Ingenue

by Jillian Larkin

  It was nice to have something to be excited about when nothing else in her life seemed to be going right.

  Things were still rocky with Marcus.

  They’d meet up, and Marcus would give her suspicious glances as if he expected her to break out a flask and start dancing on the nearest table. On evenings they didn’t spend together, he’d ask painfully detailed questions about her plans as though he didn’t believe a single word she was saying.

  He’d lost faith in her, and she was slowly trying to rebuild his trust. But it wasn’t exactly sexy to feel as if your boyfriend were a copper keeping watch over your every move.

  And Marcus didn’t even know that she’d almost kissed Parker.

  At the blue-lettered sign for Saunders’ Furniture, she turned down a narrow alley, following Leelee’s directions to the Opera House, and quickly found the large steel door under the bare bulb.

  The wall was plastered with old posters pasted one atop another, but the newest one caught Clara’s eye: a stylized portrait of a beautiful woman with a flaming red bob and green eyes, standing next to a piano. It advertised the upcoming debut of “the scorching singer hot enough to make the Devil himself blush”: Zuleika Rose.

  When Maude Cortineau had slurred that Gloria had a gig at the Opera House, Clara had assumed Gloria was working as a waitress. But no—she was headlining under a made-up name. The girl had gumption!

  Marcus would never forgive Clara if she wrote this story, but she wasn’t here for either Parker or Marcus. She was here to warn Gloria about Carlito. If, in the process, she figured out an angle on Gloria’s story, all the better.

  She rapped hard on the door.

  “Sorry, toots, we ain’t open yet,” a boy said, poking his head out. His expression softened as he looked Clara up and down. “I mean, what can I do for you?”

  She gave him her full-wattage smile. “I’m Clara Knowles, a reporter for the Manhattanite. I’ve heard you’re opening a fantastic new show here and I was hoping to do a story on it.”

  The boy’s eyes flicked from the press pass to her legs. “I ain’t used to newshounds bein’ pretty little Janes. The band doesn’t rehearse today, though. Show debuts tomorrow night.”

  Clara pushed herself through the doorway. “That’s fine—I’d much rather get a feel for the place before reporting on the band. Maybe talk to the manager?”

  “Okay,” the boy said. “Follow me.”

  It wasn’t long before Clara was sitting at one of the Opera House’s round tables, sipping seltzer. The speakeasy was more or less deserted this early in the day but was one of the grandest she’d ever seen. A very good-looking bartender had come out through a door near the bar to pour her seltzer, but then he’d left the way he’d come. The only other person in the place was a grumbling old man pushing a broom over the hardwood floor.

  The place looked plush and had a red-tinted den-of-sin theme. Even though they were in a huge basement, it didn’t feel like it—the ceilings were high and dark and the stage looked as elaborate as at any theater on Broadway. This would have been a good gig for Gloria, if only Carlito hadn’t been behind it.

  Clara needed to get information out of Spark—an odd-looking man with wispy brown hair, wearing a boater and a red-and-white-striped vest, who’d introduced himself as the person running the club. “So, have you been open long?” she asked.

  Spark shrugged. “We just changed the name to something swankier. We’ve been around for a while.” He thought for a moment. “But how about you just say in your article that we’re new?”

  “Of course,” Clara said with a girlish smile. “Where’d you find this Zuleika”—she glanced down at her notepad—“Rose, is it?”

  “The way you find most of ’em. We put out an ad. She auditioned.”

  “You’re not worried about running a no-name singer when places like the Cotton Club and Connie’s have got big stars like Bessie Smith and Nora Bayes?”

  “Naw. I picked Zuleika out myself,” he said, puffing out his skinny chest. “That girlie can wail. No shame in bein’ the one to discover a first-rate torch.”

  “You hired Zuleika?”

  “Yes indeedy.”

  “So you’re the top dog around here?”

  Spark sat up a little straighter in his chair. “You could say that.”

  The man with the broom sputtered a laugh. “ ’Cept you’d be lying,” he muttered under his breath.

  “You close your head, Rod,” Spark warned.

  “Wait, so you’re not the manager?” Clara asked, looking from Spark to Rod.

  “I most definitely am—” Spark began, his neck turning red.

  “He doesn’t make any decisions,” Rod continued in his gravelly voice. “Miss High-and-Mighty does. Or did, up until a few days ago.”

  A woman manager at a speakeasy? Clara certainly hadn’t been expecting that. “Could I maybe have a word with her?”

  At just that moment, the door next to the bar swung open. A tall girl with a dark bob walked out, her large hazel eyes glued to a clipboard. Her profile was severe but not in an unattractive way—she reminded Clara a little of Coco. The girl had a coltish figure that suited her white smocked dress perfectly.

  Spark stood up, visibly annoyed. “Hey, boss, this lady here from the Manhattanite wants to know the rumble on Zuleika and her band. I’d answer her questions myself, but I got some important work I gotta go finish.”

  The girl glanced at Spark as he passed. “If you’re talking about the crossword puzzle, good luck coming up with an exotic bird that starts with Z.”

