She burst into the barroom and plowed straight into someone. “Watch where you’re—”
He looked thinner and hungrier than he had back at the Green Mill, and his features were sharper at the edges. He was still beautiful, though—at least, beautiful for a black man.
“Pardon me,” he said, giving her the polite but uninterested smile people gave to strangers.
Jerome didn’t recognize her.
He had only ever seen her at the Green Mill, where she had looked very different. Now, because she’d been supervising the booze shipments since the morning, and her shift would be over before evening, she wasn’t really glammed up. Instead of a flashy sequined number, she was dressed in a simple blue Patou day dress.
And, since Hank had made his under-the-rowboat comment about how nice she looked without makeup, she had started wearing less.
She opened her mouth to say something and found herself coughing.
“Are you all right?” Jerome asked. Before she knew it, he had sat her down on a bar stool. “This lady here is choking!”
Hank was suddenly there, striking Lorraine on the back. She coughed violently and leaned into Hank, trying to ignore the skinny, hungry reality of Jerome beside her.
Hank looked up at Jerome. “You should go. You really don’t want to be here right now.”
“What?” Jerome said.
“I’m serious. Get out of here. Now.”
“You don’t need to tell a fellow three times,” Jerome muttered, and marched to the stairs.
In despair, Lorraine watched him go. If she told one of the boys to run after him now, there might still be a chance of catching him. But she couldn’t get her breath to speak up.
Whenever she’d imagined Jerome in her head, she’d seen a hardened criminal. A killer with cruel eyes and a scowling mouth. But Jerome didn’t look like a coldhearted killer. Not in the way Puccini and Carlito looked like killers. Their eyes were flat and dead. But Jerome—hungry as he looked, his eyes had the glint of life in them.
Someone handed her a glass of water.
Bernie, the trumpet player, cleared his throat. “So, uh, is rehearsal over? We can’t do much without a singer or a piano player.”
Lorraine nodded vigorously. “Yeah, you all should head home. Just practice a lot before Saturday. Zuleika’s debut should be the best thing our audience has ever seen, got it?” She took a drink of water so that she wouldn’t have to talk anymore.
Puccini strolled out onto the barroom from the office. “Rehearsal’s over so soon?”
“It is,” Lorraine said, and took another drink of water.
At that moment, a group of men came down the stairs. At the front was Carlito Macharelli, looking debonair in a black pin-striped suit, a fedora’s brim bent over his dark eyes.
“Carlito,” Puccini said. “Wasn’t expecting you so—”
Carlito raised a hand. “We’ll catch up in a minute, Puccini.” He slid over to the bar. “If it isn’t Miss Dyer,” he said, looking her up and down. “Don’t you clean up nice in the big city.”
“Thanks,” Lorraine said, shivering. “You look nice t—”
“You’re gonna talk to me now, punk, and you’re gonna get this idiot girl out of my hair. She’s makin’ a mess of my club and I’m sick of it!” Puccini said, loosening his tie.
“Calm down, Puccini,” Carlito said in his usual smooth voice. “I’m sorry to saddle you with such a dumb Dora. You have no idea how much my father appreciates this favor. Though I don’t think he’d be so pleased if he knew how your crew botched the Grokowski job last month.”
Puccini looked as she’d never seen him before: terrified. “I don’t see how that’s got anything to do with this,” Puccini said.
“You wouldn’t,” Carlito said, patting his shoulder. “Puccini, please: Just keep her a little longer, eh?”
Puccini glared at Lorraine. “All right. But she’s making her curtain call here, understood? Finito.”
As soon as Puccini shut the door of his office behind him, Carlito said, “May I have a moment, Lorraine?”
“Sure,” Lorraine said, and he sat down next to her at the bar. “I’m guessing you received my telegrams.”
Carlito looked surprised. “No, actually. I was just tired of waiting around and figured I’d drop in to check on you. What’s the update?”
Lorraine smiled. “Gloria and Jerome were here together!”
