Ingenue

by Jillian Larkin

  Arthur grabbed her hand, spinning her into his arms and back out again. “You have just the right amount of jump to your jive!”

  “Horsefeathers!” Clara exclaimed.

  After she’d had one more dance with Arthur, everyone lined up to knock back shots of whiskey at the bar.

  “I think I’m okay,” Clara said, pushing away the small glass teeming with amber liquid.

  Her friends all stared in dismay. “But we’re doing it together!” Leelee cried. “All for one and all for … wait … You know what I mean.”

  Clara groaned, picked up the shot glass, and drained it.

  After another dance, she made her way to the edge of the crowd and leaned against a window. She studied the partygoers, taking notes in her head. The champagne fountain and a brief sighting of Dorothy Parker would make nice details in her column. But Clara hadn’t found her column’s heart yet.

  Behind her, Arthur cleared his throat. He stood with Maxie, Leelee, and Coco, and they each wore the same conspiratorial smile. “Clara, we have something we’d like to show you,” Arthur said.

  Her friends pulled her to the stairwell, down one floor, and into a corridor lined with hotel rooms. Dozens of party guests crowded the hallway.

  “I was asking my friend Jeremy where they got the sensational gin at this party,” Arthur explained. “And he told me that they made the gin in this very hotel!”

  They had at last reached a particularly large group outside an open door. Arthur extended his arm. “See for yourself.”

  Inching forward, Clara could see into an elegant hotel room and its adjoining bathroom. A white marble counter, a lightbulb-ringed mirror, fluffy white towels like clouds draped over a silver towel rack. And then there was the main attraction—the large, claw-footed bathtub, filled to the brim with what looked like water.

  A long line of formally dressed guests, each with a bottle, flask, or cup in hand, approached the tub one by one. There two tuxedoed men standing beside the tub dipped the containers into the clear liquid and handed them back.

  Suddenly Clara was being lifted into the air by Arthur and Maxie and carried forward.

  She was somewhere between screaming and laughing when the boys dunked her. She coughed hard and thrashed and got to her feet. She tried to breathe out, and gin leaked from her nose. Disgusting. The gin might have looked like water, but it certainly didn’t feel like it—the liquid left a slick film over her entire body. And the gin was freezing.

  “Good lord,” one of the servers said. “Not again.”

  “Classy move,” Clara said to her friends, stepping out. She tugged wet strands of hair out of her face and pulled her headband farther down over her forehead. “I will kill you all for this,” she said in a low voice, though she couldn’t help grinning.

  It would certainly make for a great story.

  Ten minutes later, Clara walked back into the ballroom in bare feet, an enormous fluffy white towel wrapped around her. She was still wearing her pearl necklace and headband. Her towel-dress invited questions, and soon Arthur’s prank was the talk of the party.

  “I saw that dress you had on,” one girl said. “Was it ruined?”

  Clara trilled out a showy laugh. “Arthur promised to buy me a new one!”

  Clara had found long ago that embarrassing situations could be spun into gold with the right attitude. A dapper young man strolled up, praised her new dress as even better than the last, and offered to get her a whiskey and soda to even out the gin. She didn’t refuse. Before she knew it, one whiskey soda turned into two. Then she just stopped counting.

  And then a familiar voice whispered into her ear, “I should have known you’d be the one swimming in gin.”

  Clara turned and saw the Cad himself.

  Harris looked as polished as ever in his tailcoat and blue silk tie. He’d been little more than a boy during their love affair, but now his face had thinned out a bit. His cocky smile and the devilish glint in his dark sapphire eyes were the same as ever.

  Clara was mortified.

  Had she run into Harris half an hour earlier, she would have looked stunning and completely put together. But now?

  In a split second, however, she made the decision not to be embarrassed. Not in front of Harris. She broke out her brightest grin. “I was looking for a regular bath, but all the tubs were filled with alcohol. Sometimes a girl has to make do.”

