You know that you’re sounding crazy, right?”

  “Then why do I feel the most sane I’ve ever felt in my life?” She kissed him and drew back. “And, Jerome?”

  “What?”

  “I love you, too.”

  There was just one more thing she needed.

  “He’s at his weekly bridge match, Miss Carmody,” the doorman at Bastian’s said.

  “That’s all right, Martin.” Gloria beamed winningly. “I just need to leave a surprise for him, if you don’t mind.”

  The elevator opened onto Bastian’s small foyer. Gloria unlocked the front door with her key and stepped into the hallway. It was empty, quiet. She caught sight of her face in the gilded mirror hanging over the hallway table. Her cheeks looked cherry-stained from being outside; there was a brightness in her eyes she didn’t recognize. She looked good. Happy.

  Then she heard Sebastian’s voice, booming from his office. Not out playing bridge after all.

  “All the more reason to clean house, Carlito. Don’t want to give him time to rally his black gang or get out of town. Just hit him as soon as possible. Yeah, it’s the address I gave you in Bronzeville. Two B. You take care of him, and I’ll take care of her. She’s a little bit of nothing.”

  Gloria put her hand over her mouth, stopping her breath. Carefully, with her other hand, she opened the drawer in the table under the mirror, feeling for the red velvet pouch she knew was tucked away in the back. Bastian had informed her that he kept it there “for security,” in case of a burglary.

  Once she was safely back in the foyer, noiselessly shutting the front door behind her, she took her hand away from her mouth and breathed in.

  Bastian knew Carlito? They were working together? Carlito was a gangster. Why would he be taking orders from her fiancé? And how did Bastian know where Jerome lived? She had to get to Jerome. She had to warn him. Save him.

  The elevator arrived.

  Bastian’s voice echoed through the door. “Hello? Is someone there?”

  The pouch was heavy in her hands—much heavier than she’d expected. She dropped it into her bag just as the elevator doors hissed open.

  In the lobby, Martin the doorman asked, “Did you leave Mr. Grey’s surprise?”

  “I sure did,” Gloria said, trying to mask her nerves as she pictured the small black pistol resting inside her purse.

  CLARA

  Clara stared into the gaping mouth of the suitcase on her bed. Her clothes were packed in tightly pressed and folded stacks, courtesy of Claudine. That was all her life in Chicago had amounted to: a few dresses that fit into a too-small valise.

  “It’s not that we don’t want you here,” Mrs. Carmody had told her the day after the engagement party debacle. “But you understand, don’t you, Clara? Our family is about to have a scandal of its own, what with my husband’s affair. We’re ill equipped to deal with yours.” She went on to explain that she wasn’t going to send Clara off to the Illinois Girls’ School of Reform. “My dear, that was only ever a threat. I’ve spoken to your parents, and they’ve agreed to let you come home.” Aunt Bea pressed her palm against Clara’s cheek. “I think you’ve suffered more than enough.”

  It was strange, being asked to leave. The Carmody mansion had come to feel more like a home than her real home in Pennsylvania. In many ways, Clara had even come to like Chicago more than Ne
w York. She’d finally found a place where she belonged. Sure, that sense of belonging was based on a character she had created—good old Country Clara—but toward the end, she’d been enjoying herself so much, she’d nearly forgotten she was acting. In a lot of ways, she had become what she’d pretended to be. And she’d liked that role.

  Her mementos were scattered across the floor: a program from the Art Institute opening (first kiss with Marcus); a ticket stub from the Buster Keaton movie (first date with Marcus); a strand of fake pearls borrowed from the Unmentionable (Lorraine).

  And then there was the red Cartier box.

  Clara opened it and fastened the delicate ruby-and-diamond bangle around her wrist. After the engagement party from hell, she had shut Marcus out. He’d come around the Carmody house more than a few times, but she couldn’t bear to talk to him. What was the point?

  The bracelet winked at her with an icy glint. She had to give it back to Marcus. It felt strange on her wrist.

  Pattering mouselike footsteps came from the hallway, followed by the faint click of a door. Gloria. Whatever Gloria’s feelings were about Clara, she’d be gone by the morning, on a train back to Pennsylvania. This was the perfect—and only—opportunity to say goodbye, and to pass off the bracelet for Gloria to return.

  Summoning whatever strength she had left, Clara knocked quietly on Gloria’s door and pushed it open.

  It was the mirror image of her own room: vanity at the foot of the bed, dresser on the far wall, walk-in closet in the corner opposite the door—and a half-filled suitcase open on the bed. What was going on?

  Gloria was hovering over the suitcase, hastily stuffing in a wadded-up nightgown. She looked ravishing in a gold lamé dress that shimmered like a burst of sun, a gleam in her eyes that said she planned to get exactly what she wanted. Gloria was no longer playing the part of a singer at a speakeasy, no longer a rebellious child who had bobbed her hair to spite her parents.

  Clara’s cousin had truly become a flapper.

  “A word of advice if you’re planning to come with me to Pennsylvania,” Clara said, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind her. “Ditch the dress. A bit showy for a train ride.”