“Great!” Carlito said, rubbing his hands on his thighs. “Where are they now?”
Lorraine let out a nervous laugh. “That’s the thing. They were here, but now they’re … gone.”
“Gone?”
“Gone,” Lorraine repeated, nodding.
There was silence for a moment, and then Carlito screamed, “They’re what?” His arm snapped out and he grabbed Lorraine by the sailor collar of her dress. Behind him, Lorraine saw Hank coming forward, but she flicked a hand at him to leave her alone—he would only make matters worse.
“You’re telling me that you had the two of them right here and you let them slip away together?” Carlito asked, dragging her close so that their faces were almost touching.
“They didn’t technically leave together,” Spark contributed from behind the bar. “The singer ran out about twenty minutes ago, and then the black boy left about ten minutes later.”
Carlito stared hard at Lorraine. “You couldn’t find an excuse to keep even one of them here?” He pushed her away, and she fell off the stool.
“Hey!” Hank said, but Carlito glared at him and he didn’t say anything more.
Lorraine tried to get up, but Carlito’s shiny black shoe came down on the hem of her dress. For the first time since he’d arrived, Carlito was smiling.
“Oh, Raine,” he said, fingering the silver pistol at his hip. “What am I going to do with you?”
CLARA
It was the afternoon after the party, and Clara was a wreck.
“So you see, it was all for the magazine,” she said, stirring cream into her third coffee of the day. “I’m still the same person, Marcus.”
Marcus flipped through the copy of the Manhattanite. It was the issue with the first of her “Glittering Fools” columns. She had begged him to meet her at Lindy’s for lunch so that she could explain why she had lied to him and gone to Twiggy Sampson’s birthday party.
He’d reluctantly agreed.
Marcus finally pulled his eyes away from the magazine, but only to look at the large slice of strawberry cheesecake sitting between them. “Don’t you want any?”
Clara usually adored Lindy’s cheesecake, but today her stomach turned at the sight of it. Instead, she reached across the table and put her hand on Marcus’s arm. “What are you thinking?”
Marcus pushed the magazine aside. “I just don’t know why you kept this a secret from me.”
She traced the edge of her coffee saucer with her spoon. “I didn’t think you’d approve. I worried that you’d think I was falling back into my old life.”
“And back into Harris Brown’s arms?”
“Marcus, I told you—nothing was going on. That was the first time I’d seen Harris since Chicago. I was just saying hello.”
“Clara,” Marcus began, taking her hand, “I believe you. And I was being honest when I told you I was proud of you and your writing. It’s a courageous thing, putting your work out in the world. I love it that you dare to try. And I love you.”
Then his smile faded. He wasn’t going to let her off easy. “But I am worried about the effect of all these parties on you. Why not go to Barnard and get a real education instead of some fly-by-night reporter job, gossiping about a life you’ve worked so hard to put in your past?”
“But that’s just it, Marcus,” Clara replied. “That flapper world is the same, but I’m different.”
“Are you? You got about two hours of sleep last night. And from the way you’ve been picking at your food, I’m betting you’ve got a hell of a hangover.”
&n
bsp; “Guilty as charged.”
“And isn’t there a tiny part of you—the merest bit, the smallest part—that is glad you’ve got the magazine as an excuse to fall back in with your old wild crowd?”
“Of course not!” Clara said, but she had hesitated—only a moment!—and Marcus noticed.
He glanced down at the magazine. “I thought that when we came to New York, we’d … I don’t know, have a life together. But sleeping all day, partying all night, saying what’s clever instead of what’s true … Manhattanite or no, there are real consequences to living that way, Clara.”
“I know, but—”
“I thought you wanted to be different,” Marcus continued as though she hadn’t said anything. “I thought you wanted a better life—one that didn’t center around boozing and puking and sequined dresses and speakeasies.” He paused. “I thought you wanted a life with me.”
“I do,” Clara said emphatically. Marcus was the best thing that had ever happened to her—he’d showed her that it was possible to love again after so much heartache.
