Ingenue

by Jillian Larkin

  “Right.” He took a deep breath. “You remember how my father went to Columbia and my mother went to Barnard? Well, dear old Mother’s been writing letters to her friends on the admissions board. And my father handed out some bribes—er, donations.”

  “Whatever for?” Clara asked. “I mean, you were already accepted.”

  “It’s not for me, Clara. After all that and a little sweet-talking, they were able to pull some strings and get you into Barnard!” He pulled her into a tight hug and laughed. “Now you can go to school across the street from me! Your parents will be thrilled, you’ll have a good reason to move uptown, and life will be just peachy! Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Clara pulled away. “They got me into Barnard? They can just … do that?”

  “My dad’s got low friends in high places.” Marcus met her eyes, his smile dimming a little. “You aren’t excited. That is not the face of a thrilled Clara Knowles.”

  She let out a forced-sounding laugh. “Of course I am! It’s just—Wow, it caught me off guard. Barnard … wow.”

  “You don’t need to be nervous, Clara. You’re the smartest girl I know. Look at how easily you finished up your course work before you moved here. You’re certainly smarter than the Unmentionable, and she got in.”

  Clara paled. She’d forgotten that Lorraine was going to Barnard as well.

  “Sorry to remind you. Is that what’s wrong?”

  Lorraine’s being at Barnard didn’t help matters, but Clara would be able to avoid her easily enough. It was more that enrolling would force her to face her old uptown haunts and even older friends before she was sure she was ready.

  And as awful as Lorraine was, at least she had gotten into Barnard on her own merit. “Getting me into Barnard … it’s just a lot. I didn’t even want you to get me an apartment, and you got me a whole college.”

  “I thought an apartment would be a little cramped,” he said. “My parents wanted to do this for you, Clara. Actually, that’s the other thing: My father’s in town and wants to meet us for dessert at Le Royale Bakery. He’s so eager to meet you.”

  Suddenly Marcus’s refusal of dessert at the Franklin Arms and his random desire to enjoy the outdoors made sense. As he pulled Clara into a kiss, she tried to feel as happy as he obviously felt. Barnard. Her parents would be so proud. They might even start sending her more than nickels and dimes.

  Clara wasn’t sure she could accept Marcus’s offer, but she did need to find the courage to face Manhattan—even Greenwich Village. Marcus had been kind enough to leave her past in the past.

  It was time she did herself the same favor.

  VERA

  Vera yawned and watched the beams of morning sunlight stream in through the giant half-moon windows of Grand Central Station.

  She had never been to New York before—never been anywhere outside of Chicago. If this had been a normal trip, she would have been marveling at the beautiful building’s grand staircases and the starry mural on the ceiling, gold constellations connecting to create Pegasus and other signs of the zodiac against a blue-green sky.

  But all she could think about was the killer coming after Jerome.

  If the woman found out the address of his post office box in New York City, then eventually she would just come and wait for Jerome or Gloria to turn up. But she probably had her hands full with Carlito in Chicago, and that might buy Vera just enough time to find her brother first and warn him.

  Vera smiled as Evan appeared with two cups of hot coffee. She drank down a big gulp. “Now I feel human again.” She looked at the map of Manhattan hanging on the wall. “His post office box is close to Harlem … so I guess we should walk to Times Square and take the train uptown. Not that I know a damned thing about the subway.”

  Evan reached over and squeezed her hand. “We’ll find him, don’t you worry. Here, I got you something.” He handed her a small paper bag he’d been holding, which contained a single glazed doughnut. “A little something sweet for somebody sweet.”

  Vera started to laugh. “Excuse me?”

  Evan’s cheeks darkened. “Sorry. That was stupid.”

  Vera was about to laugh again but stopped herself. Was Evan flirting with her? It didn’t seem likely—he was her brother’s friend and former bandmate first. But did former bandmates hop overnight trains to cities halfway across the country?

  No.

  Could Evan … like her? She looked at him again, his high cheekbones, his dark and stormy eyes. Evan was gorgeous, and he played the trumpet like a dream.

