The girl looked shocked and stepped away, turning and whispering to one of her friends.
“Come back here!” Lorraine shouted. The rest of the line was watching, but what did she care? “Open up your purse.”
The black-haired girl raised one thin eyebrow and was about to protest, but then her friend—another girl around the same age, maybe seventeen or eighteen—pinched her and the girl opened the clasp of her purse.
“That’s more like it,” Raine said, spotting exactly what she was looking for. A flask. It shone as brightly as the dozens of pairs of earrings the flappers were wearing, brighter than all their necklaces and bracelets combined. She pawed it out and took a swig.
“Hey, that’s my—”
“Your mouth is as big as the house I grew up in!” Lorraine said, swallowing the cheap vodka and burping. “And I grew up in a mansion. Here.” She passed the flask back to the girl. “Thanks.”
“You going to let us in now?” the girl asked, hopeful.
“Nah,” Lorraine said. “We don’t allow outside hooch in our joint. Against house rules.”
Vinny returned and gave Lorraine’s hand a much-appreciated squeeze before she went back inside. She took out a cigarette and lit up as she walked downstairs.
Lorraine was glad to see that everyone was too busy to pay attention to her and her screwups. The band launched into a number, and people began filing downstairs behind her. She watched a group of girls dance the Breakaway together. They were a pretty bunch—a blonde, a redhead, and a brunette, all in dresses with exquisite, Egyptian-looking patterns. Their laughter mingled with the band’s upbeat piano and saxophone. Had she, Gloria, and Clara ever looked like that?
Clara. She sighed. Thinking of Clara also meant thinking of Marcus, and Lorraine tried to think of him as little as possible. Where was he now? Already in Manhattan? Lorraine knew now that she had been wrong to fall for an idiot like him in the first place. If she saw his swoony blue eyes at school in the fall, she had no idea what she’d do. Vomit? Keel over? Slap him?
Cecil walked over and gave Lorraine a glass of ice water. She gratefully pressed the cool glass against her cheek.
“The boss wants you to come talk to him at the bar,” he said.
Lorraine swallowed as she followed Cecil. A few days after she’d started working at the Opera House, he’d told her a story about a waiter who’d mixed up orders a few years back. The boy had lost a hand, Cecil had said. He wouldn’t tell her precisely how.
Lorraine slid onto a stool next to Puccini. When he turned to her, his cheeks were rounded into a jolly smile.
At first glance, Puccini looked almost as friendly as Vinny did when he wasn’t performing his bouncer duties. Puccini was a short, overweight man wearing a fedora and an easy smile. But unlike Vinny, no matter what expression was on Puccini’s face, his eyes remained empty black holes.
Puccini took off his hat and laid it on the bar, then pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his sweaty face and neck. His thin mustache left plenty of room on his face for his wide, creepy smile.
He pointed toward Lorraine’s water glass. “I could use something like that myself,” he said. His voice was oddly pleasant—almost musical. “Vodka on the rocks, and another for the lady.”
Puccini was the last man in the world Lorraine wanted to drink with, but she didn’t dare say so. She held her glass of vodka to his. “What are we toasting?”
“Our new songbird,” he said as their glasses clinked. “Spark told me you hired a real canary today.” He drank the vodka down in one gulp. “Can’t wait to hear her sing. You know, that’s why they call me Puccini—I love singing so much.”
Lorraine blinked. “Oh, I just thought that was your name.”
He raised his bushy eyebrows. “Giacomo Puccini is one of the greatest artists who ever lived. You’ve really never heard of him?”
She shook her head, setting her mostly full glass back on the bar.
“We’re gonna have to teach you some culture, young lady,” he said. “What about Carlito? You hear anything about him lately? ’Cause I need to have a talk with him.” Puccini gripped her wrist tightly. “I might have to let him know that his little recruit is screwing with my kitchen, busting up my band’s expensive instruments, and giving away my passwords. Is that what you want?”
