Ingenue

by Jillian Larkin

  Parker was sitting in front of his typewriter with handwritten pages scattered around him and a nearly empty mug of coffee. Instead of his usual impeccable suit and tie, he just had on a white shirt and nondescript trousers. Daytime Parker was handsome and stylish, but Clara was surprised to find that nighttime Parker was downright sexy.

  From the way he was staring, it didn’t seem as if he minded the way Clara looked, either. “Where are you coming from? Couldn’t be work—a flapper wouldn’t be caught dead with a hemline that low.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “I didn’t say that. You look sensational.” He gestured with his coffee mug. “I’d offer you a cuppa joe, but this is the last of it. I’ve been drinking for about three hours.”

  Clara laughed. “You’ll be up all night! Too much caffeine.”

  Parker blinked. “Isn’t it normal to stay up until six in the morning?”

  Clara gave another laugh. “No, I don’t think it is.”

  “Ah well. I guess I need a woman around to tell me these things.”

  Clara didn’t know how to respond, so she awkwardly pulled her article out of her bag. “I thought I’d drop these edits off. Sorry I didn’t get a chance earlier.”

  “It’s fine.” He looked at the clock on the wall. It was ten to midnight. “And technically you’re still on time, so thank you for that. Let’s go over this.”

  She hadn’t been expecting Parker to review her work in front of her. “Now?”

  “Why not?”

  Clara knew she should go home and get some sleep. But Parker had never wanted to go over edits together before. So she walked around the desk and sat next to him. Their chairs were close; their legs were almost touching.

  Clara leaned back regally in her chair and laced her fingers behind her head.

  “What are you doing?” Parker asked.

  Clara grinned. “Just seeing what it’s like—you know, sitting behind the desk instead of in front of it.”

  He laughed. “Keep going at the rate you are now and you could be sitting here someday. Although I don’t know how you’d expect your reporters to remember any edits you give them, not with those big blues of yours to distract them.”

  She blushed. “You really think I could be an editor?”

  “Sure. You’ve got an eye for what matters in a story, and you’re not sentimental. You’ve got a flair for sharp language. And you’re willing to work hard for what you want instead of accepting marriage to some Harvard millionaire. Not that the fellow wouldn’t be a lucky man …” He trailed off, his green eyes radiant. “Is there a, uh, lucky fellow in your life?”

  “I, um …” Yes, there is a lucky fellow and his name is Marcus! her mind screamed at her. But the words wouldn’t come. “You’re getting awfully personal, aren’t you? I thought you were all work and no play.”

  A strand of his wavy dark hair fell into his eyes. “I love to play, as long as I have a good partner.”

  Clara’s stomach started to swirl. She felt guilty for not telling him about Marcus. But things were complicated. “Let’s get started.”

  Clara felt a bit of a rush as Parker read over the column. He laughed in the right places, and his cuts made her writing sharper than it had been before.

  “A gin bath!” Parker said. “Really?”

  Clara only burst into embarrassed laughter. It was nice to joke with someone, the way she and Marcus used to.

  After about forty-five minutes, Parker rubbed his temples and said, “All right, I think we’re done here. Good work.” He picked up a photo of Twiggy that would run alongside the article. “I’ll tell you this much—she has nothing on you, doll.”

  A silence settled between them, and Clara stood up. The compliments were nice, of course, but it was time to leave—before anything happened that she’d regret. “I should probably go.”

  Parker stood up as well, trailing behind her to the door. “I guess I’ll go wrestle with the coffeepot,” he said. “I’ve got an idea for a story and I don’t want to lose it.”

  Parker would never judge her for staying up all night to write her stories. Unlike Marcus, he would encourage her to follow every exciting lead she came across. “You know … I got information on what could be a great story.”

  “Oh? You want to pitch it to me?”

  “I’m not sure if I can,” Clara said, suddenly feeling nervous. “I have some, uh … moral questions about writing it.”

  He leaned closer. “What do you mean?”

  “The story involves someone close to me. And publishing it could possibly hurt her. What do you think I should do?”