  But Vera wasn’t here to fall in love. She was here to find Jerome.

  That didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy a doughnut, though.

  “Thanks a lot,” she said quietly.

  Evan chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve given you a sandwich and a doughnut. Maybe I’ll even throw in some fruit and vegetables sometime, though I don’t want to spoil you.”

  After they’d checked the map once more, Evan and Vera walked outside into the bright sunlight. Vera marveled at the buildings they passed. They loomed higher than any she’d seen back in Chicago. Despite the early hour, men and women filled the sidewalks. The men mostly wore suits and straw hats, while the women dressed in smart-looking day dresses with skirts that came down only a few inches past their knees.

  Cars of every make and model crowded the streets, as well as a few horse-drawn wagons. Hulking yellow-and-black Checker cabs tried in vain to weave through the stalled traffic. A wonderful smell of brown sugar pervaded the air—Vera realized that the source was a cart selling sweet, hot peanuts, cashews, and almonds.

  “So you want to get off at a Hundred and Third Street,” Evan said once they were on the subway and the train clicked into the Eighty-Sixth Street station.

  “But you won’t?” Vera asked, frowning. They’d just gotten here. She wasn’t sure she was ready to face this strange city alone yet.

  “Naw, I’m gonna stay on until a Hundred Forty-Fifth. I’m gonna start lookin’ for a gig right away. A friend works up there at the Hooch Pooch.”

  “Meet back at the Hundred and Third Street station around four?” Vera asked.

  “That should be just enough time … for a few clubs to kick me right back out the door.” He let out a nervous laugh.

  Vera nudged his shoulder with hers. “Don’t be ridiculous. I bet you find something before I even make it to the post office.”

  Vera emerged from the station and straightened her cloche hat.

  The subway stop was only a few blocks from the post office, and it was a pleasant walk. This area was a bit like her neighborhood in Chicago. She passed tiny markets selling everything from newspapers to cigarettes and hot coffee. There were more white people than black. Vera decided to keep her head down so as not to raise suspicion.

  The post office was like every other post office she’d seen, if a little dingy. A few people with packages in their arms stood in line in front of a bank of small wooden-framed windows. Others strolled in, went to the wall lined with the little brass doors of post office boxes, and opened them with tiny keys.

  Vera selected a sheet of stationery and an envelope from a display, paid for them, and went to a table to dash off a short note to Jerome.

  Dear Jerome,

  There is too much to say and this note has to be short, so I’ll get to the point: Someone killed Bastian Grey and is after you. The killer may have got this address from him, so you’d best stop using it. I am in the city, staying at

  Then she realized she didn’t know where to tell him to look for her; she and Evan hadn’t found accommodations yet. She scratched out the line and began again.

  I’m staying in the city, and I will go wait under the clock in Grand Central from noon to two every Saturday until you show up.

  Your loving and worried sister, Vera

  This was not the best plan for finding Jerome and Gloria. But it was the only lead Vera had.

  She folded the note up and tucked it into the envelope, casually watch
ing the customers in the post office. Who knew how often Jerome and Gloria checked their mail? Would they come together? Or would Gloria waltz in like the redheaded woman who’d just entered, glanced around nervously, and gone over to one of those tiny mailboxes—

  Vera realized she wasn’t looking at a Gloria look-alike: it was Gloria. She was a lot thinner and was wearing a cheap blue dress that old high-society Gloria wouldn’t have touched with a ten-foot swizzle stick, but it was definitely her.

  Vera was just about to call out Gloria’s name when she saw that Gloria had been followed.

  A woman in a dark gray dress and a large hat had entered the post office right on Gloria’s heels and was standing at the bulletin board as though interested in the WANTED posters. But her head was clearly tilted in Gloria’s direction. The woman wore large sunglasses and kept one hand hidden in her handbag.

  Between the hat and the sunglasses, Vera couldn’t see much of the woman’s face. She was young, for sure, with slender legs and arms and a pretty bow mouth.