Getting in trouble with Puccini—no, no, no, Lorraine did not want that. Puccini had only hired someone as young as Lorraine because he was an old friend of Ernesto Macharelli, Carlito’s father and the right-hand man to Al Capone. Puccini did not know about Carlito and Lorraine’s plan regarding Gloria and Jerome. It was Lorraine’s job to make sure things stayed that way. If Puccini found out about Tony’s murder, it would get back to Ernesto. And Carlito had made it clear to Lorraine that he wanted to keep his slipup from his father most of all.
Lorraine swallowed hard. “No, Puccini. It’s not.”
He gave that a moment to sink in, then showed off those yellowish teeth once again in what was almost a smile. “How about you take the night off, doll—clear your head a little?” He turned away, making it clear that Lorraine didn’t have a choice in the matter.
It was only once she was a few blocks away that Lorraine released the breath she had been holding. She stopped walking for a minute, ignoring the annoyed huffs of anyone who had to move around her. She had messed things up today, all because of Gloria. How typical.
Puccini could have done much worse. As long as she cleaned up her act, he wouldn’t punish her or tell Carlito about her mistakes.
And a night off wasn’t exactly the worst punishment.
Once she reached Broadway, the sidewalk became crowded. Groups of young people waited for tables at chic cafés, while others puffed on cigarettes and talked loudly. In front of her was a group of men who couldn’t stop talking about an upcoming game at the brand-new Yankee Stadium. Outside Webster Hall, women in gowns of every imaginable color and men in tuxedos stood around waiting for some sort of show. Everybody looked happy and fabulous and Lorraine hated them all.
Inside her fourth-floor apartment, she dumped her bag, shucked off her heels, and headed straight to her bedroom. She dropped her black dress to the floor, pulled on a short white nightgown, brushed her teeth, and washed off her makeup.
And then, not five minutes after arriving home, Lorraine crawled into her silver-framed bed. She pulled the silky bedspread over herself. The sun had barely even set, but she was ready for this day to be over.
As she reached for the lamp, her eyes caught on a flyer hanging on her wall.
Unlike the Gloria who’d come into the club desperate for a job, or the Gloria who had fled Chicago with her boyfriend the piano-playing killer, the Gloria on this flyer was a girl Lorraine knew.
She switched off the lamp, dropping the room into shadow.
But she could still see the flyer. A blinking light illuminated the words LOST GIRL. The light blinked again, and Gloria’s bright eyes glared at Lorraine in accusation.
Lorraine rolled away, buried her head in her pillow, and released the racking sobs that had been mounting in her chest all day. But the tears weren’t just about today. They were about everything. She wished she could climb into that flyer so that she and Gloria could be the good girls they’d once been. Back before Lorraine had any idea what it was like to have a thug threaten her, back when she still thought she and Gloria would be friends their entire lives.
But her tears stopped suddenly when there was a loud, menacing knock at her door.
CLARA
Clara was nervous.
She took a sip of her coffee and frowned. This shop wasn’t the classiest of joints. A single old man was working behind a smudged counter. She couldn’t fault her old roommates for choosing a cheap place, but this one was just a dump.
Leelee and Coco had been her very best friends. It was living with the girls in their tiny apartment on Bank Street that had taught Clara how to really let out her wild side. The tw
o of them knew Clara better than anyone did, even Marcus.
So why was she so worried?
Clara had run into them a few days earlier. She’d been leaving the Brooklyn Museum, about to take a stroll in Prospect Park, when she’d heard two female voices call her name.
Clara froze—she’d recognize those voices anywhere—and plastered a smile on her face. Leelee and Coco looked as fashionable as ever: Leelee in a tight pink sailor dress and Coco in an embroidered white dress with a floral design picked out in lace. Unlike Clara’s, her roommates’ dark bobs were perfectly maintained. Leelee had a doll-like face and wide blue eyes, while Coco was all sharp angles and mystique.
“Darling!” the girls squealed simultaneously, kissing her on both cheeks.
Clara hugged them back, shocked but genuinely glad to see them.
Leelee giggled. “Clara Knowles! What are you doing kicking around here? After the wardens dragged you off, we thought they threw away the key.”