  Harris laughed—a jolly, bubbling noise that Clara had once adored. He stepped closer. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here after sending me packing like that back in Chi-town.” He moved so close that they were practically touching.

  To get away from him, Clara would have to barrel through a wall of people or climb over a couple of chairs—risky maneuvers for a girl in a towel.

  She looked around. “Where is the birthday girl, anyway?”

  Harris pointed to the dance floor. An admittedly very pretty blonde in a low-cut black dress was dancing to a hopping tune. “Good, isn’t she? Twiggy dances with the Follies.”

  “How nice for you. I mean, for her. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Clarabella,” he said, his fingers trailing down her bare arm. “Why are you still fighting me? I’m free now to do what I want, and you’re finally back where you belong. Why don’t we go back to the way things were?”

  Clara just smiled grimly and said nothing.

  Harris looked toward the front entrance to the ballroom. “Where is that Ivy League twit, anyway? The one who was trailing after you in Chicago like a puppy?”

  “Oh,” Clara said. The large amount of booze in her system had her a little at a loss for words. She stared up into Harris’s bottomless blue eyes. Suddenly—and inexplicably—she found it impossible to talk about Marcus, to say that she was dating someone. She wanted, just for a second, to let Harris think she was still available.

  “That’s over,” she said quickly.

  “Is that so?” Harris asked. He took her chin in his hand and tilted her face to one side. “Then why is he standing right behind you looking so blue?”

  She spun and saw Marcus standing near the entrance. He was still wearing the tux he must’ve worn to the Met exhibition, and he looked gorgeous, even with the crestfallen expression on his face.

  Then all Clara could see was his back, moving away.

  “Marcus!” she called, cinching the towel tighter and shoving Harris aside. But when she emerged into the hallway, Marcus was gone.

  VERA

  Vera looked over the directions to Connie’s Inn one more time.

  She had allowed Gloria to slip through her fingers not once but twice.

  She doubted she’d get a third chance.

  She adjusted the belt of her off-white dress as she walked. It was simple, but its dropped waist and pleated skirt flattered her slim figure. Evan had given her some cash to buy it. She didn’t like that. Yes, she needed to spend her time finding her brother, not waitressing or dancing in a chorus, but she didn’t want to start depending on Evan too much.

  It would have been one thing if Evan had been her husband, or even her boyfriend …

  When Evan had put together that picnic in Central Park, Vera had thought he’d done it because he liked her. Liked her liked her. And then he’d talked about her to the guys at the Cotton Club as if she were his girl.

  So why didn’t he act like it?

  He hadn’t so much as held her hand since that afternoon in the park, and they hadn’t gone on any more “not-date” dates. Vera should have been thankful for that—the last thing she needed was the drama of dating the only friend she had in this city.

  But she wasn’t grateful at all.

  Because she’d realized that she definitely liked him.

  What girl wouldn’t? Vera had never really cared about jazz until she’d heard the gorgeous, mournful tones Evan could tease out of his trumpet. He was talented, handsome, and sweet. Maybe now that he was working at the top nightclub in the city, he had started to re
alize how far out of Vera’s league he truly was.

  She wasn’t good enough for him.

  When she arrived under the narrow black awning of Connie’s Inn, she found a line of men and women that snaked down the front stairs to the door of the club. She nudged a tall man with a mustache. “What’s the rumpus?”

  “They’re auditioning today. Are you a dancer?” the man replied. He looked Vera up and down. “You look like a dancer.”

  Vera thought fast. “Yep. Do you know where I should check in?”

  “You don’t need to check in—as long as you’ve got an audition time, you’ll be fine.”

  “Yeah, but I actually forgot if my audition is at three or three-thirty, so I really need to check.”

  “Go ask Frank. You can’t miss him—big guy with the clipboard.”