  And then Gloria passed between them with a rectangular package in her hands and disappeared through the door.

  A second later, Sunglasses followed.

  And a moment after that, Vera followed Sunglasses. Gloria’s bright red hair was about twenty feet away. That girl stuck out like a bonfire in the dark. Bobbing along ten feet behind her was Sunglasses’ large hat.

  The woman was definitely following Gloria. Vera’s heart tightened. What should she do? If she yelled Gloria’s name, would Gloria be happy to see her? Or would she run away?

  Calm down, Vera told herself. Right now she needed to get this creepy woman away from her brother’s girlfriend.

  Vendors’ stalls lined the sidewalk, selling cheap jewelry and hats and other things—the sorts of things that made walking fast difficult. Vera stepped into the street, put her head down, and rushed past the stalls. Within a few minutes, she had overtaken both Gloria and the woman. When she got to the corner, she doubled back.

  A scarf vendor’s tiny cart was parked right near the intersection. The vendor—an older black man with disordered hair—had stepped away and was busy smoking and talking with another man outside the delicatessen on the corner.

  Vera pretended to study a set of sparkly headbands. Gloria passed, with Sunglasses a dozen feet behind. Vera slipped behind the cart, counted to three in her head, grabbed the cart by its bottom, and put all her strength into tipping it over.

  It made a satisfyingly loud noise when it hit the ground. The woman’s shriek that accompanied the crash was even more satisfying. The cart had found its target.

  Vera ducked low behind an old Model T and hoofed it around the corner and out of sight behind a van on the far side of the street.

  The vendor had set his cart upright again and was standing in front of Sunglasses, pointing his finger at her. “What, you think that’s funny? Messing with a man’s livelihood?”

  The woman said something, and the vendor threw up his hands.

  Vera looked in the direction that Gloria had been walking in. Gloria’s bright red hair and bold blue dress were nowhere to be seen.

  GLORIA

  Gloria pretended to study a glass-topped table.

  Had she gotten the address wrong? The sign read SAUNDERS’ FURNITURE, but that couldn’t be right. Could it?

  She should have known that this job—which seemed practically tailor-made for her—was too good to be true.

  As she examined an ugly old maple bookcase, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see a balding older man with silver hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a simple collared shirt and brown trousers and spoke with a slight Southern twang.

  “Welcome to Saunders’, young lady. You lookin’ for anything specific today, or just browsing?”

  Gloria tried to seem nonchalant. “Just browsing, thank you.”

  “Heading to a party later? I can’t imagine you’d get so dolled up just to visit my store, though I’d be mighty flappered if you did.” He guffawed. “Get it?”

  Gloria blushed, glancing down at her long emerald-green dress. It was one she’d brought from Chicago—a Chanel chiffon with a dropped waist. It had sheer, ruffled cap sleeves and a scoop neckline, though it didn’t scoop so far as to be inappropriate for the daytime. It was a bit fancy for furniture shopping, but it was the most flattering dress she currently owned.

  She pulled a copy of the New York Times out of her purse and flipped to the page she wanted. “Sir, would you happen to know anything about this? I called earlier and made an appointment, but perhaps I mixed up some information.…”

  The man pushed his glasses up on his nose and looked at the newspaper, reading the heading of the classified ad:

  WANTED: INGENUE TO SING AT HOT NEW CLUB!

  Green-eyed redheads especially desired to sing bluesy tunes. Established talents need not apply; we want only fresh blood—preferably from out West. New to town? This could be the gig you came here for!

  TEL. SPRING 4829

  Call for an appointment between 12 and 5

  Note: A singer taller than 5′3″ will throw off our aesthetics.

  He looked toward the back of the store and called, “Neal! Get out here!”

  A young man with a long face and messy dark hair walked through a swinging door at the back of the room. “What’s going on, Pop?”

  The old man beckoned him to come closer. “This young lady would like to see the vanity we’ve got on hold.”

  Neal’s eyes brightened. “Oh, right, the vanity.”

  Gloria had no idea what was going on. “I really don’t need a vanity.”