Clara’s roommates always referred to Clara’s parents as prison wardens. Though maybe they were talking about the time she’d actually been in jail.
Clara thought it best to turn the tables. “Whatever brings you to Brooklyn?”
Leelee shrugged. “Someone said this museum was nice. But it’s just like any other museum—lots of old things that we’re supposed to be impressed by.”
Coco asked, “But why are you here?”
Clara smiled. “It’s kind of a long story.…”
Coco put a hand on Clara’s arm. “Of course it is, sweetheart. We’re just on our way to meet Beverly and Wendy at the Fat Black Cat. Come along and you can tell us all about it over a drink!”
Leelee giggled again, even though nothing was funny. “It’ll be just like old times! We’ll break out the champagne!”
Clara remembered the Fat Black Cat well: its beat-up booths and roaring band, all buried under a constant cloud of smoke. She’d even met Harris there once or twice. The smallest part of her was curious to see whether the place had changed since she’d been gone … but the new Clara didn’t spend her afternoons in speakeasies.
“Sorry, girls, I can’t. I actually have an important meeting to get to.”
Her ex-roommates narrowed their eyes. What could be more important than a good time with booze and old girlfriends?
“It can’t be that important,” Coco said.
Leelee giggled. “Important!” she repeated.
But Clara stuck to her guns. “I really can’t!”
Coco gave an elegant shrug. “All right. But we absolutely must get together soon. How about Thursday?” She grinned, catching Leelee’s eye. “There’s the sweetest coffee shop that just opened up on MacDougal called the Smoking Kettle.…”
The Smoking Kettle was a fitting name for the place, Clara discovered, since the coffee tasted as if someone had left it on the burner until they damn near burned the house down.
Bells on the door chimed as Coco and Leelee breezed in. They took off their hats and smoothed down their bobs in easy, identical movements. Leelee wore a two-tone dress in brown and red with a large bow on the shoulder. Coco was dressed more simply in a lemon day dress with orange satin details at the waist. Clara’s short-sleeved floral dress was positively drab by comparison.
Leelee and Coco both bent to kiss her on each cheek. Leelee gave a happy sigh. “Oh, Clara, I’m just so nostalgic right now! It makes me want to cry, boo-hoo. We’ve missed you so much.”
Coco nodded. “We truly have.”
“I’ve missed you too,” Clara said, and realized she meant it.
The girls were still standing, so Clara pointed to the two empty chairs. “Want to sit down and order some coffee?”
Her friends exchanged a cryptic look. “Oh God no,” Coco said, adjusting her purse strap, “the coffee here is terrible.”
“We thought we’d try the back room,” Leelee said. “It’s more private.” The pains Leelee was taking not to giggle were obvious. “Way more private.”
Before Clara knew what was happening, Leelee and Coco had each grabbed one of her hands and pulled her to her feet, dragging her down the narrow hallway toward the men’s and ladies’ rooms. Leelee pushed open a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and led the way through a tiny space crowded with a large sink and racks of dirty mugs, plates, and silverware.
A black man in work clothes looked up from the dishes he was washing. “Now, where are you ladies off to?”
“We’re going to see my mother at the beach,” Coco replied. “I’ve got to let her know that she left the oven on.”
The man nodded and removed a set of keys from his pocket. He unlocked a door beside the sink, and Clara could see that it led to a dark staircase going down.
“Enjoy yourselves,” the man said as he closed the door behind them.
Walking down the steps, Clara heard the smooth sound of a saxophone improvising a solo. Light streamed in through a row of narrow windows close to the ceiling, revealing dust and scratches on the dark hardwood floor. Most of the guests at this hour were businessmen in suits, though there was one group of girls reclining in a booth and sipping gin. There was no stage—the bass player and the saxophone player just set up next to a piano in the corner.
“This is a speakeasy?” Clara asked, though it obviously was.
The very kind of place she’d sworn to abstain from.
Coco laughed. “As if you don’t know a speakeasy when you see one.”
“Or do you only recognize it from the bottom of the ladies’ room floor?” Leelee said, nudging Clara with an elbow to the ribs.