  The door at the foot of the steps was propped open with a slab of wood. The club didn’t look so ritzy in the daytime. Chairs were stacked on top of the round tables, and the tables had been pushed against the walls. Vera followed the line of hopefuls all the way through the room, past the pillars at each corner of the dance floor. There a man dressed all in black was teaching a group of scantily clad women some steps on the gleaming, brightly lit wood.

  To the right, a muscled white man in a fedora and suspendered trousers checked off items on a clipboard. Frank.

  “Excuse me?” Vera asked in her sweetest voice. “I was wondering if a piano player by the name of Jerome Johnson was hired recently.”

  Frank looked up from his clipboard, startled. “Jerome Johnson? No, he hasn’t been here yet.”

  “Yet?” Vera asked.

  “No one by that name has come by.” Frank gave her a dead-eyed stare. “What’s it to you?”

  “I just thought that maybe—” Vera began, her voice cracking a little.

  She jumped when she felt a hand touch her shoulder. She turned and saw Evan. He was dressed casually in tan trousers, a white shirt, and a tan blazer, the brim of his brown derby tilted back. She’d forgotten that they’d agreed to meet here after he finished rehearsing at the Cotton Club for the day.

  He glanced around the club. “I take it you’re not having any luck?”

  “No—Jerome never auditioned here.”

  The trumpet player who’d just finished his audition walked over. “I can’t believe it—Evan Montgomery? What are you doing in New York? I thought you were sticking around the Windy City for good!”

  Evan shook the older man’s hand. “It’s a long story, Mike.” He looked at Vera. “Vera, this is—”

  “Evan Montgomery?” Frank interrupted. “You had a slot for ten a.m. but you never showed.”

  Evan backed up. “I haven’t got the slightest idea what you’re talking about. I’ve already got a gig.”

  Vera’s eyes widened. “What instrument is listed for Evan’s audition?”

  Frank glanced at his clipboard. “Piano. We’re looking for a piano player.”

  Evan had to be realizing the same thing as Vera: Jerome had stopped by Connie’s Inn—and had used Evan’s name to book an audition. He’d probably used fake names at all of his auditions, which was why it had been so tough to track him down. But he had never shown up. Why?

  And then Frank supplied the answer: “I’m not the only one who missed you, neither. There were two scary-looking jamokes asking after you. After a few hours they finally gave up and skedaddled.”

  So not only was Jerome using fake names, but the Mob was on to his ruse. No wonder he’d never shown up.

  Frank glanced at Evan once more. “So let me get this straight: You’re Evan Montgomery, but you’re not this Evan Montgomery?”

  “Exactly,” Evan said. “That’s someone who’s been using my name, who we’re trying to find.”

  Frank patted his pockets. “You know, why don’t I go on in back and get the audition form the other Evan filled out, and you can tell me who it is if it ain’t you.”

  “That would be wonderful!” Vera said. “The audition form probably has Jerome’s address!”

  “No problem. But why don’t you two wait outside? We’re trying to run an audition here. I’ll send someone to get you after I’ve found the paperwork.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Evan said. “I could use a smoke.” He gave Vera a quick hug and her stomach flip-flopped. “I told you we’d find him,” he whispered.

  As he went out to the street, Vera said, “I have one more favor to ask.”

  Frank scowled. “What now?”

  “May I use your powder room?”

  Frank burst into laughter. “Sure thing. There’s one backstage there.” He pointed, then shuffled into the office.

  The restroom was so tiny that Vera’s knees banged the back of the door when she sat. But what did it matter? Using the splintered mirror over the dinky sink, she touched up her lipstick and grinned: In just a few short minutes, she would have Jerome’s address.

  She would be able to see her big brother, to embrace him. To talk to him again after months of silence. To warn him that someone was coming after him.

  When she walked out, Frank was still in the office. She listened to a woman sing an off-key rendition of “After You’ve Gone,” and finally Frank returned. He was mopping at his head with a handkerchief.

  “Yeah,” he said, distracted, “there wasn’t much on the form. But here it is.” He handed her a sealed envelope.

  “Thank you!” Vera said, and she stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek.