“No, you don’t. You wouldn’t be pulling these kinds of shenanigans if you did. That’s not how you treat someone you love, Clara. It’s just not.”
Clara gazed at the other happy couples, the mothers and fathers and children eating lunch, the waitresses strolling around with soft drinks on round trays, all of them exactly who they appeared to be. But Clara? Who was she?
How ironic: When she had lived her life doing what men expected of her, she had lost herself. And now that she was finally doing something that was entirely her own, she was losing the man she loved.
“Come with me,” she said, almost without thinking. “Be my sidekick.”
“That’s not the point,” Marcus said. “I used to like partying, too, but I’ve seen the downside. What happened to you, what happened to Gloria and Jerome … to Lorraine. There comes a time when you need to get serious about something.” He sat up straight. “I’m serious about school.”
Clara narrowed her eyes. “And I’m serious about my writing.”
“Good,” Marcus replied. “Then study writing at Barnard. Go after something more than twenty column inches about some ditzy flapper’s birthday bash. This kind of stuff won’t last.” He lifted the magazine for a moment. “There are some witty lines in here, Clara. You have real talent. You could do so much more.”
“This is just how I’m getting my start,” Clara answered.
“It’s easy to say that now. It won’t be so simple five years down the line when you’re an established gossip columnist with editors lining up to pay you for drivel.” He pushed himself up out of the booth. “If you want to write, write about something that matters. If you want to write trash, then find someone else to love, because I won’t be waiting around.”
Maybe they were silly and frivolous, but Clara was proud of her columns. She put a lot of work into them. And people talked about them. They were good. Was it wrong to feel pleased about writing something that people actually enjoyed reading, rather than something they read because they wanted to look smart and sophisticated?
Parker would never say these things to her, Clara found herself thinking. Parker believed in her, in what she was doing. At least that was something.
Marcus laid some bills on the table. “I have to go to this charity gala at Sherry’s tonight at eight—my mother’s on the board of the Chicago branch. I’d love for you to be my date, though I’ll understand if you’ve got other plans.”
He smoothed his hand over his amber hair, then pulled on his straw trilby. Clara sighed. Her writing was important, but was a society column really more important than Marcus?
She put that decision out of her mind for now. Marcus was offering an olive branch, and she knew she would regret it if she didn’t grab it. She forced herself to smile. “I’ll see you there.”
“Good,” Marcus told her. “Because I’m not only serious about school, Clara. I’m serious about you.”
After he’d left, she let her pretend smile disappear.
This was hell.
About the only thing Clara had said all evening was “thank you” when complimented on her champagne-colored dress. The flowing skirt came down to her ankles, and the loose sleeves that draped to her elbows were hardly flapperesque. The dress was lovely and safe. All the matrons at the party loved it.
Marcus was in the corner of the room, laughing over an anecdote that could in no way be that funny. Not in a million years.
Between them was an obstacle course of linen-covered dining tables, each with a set of oldsters in tuxedos and ball gowns loudly guffawing and smacking their lips as they ate hors d’œuvres and drank lukewarm lemonade.
It was already ten o’clock—Clara wanted out of there. She’d been hoping to stop by the office to drop off edits on the Twiggy Sampson story. Parker usually stayed at the office until midnight—he was more of a workhorse than Clara would’ve guessed.
Finally, Marcus caught Clara’s eye. He looked beautiful in his tux, clean-shaven, every strand of hair Brilliantined perfectly in place. “Having fun?” he asked. For the second during which his eyes met hers, this was the most fantastic party she’d ever attended.
“Sure. I could use actual food, though. What do you say we blow this shindig and grab a real dinner?”
He shook his head and went off to talk to yet another middle-aged society woman.
“Well, I’m hungry,” she called after him. She spotted a waiter carrying a tray of shrimp and headed that way.