Leelee wasn’t trying to be rude. It was true—the three of them had spent practically as much time puking up all the gin they’d guzzled as they had drinking it in the first place. But how could Clara explain to Coco and Leelee that she wasn’t that girl anymore?
Leelee ran an open tube of red lipstick over her rosebud lips. “It’s called the Pink Potato.”
Clara stopped in her tracks. “Why didn’t you tell me where we were going?”
Coco pulled her by the arm. “We wanted it to be a surprise, Clarabella! You used to love surprises.”
“I used to love a lot of things that I don’t like anymore,” Clara replied, putting her wide-brimmed hat back on her head. “I should go. I can’t spend my time in places like this anymore. It reminds me too much of—”
Leelee put her hand to her mouth. “Of that pig Harris, of course! I’m so sorry, we weren’t even thinking.”
Coco reached over and grabbed the hat off Clara’s head. “Please don’t leave,” she said. “I’ll simply die if I have to go any longer without hearing what you’ve been up to.”
Clara exhaled. She couldn’t have expected Leelee and Coco to know not to bring her here. And she couldn’t just abandon her friends because she was feeling jittery.
“All right,” she said, taking her hat back from Coco. “One drink.”
Leelee and Coco clapped happily and slid into a booth. The waiter looked surprised when Clara only ordered water, but Leelee and Coco were polite enough not to comment.
Once the girls had their drinks, Coco leaned forward. “So what happened between you and Harris? Everyone knows he went to Chicago to bring you back.”
“It was creepy,” Clara said. She told them the whole sordid tale—how Harris had sent her cryptic notes, how he’d shown up at her cousin’s engagement party. But though Leelee and Coco gasped and touched her hand in sympathy at all the right points, Clara noticed their eyes wandering over to two handsome men at the bar. Nothing changes, Clara thought.
When the waiter returned, the girls laughed and ordered more drinks.
“We’re going to get sloppy!” Leelee announced.
“It’s the middle of the afternoon,” Clara said.
“Down here it’s always midnight,” Coco said.
Their second round arrived, and Clara began wishing she’d left when she had the chance.
“So,” Leelee said, tracing he
r fingertip along the top of her glass, “was it tough seeing Harris again? Scummy or no, he is a sheik.”
“It wasn’t as bad as I expected. You see”—Clara couldn’t stop her shy smile—“I’ve met someone else.”
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Leelee squealed. “I met someone, too. I went out on the sweetest little yacht the other day.…”
After Leelee’s ten-minute story about dancing with a Valentino look-alike at a party and how he said she looked like the silent film star Louise Brooks, the conversation veered back to Marcus. Clara’s old friends were full of questions—about what Marcus looked like, what his father did for a living, how much he was worth. Leelee and Coco squealed at the Cartier bracelet on Clara’s wrist but were far less interested in the story behind it.
“What about the deb cousin?” Coco asked. “Did she wear those dresses with the high collars? Did she convince you to join her weekly prayer circle?”
Clara gave an uneasy smile. Clara had thought Gloria was a complete square at first, too, but she’d been wrong. Gloria had a shocking amount of moxie. Much more than it took these two to get drunk every night and allow rich men to take them to parties and the theater. Gloria would never fit into the tiny box Coco and Leelee were trying to put her in. So why try explaining?
“Well, her room looked like someone poured a bottle of Pepto-Bismol all over it,” Clara said. “Oh, and her best friend was a real wet blanket. I think raccoons have a better grasp on how to use eyeliner.…”
From that moment, Old Clara was back—or some shadow version of her, anyway. Clara played the role Leelee and Coco wanted her to play, feeding them snippy answers to their questions, taking shots at every single debutante who had befriended her in Chicago. No one escaped the barb of her wit, and soon her friends were red-faced with laughter. Poor Leelee could barely breathe.
Clara gave the girls a smile, but inside she felt emptier than her silver flask.
Once Leelee had finally caught her breath, she stood up. “Well, I’m off to the ladies’ before I wet myself.”
Ingenue Page 7