  He waved her away. “Oh, go on.”

  Outside, she found the line of performers still there and a few men lounging against the front of the building, smoking. But Evan wasn’t one of them.

  On the sidewalk in front of the club an almost-whole cigarette lay smoldering on the ground. Next to it was Evan’s brown derby.

  Where would he have gone without her? Without his hat?

  Vera snatched Evan’s hat off the ground and whipped around to face the line of people. “Does anyone know what happened to the man who was wearing this hat?”

  No one said a word.

  “Oh my God,” Vera said, leaning against one of the awning’s posts for support. A few people glanced her way, but they didn’t stay interested for long. Girls probably acted crazy all the time at these auditions. She couldn’t stop herself from quietly weeping.

  After ten minutes had passed and there was still no sign of Evan, she suddenly knew: The Mob had kidnapped him. Maybe the two guys Frank had mentioned had stuck around, waiting. And then when Evan had come out and fit Jerome’s description …

  If anyone was going to be kidnapped, it should’ve been Vera. Evan didn’t have anything to do with any of this. He was just a sweet boy who had the misfortune to be friends with someone like her—a girl who brought harm to everyone she cared about.

  A woman came and gave Vera’s back a few awkward pats. “You all right? I’m Molly.”

  “Vera,” she said. The girl was stunning, with light brown skin and glossy black curls. She was probably just about Vera’s age, seventeen or so.

  Molly lowered her voice. “A couple of hard-boiled Brunos took him for a ride in a black Packard. One of ’em showed us his gun and told us to mind our potatoes. Said if we was wise, none of us were seeing anything.”

  Vera almost stopped breathing. “Oh no.”

  “Yeah, it was kind of scary. And before that happened? The younger one was working me like a drugstore cowboy, trying to get a date. Like I’m going to go meet him at the Ritz-Carlton now.”

  “The Ritz-Carlton?”

  “Yeah. Promised me a fancy dinner. ‘I always sup at six,’ he said. ‘Sup’—what kind of palooka says that?”

  Vera wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Only the worst sort.”

  Molly shrugged. “I thought about going—it is the Ritz—but my boyfriend might not have liked it.”

  “Probably not,” Vera said. “But I could go in your place.”

  “Ha,” Molly said. “Serve him right
! But you’d better bring some muscle—those guys weren’t kidding around.”

  Vera clutched her handbag close and hurried away. She had just enough time to get back to the boardinghouse, pick up something she’d hidden in the space behind the bottommost dresser drawer, and get to the Ritz before six.

  She was glad she’d never gotten rid of Bastian’s pistol.

  Tonight she might have to use it.

  GLORIA

  Gloria was alone.

  She sat at the piano in the apartment, trying to pick out the tune of “St. Louis Blues.”

  It was well past one in the morning. She hadn’t seen Jerome since rehearsal at the Opera House hours ago. Staying out late was how he avoided having to talk to her. They were like two ships passing in the night. They barely spoke. They never touched. And a kiss was out of the question.

  Gloria had spent the past week feeling absolutely awful. She wanted to tell Jerome how sorry she was, that the worst day with him was better than the best day without him.

  But Jerome didn’t make apologizing easy.

  Her head jerked up when she heard the key in the lock. She mustered a smile and said, “Hi!”

  Jerome hung his hat on the hook and removed his suit jacket, sat heavily in one of the chairs, and started untying his shoelaces.

  “Are you hungry? I could make you a sandwich or something.”

  Jerome shook his head. He rose from his chair, picked up his shoes, and walked into the bedroom. Gloria slammed the lid on the piano and followed. He was changing into his blue pajamas. One look at his muscular arms reminded Gloria how much she missed the feel of them around her. “I was hoping we could talk,” she said quietly.

  Jerome sat on the bed, his gaze dark and cold. “It’s late,” he said, and lay back against the pillows.

  “I just wanted to say—” Gloria began, but Jerome rolled toward the wall.