  “Follow Neal and you’ll find what you’re looking for, darlin’. Though I can’t imagine what a sweet girl like you could want down there.”

  Gloria straightened her posture. “I’m not as sweet as I look.”

  Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Even though the police usually knew where the speakeasies were (and even frequented them), clubs had to at least keep up the appearance of hiding themselves away. Most clubs had some sort of front—apparently this furniture store was one of them.

  In her two-toned pumps, Gloria followed Neal around open crates and pieces of half-assembled furniture. At the back of the shop, Neal opened a door onto a narrow hallway that ended in red velvet curtains. Just past those was a spiral staircase.

  “Well, this is as far as I go,” Neal said. “Nice meeting you, Miss, uh—?”

  “Rose. Zuleika Rose,” Gloria said.

  This would be the first audition she’d gone to without Jerome accompanying her. She’d sung her song three times in front of the mirror this morning, making sure each phrase and each facial expression was just right. She was as ready as she would ever be.

  As she descended the rusty-railed staircase, she noticed that the barroom was practically empty. Red leather booths lined the wall closest to the stairs. Spotted but grand mirrors hung behind each booth, giving diners the chance to subtly ogle the men and women along the bar. Across the golden hardwood dance floor was a sea of small wooden tables and chairs, where anyone who didn’t have the face or the money for a booth could rest their gams.

  But what made Gloria smile was at the opposite end of the barroom: the stage.

  It was small but nicely decked out. Plush gold curtains hugged the sides, and the gleaming rosewood of the boards shone as if it had been polished. A light threw a glowing spot center stage, just waiting for Gloria to fill it. A good-looking young man with dirty-blond hair picked out a slow tune on the grand piano.

  “It’s a ducky joint, ain’t it?” A lanky man stood at the foot of the stairs, holding a clipboard. He had a thin face with an almost comically long nose and small, muddy eyes. He was wearing an orange bowler and a red vest with orange polka dots.

  He smiled with a mouthful of crooked teeth. “You’re a little late, my dear.”

  “I’m sorry. When I scheduled the audition, the girl didn’t say anything about the furniture sto
re, or how this is—”

  “A speakeasy?” The man tittered. “We try not to mention that if we can help it.” He stuck out his hand. “You’re … Zuleika, right?”

  “I am,” she said, shaking his hand. “Zuleika Rose.”

  “That’s a helluva strange name,” he replied.

  “Why, thank you!” Gloria had chosen it from a novel she’d read. She hoped he hadn’t read the same book. He didn’t seem the reading type.

  “They call me Spark,” he said, doffing his hat and sketching a little bow. “Welcome to the Opera House.” Spark sat down at one of the wooden tables. “The name’s new—we used to be called the Kennel Klub and a couple of other things before that. Brings in more customers every time we shut down and reopen.”

  “I like the walls,” Gloria said. Most of the clubs she’d visited didn’t care about decoration. Patrons came for two reasons: jazz and booze. They didn’t spend time studying the décor. But the murals here were totally jake—a reddened, stylized New York City, packed with skyscrapers and tiny figures rushing about. And the scarlet tint gave the speakeasy even more of a risky, dangerous feel. It looked like a swanky version of hell.

  Spark looked around as he lit a cigarette. “Oh, yeah, that was Vito, Puccini’s son. Puccini’s the guy who owns the place, and his son thinks he’s an artist, or some horsefeathers.” Spark picked up his clipboard. “I’ve gotta ask you a few questions before you go wail up there.” He pulled a pencil out from behind his ear. “Address?”

  “You can reach me care of Post Office Box One Sixty-Eight.”

  “I didn’t ask where I could reach you, I asked where you live.”

  “Actually, you said ‘address.’ ”

  That seemed to fluster him. “I meant, where do you live?”

  Gloria forced a little laugh. She needed this job. “Oh, here in the city.”

  “Well, I didn’t think you took a steamboat to get here,” he said, tugging at his bow tie. He seemed nervous. “C’mon, darlin’, it’s not a tough question.”