  “I’m a journalist,” Parker replied. “The only morality that matters to me is the truth.” He took her shoulders in his hands. “What about you?”

  She could see in his eyes that he wanted to kiss her. His fingers trailed over her shoulders, under her hair, and toward the nape of her neck. Before she had even thought of what she was doing, her own hands had settled on the soft white linen of his shirt. She could feel his trim torso through the cloth, only a thin layer of material separating her skin from his. She could feel her chin tilting upward, her lips parting in anticipation.

  Then Marcus’s face flashed into her head.

  She jerked away. “I have to go.” She clumsily slung her purse over her shoulder. “Have a good night.”

  Parker started to speak, but Clara was already out the door, in the elevator, watching as the doors closed and she was alone with her thoughts, the warmth of his breath still lingering on her cheek.

  VERA

  “Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton, miss,” the doorman said. “Mr. Demartino is waiting for you in the dining room.” The doorman was only a little older than her and looked a bit like Evan, making her stomach lurch.

  Vera had never been inside such a luxurious hotel. And clearly, the hotel had never seen a young black woman in an evening gown. Vera was quite conspicuously the only black person in the joint who wasn’t dressed like a maid or a bellboy.

  “Thank you,” she said. She had never had more than a couple of dollars to her name; she’d never received anything but hostility from the sorts of folks who stayed in fancy hotels like this one.

  Her black heels sank into the scarlet plush carpeting. The entire lobby glowed with money and refinement, and she could feel the rich white people’s eyes boring into her with each step she took. Past the elevators were the restaurant’s gold-handled glass doors.

  If Vera hadn’t been so worried about Evan, she might actually have enjoyed herself.

  Inside, the maître d’ at the podium scowled. Then his face split into a broad, cold smile. “You must be Mr. Demartino’s special guest.”

  Vera nodded. What did he mean by special guest?

  The maître d’ picked up a menu. “Right this way, mademoiselle,” he said in a fake French accent.

  Vera followed him to a table at the back of the restaurant. Of course the gangster would’ve warned the Ritz staff that he was meeting a black woman for dinner. That was why they were welcoming her instead of slamming the door in her face.

  Men with guns and power tended to have that kind of effect on people.

  But tonight the tables were turned. Vera had a gun in her purse and a mission, and nobody—especially not some two-bit mobster—was going to stop her from rescuing Evan.

  Demartino was sitting at the farthest table in the restaurant. He had a huge booth all to himself. He looked as if he was in his early twenties. His massive body looked uncomfortable in a formal suit—this man belonged in a plain shirt and pants with suspenders.

  “You’re not the gal I asked out earlier,” Demartino said, but his confusion quickly changed into a sick grin. “Though I’m not complainin’. You’re an even choicer tomato than the other one.”

  That was exactly why Vera had worn her most expensive sleeveless black dress—a gift from an admirer at the Green Mill. It was a Madeleine Vionnet, and the sheer silk chiffon felt luxurious against h
er skin. She’d accessorized with the (real) pearl necklace her father had spent ages saving up to buy for her mother and a matching (fake) pearl headband.

  Vera returned Demartino’s smile. A jagged scar started between the middle and index fingers of his right hand and ran up under his cuff. She’d never met him, but she knew this gangster’s nickname from the Green Mill: Hatchet. He was a high-level goon of Carlito’s.

  So that was who’d snatched Evan.

  “Molly’s boyfriend didn’t want her out with another man, even one as handsome as you,” Vera cooed. “So I volunteered to come in her place.” She sat and leaned her elbow on the table. “It works out pretty well for everyone, since I’ve got a favor to ask.”

  Demartino lit a cigarette. “Whatcha need? Some dough? Daddy’s got you covered, baby lamb.”

  Vera ignored the fact that a lamb actually was a baby sheep, so it made no sense to refer to her as a baby lamb. “I need you to take me to Carlito Macharelli.”

  He snorted. “Oh, that’ll be a good one to tell my buddies later. Ha! Take her to Macharelli,” he said to no one in particular, dragging heavily on his cigarette. “Ha! Too funny. You’re a hoot, baby lamb. A regular owl.”