In her rush, she almost took down a young woman in a silky red gown. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Clara said, catching the woman by the elbow. On anyone else, the gown would have been too loud for polite society, but with her large hazel eyes and flawless skin, this girl looked like a fashion plate.
But her beauty wasn’t what was surprising—Clara had seen this girl at the Green Mill. “Forgive me if this sounds strange, but have you ever been to Chicago?”
The girl smiled and, if anything, became even more beautiful. Her features were familiar: large eyes and mouth with a tiny nose, a wispy blond bob, sooty black lashes.
“A few times.” The girl extended her hand. “Maude Cortineau. Nice to meet you.” Maude cut her big eyes back and forth, then pulled a delicate little flask from her red clutch. She took a swig, then held it out.
Clara accepted the flask and took a quick sip. “Thanks. So how’d a party-loving girl like you end up at a boring event like this one?”
“By accident!” Maude gave a gurgling little laugh, and Clara realized that she was completely splifficated. “I came to New York with my boyfriend but got dragged to this by my aunt—she’s on the committee.”
Clara looked out on the room. “So which one’s your boyfriend?”
Maude hiccupped. “Oh, Carlito wouldn’t be caught dead at this sort of party.”
“Carlito? The gangster’s son?” Clara asked, her mind racing. This girl probably knew a lot about the Mob underworld.
Maude nodded. “That’s my boy. The Big Cheese.”
“Oh, he’s so handsome,” Clara said. “Why aren’t you off with him?”
“He’s working right now,” Maude whispered. “He’s here to ‘clean house.’ ” She took another swig from her flask.
Clara tried not to show her excitement. “That sounds very mysterious.”
“It is! Well, not really—someone killed one of his gang.” Maude fished a cigarette out of her purse. “People think it was the Green Mill’s piano player, but that’s because Carlito is ashamed that it was a girl—some crappy torch singer who only sang the one time before her husband came and dragged her off. She’s got a new gig at the Opera House now.” A waiter walked by. “Ooo, look, finger sandwiches. I love those. Anyway, nice meeting you, Cora.”
Maude walked off after the finger-sandwich-bearing waiter.
Gloria, her Gloria, had killed someone? Clara’s first instinct was to laugh. But that certainly explained why Gloria
had left town in such a hurry. If Jerome had been in danger, nothing would have stopped her cousin from protecting him.
Clara found Marcus talking to a decrepit old woman who looked as if she’d been roused from the grave for this party. Clara pulled him over to the corner of the room.
“That was rude, Clara,” he protested.
“Just listen to me for a minute,” she said, quickly relaying everything Maude had just told her. “And to think I was just trying to get a juicy story out of Maude.”
Marcus caught Clara’s arm in a firm grip. “Clara, you cannot write about this. Give me your word that you won’t. Gloria will be arrested, Jerome will be killed. God, you might even be killed, too.”
“Of course I won’t,” Clara said. “I … wasn’t even thinking of that.”
But now she was thinking about it.
Wasn’t Marcus being a little hypocritical? He gave her this high-and-mighty speech about writing something more than society drivel, and now when she’d found something truly serious, he was basically forbidding her to write about it? That didn’t seem fair. There would always be real consequences to writing these kinds of stories—that was what made them news. There would be people she might hurt, grim truths she would bring to light that might better have been left buried. It seemed that nothing she did in her writing career would make Marcus happy.
Clara swallowed. What would a real journalist do?
Fifteen minutes later, Clara breezed through the front door of the Manhattanite offices. A black janitor was mopping the lobby floor. He tipped his hat to her and kept at his work. She flashed her press pass at the desk guard, got into the elevator, and rode it to the fourteenth floor.
She wasn’t disappointed when she saw light seeping out from underneath Parker’s office door. She knocked lightly. “Parker? It’s me, Clara.”
“C’mon in,” he called.
Clara had been here a fair number of times now—she’d written three “Glittering Fools” articles, including the Twiggy Sampson story, and she met with Parker to receive her assignments and her edits afterward. But those meetings were always during the day.
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