  Vera didn’t laugh. “I’m serious.”

  After a moment, he stopped laughing. His smile got bigger. “No way.” He straightened his jacket. “Now, if ya ain’t here to have a good time with me, I’m off ta find someone who will.”

  “Wait!” Vera said.

  “Sweetheart, I’m doing you a favor,” Demartino said. “Carlito don’t take kindly to anyone demanding anything—not even good-looking dames like yourself. He may be young, but he’s tough, and he’s got a lotta muscle behind him. Baby boy’s got a big daddy, and even I don’t mess with that. Now scram.” He started to scoot out of the booth.

  “But Carlito’s here to find Gloria Carmody and Jerome Johnson,” Vera said coolly. “And I know where they’re holed up.”

  Demartino slid back into the booth. His face looked a little panicked. “What do you know about that?”

  “You grabbed the wrong person this afternoon. Evan? He doesn’t know anything. I know where Jerome and Gloria are living,” she lied. “But I’ll only tell Carlito myself.” She stared at Demartino until he looked away. “You still want me to scram?”

  “Why would you want to tell Carlito? I’m a hell of a lot friendlier.”

  “It’s Carlito or nobody. So what’s it gonna be?”

  Demartino lifted a hand to flag down the waiter. “I need to use your telephone.”

  The waiter nodded. “Right away, sir.”

  “What’s your name, doll?” Demartino asked.

  “Vera,” she replied.

  “Wait here.” Demartino followed the waiter out of the restaurant.

  Vera’s hands shook. She pressed them flat on the table. What if he was just calling some goons to come take care of her? He was the only lead she had. How else would she find Evan?

  She sighed in relief when Demartino returned with the waiter. “Get a cab for me and the lady. We’re going to Rick’s Steakhouse, midtown.”

  Rick’s Steakhouse was packed, the small tables pushed tightly together and a fog of cigar smoke filling the room. There were no women in sight—every guest was a man in a flashy suit. Several of the men had scars on their faces, and even the ones who didn’t had the look of hardened criminals. Carlito and his men must have picked this place as their base of operations while they were in New York.

  “Hey there, honey!” one man yelled at Vera when she passed. “I was just gonna ask for some coffee with my dessert—guess now I don’t have to!”

  Vera clutched her beaded purse a little closer and tried to ignore the catcalls as Demartino led her to the back of the restaurant.

  A group of four men were playing poker around a square table and smoking cigars. The one with a mountain of red chips in front of him was none other than Carlito Macharelli himself. His hair was slicked back, his gray suit perfectly tailored, and his face starkly handsome in the arrogant way of someone who is never told no.

  Carlito smiled at Vera when she and Demartino reached the poker table. “Well, well, look who’s in the Big Apple. It’s one surprise after another in this town.” He elbowed the man on his left. “First Joey here nabs the wrong guy auditioning under the right name, and then the sister of the guy we are looking for comes a-calling. We’re catching everybody but the one person we actually want. Joey, be a gentleman, why don’t ya?”

  The man scrambled out of his chair.

  “Have a seat, Vera,” Carlito said. “Hatchet, how about you get us a couple of drinks? And how about the rest of you give us some privacy?”

  The other men drew their chairs away, leaving only Vera and Carlito at the poker table. Once they had both been supplied with drinks, he gave her a long, hard stare. “You’re looking for your brother, aren’t you? I don’t believe for a second that hooey Hatchet said about you knowing where Jerome and Gloria are. If you knew, you would’ve left town with your brother and his gal right away, taken ’em somewhere far away from where I might find ’em.”

  Vera had picked up her drink; now she set it on the table without taking a sip. “What makes you think I wouldn’t turn them in to you? I might get a nice reward out of it.”

  “ ’Cause you ain’t that type of girl,” he said. “But you obviously know more than you should. So how about you spill the beans before one of my guys here spills your blood all over the back alley?” Vera put all her willpower into not shuddering at his words. “No one’s noticed you missin’ from Chicago ’cept for that nice father of yours. I should pay him a visit when I get back to Chicago, pay my condolences—”

  “Stop!” Vera said. The image of her father’s face had been too much. She pointed at Carlito. “You may play at being the big, tough gangster boy, but you’re only twenty. Barely old enough to grow a mustache. Nobody would listen to you at all if your daddy weren’t standing next to him—Al Capone. So don’t try and get all tough on me. You ain’t nothing but a spoiled brat.”

  “You don’t really think you’re going to walk out of here, do you?”

  Vera took a deep breath. “I’ll get straight to the point,” she said. “I was on the docks the night Sebastian Grey was shot.” She didn’t give herself any time to gauge Carlito’s reaction. “We both know that you and my brother are next on the killer’s list.”

  For a second, Carlito’s eyes registered shock. Then they went back to their normal dead quality. “You’re making no sense, doll.”

  “Don’t play me for a fool, Carlito,” Vera said. “You ran because you two were set up. Bastian got iced, and I’m here to tell you that the torpedo, the hired gun, is in Manhattan, looking for you. But I can deliver her to you. I know who she is.”

  Vera was no closer to knowing the identity of the assassin than she had been in Chicago. She had nothing real to offer Carlito in exchange for Evan—so she needed to make this lie convincing.

  She ever so slightly opened her purse, her fingers grazing the silver pistol.

  “It’s pretty simple, really. Forgive my brother, let go of your grudge, and give me my boyfriend back.”

  Carlito smirked. “Boyfriend? Since when is my old trumpet player in love with you?”

  Vera figured it was smarter to refer to Evan as her boyfriend. As Gloria had proved, a person in love would do anything. “I know the killer is here because I saw her following Gloria Carmody two weeks ago. And then I saw her again earlier today.” Vera let out a full-throated laugh. “Oh, and by the way? I know that Gloria actually was the one who killed Tony.” Carlito coughed at this bit of news. “So why don’t you just drop this thing about my brother already?”

  Carlito sat in an angry silence. He fussed with his chips, stacking them again and again.

  From the corner of her eye, Vera saw something glitter. She looked over: Another woman was in the steakhouse after all.

  Maude Cortineau was perched in a chair again
st the wall, smoking a cigarette. When Maude noticed Vera looking at her, the blond moll glanced down at the floor. But it was clear she’d been listening to Vera and Carlito’s entire conversation.

  How had Vera not noticed Maude before? The sequined, sea-foam-green dress was hardly inconspicuous. But Maude seemed to have a talent for disappearing into the background.

  “Gloria may have pulled the trigger, but they were both responsible,” Carlito said finally. “And I can face this killer on my own, especially if she’s just a dame. Thanks for that scrap of information—seems like the only bit you’ve got.” He swirled the ice in his empty glass. “ ’Cause, see, while you have no idea where Jerome and Gloria are, I do. They work for me, not that they’re wise to it. They’ve both got gigs in one of my clubs.

  “No one’ll believe the truth about Tony from a girl like you. Especially if you’re dead. So be careful what kind of tone you adopt with me.”

  It wasn’t fair! She had come all the way from Chicago, had risked so much, and somehow Carlito had already won. “Fine,” she said. “Just let me have Evan and we’ll leave.”

  Carlito chuckled. “Oh, I don’t think so, Vera. In fact, I don’t think I’m going to let you go at all.” He nodded at a few of the men sitting at the surrounding tables. Suddenly they stood and created a wall of muscle behind her chair.

  Vera reached into the purse in her lap and pulled out Bastian’s pistol. She pointed the barrel at Carlito’s head. She could feel the men crowding her chair move back.

  “Let him go. Now,” Vera said, proud of the strength in her voice.

  Carlito stared at her with his mouth slightly open.

  Vera switched off the safety on the gun.

  Something shifted in Carlito’s eyes; he knew how serious she was. He looked over her shoulder at one of the men. “Okay, Eddie—you go and untie him.”

  Vera kept the gun trained on Carlito while a rotund bald man walked to the corner of the restaurant by the men’s room. He opened a heavy wooden door to reveal a tiny closet. In with the brooms and mops was Evan, tied to a chair with a gag in his mouth. He had a black eye and a scrape on one cheek.