  This woman was the boss? As Clara took in the girl’s features, she felt the blood draining from her face.

  Lorraine Dyer.

  The clutchingly desperate girl she’d left back in Chicago.

  The girl who was madly in love with Marcus Eastman.

  The girl who’d tried to ruin Clara by exposing her to the world.

  Clara gripped her pencil so tightly that it snapped in two.

  Minus the raccoonlike makeup and the frantically grasping manner, Lorraine looked spiffier than Clara had ever seen her. Almost a woman. A moment ago, Clara had thought Lorraine seemed graceful—elegant, even. But Clara couldn’t forget that voice. Or that birdlike head darting forward on the thin neck. How was Lorraine a part of this? Could it be a coincidence that Lorraine was somehow managing the club where Gloria was singing?

  Lorraine sidled up to the table. “Hi, nice to meet you,” she said, jotting something on her clipboard. She didn’t bother to look at Clara. “Of course the new show is going to be spectacular. Zuleika Rose is the cat’s pajamas, the cat’s meow, the cat’s paw and tail and whiskers and—Oh, she’s the cat’s everything, really.”

  “Lorraine,” Clara said.

  Lorraine glanced up briefly but showed no sign of recognition. “I’ve never met Zuleika personally,” she went on. “Of course, very few have. She’s like a night owl. Or just a regular owl, I suppose. But anyhow, I’ve heard her sing and she doesn’t hoot. She yodels like a real canary, let me tell you—”

  Clara stood and said, “Lorraine!”

  Lorraine’s eyes got so big that Clara could see the whites all the way around her dark irises. Gone was the confident speakeasy manager—Lorraine was the insecure prep school outsider all over again.

  “Clara?” Lorraine asked in a gasp. “Clara Knowles?”

  “In the flesh.”

  “Oh God, oh God.” Lorraine fanned herself and panted so heavily that Clara worried she would swoon.

  Clara put her hand on Lorraine’s arm. “Is there somewhere more private we could talk?”

  Lorraine stared at her in silence, then said, “Yeah, yeah, uh—follow me.”

  Spark chose that moment to return. “Wait—you two know each other? How?”

  “Oh, go blow a horn,” Lorraine said rudely, motioning for Clara to follow her.

  “Just remember, Thor’s comin’ back from his afternoon poker game soon!” Spark called af
ter the girls as they passed behind the bar and into a cramped, empty office. Lorraine closed the door behind them.

  “Clara, what are you doing here? Don’t you know that this place is run by mobsters? It’s dangerous!”

  “I could ask you the same question,” Clara said, plopping down in the chair in front of the desk. “Does Gloria know you’re the manager here?”

  Lorraine bit her bottom lip. “No.”

  “What kind of game are you playing?” Clara asked, raising her voice just slightly. “Did you know that Carlito owns this club? This isn’t another one of your catty pranks, Lorraine. This is the Mob. Gloria’s in real danger.”

  “You think I don’t know all that?” Lorraine wailed, her voice rising to a shriek. “Who are you to come barging in here, telling me what to do? This is my club!” She rolled her eyes. “Sort of.”

  “Tell me you’re not working for Carlito.”

  Lorraine slumped into the chair behind the desk, tears running down her cheeks.

  “What did Gloria ever do to make you hate her that much?”

  “I was angry,” Lorraine answered. “Gloria betrayed me—she believed I went behind her back and told Bastian about her stupid affair. But I didn’t! That wasn’t me! I swear!”

  Clara reached across the desk and put her hand on Lorraine’s. “I believe you.”

  “My reputation was completely ruined, and Gloria didn’t do a thing to help. She was too busy running off with mobster-killing black men. She was supposed to be my best friend, but she turned the world against me.”

  “If there’s anyone you should be upset with, it’s me, not Gloria,” Clara said. “I lied to you—all of you—and I took the man you loved away. All Gloria did was believe you talked behind her back … and you’ve got to admit that’s not really a stretch.”

  Lorraine sniffled. “You asked why I hate her and I told you. Carlito offered me a job here if I would help him find Gloria and Jerome. So I did. And now I’m in love, so you can keep Mr. Marcus Eastman all to yourself in whatever love nest you two are sharing like some pair of diseased birds. Case closed, Miss Reporter.”

  Clara slammed her hands down on the desk. “Who are you, Lorraine Dyer? Who turns over her best friend to a certain death just for some kind of idiotic revenge?”

  “But I’m not—”

  “This is going too far, Raine. Jerome isn’t the one who killed that gangster—Gloria is. And the reason she killed that guy? Because he was going to kill them. It was self-defense. Carlito is going to kill Gloria. But none of that matters to you, does it?”

  Lorraine gawped. “How do you know about Tony? I only … I only just found out. I didn’t know before.” Clara could see the old insecure girl—the one from Laurelton Prep, the one who still loved Gloria Carmody—peeking out. “I swear.”

  “Look, you’ve done some terrible things,” Clara said, “but you’re not a bad person. We all make mistakes. It’s how you fix them that counts.”

  Lorraine said, “I’m way ahead of you. I am going to fix things. I have a plan—”

  “What, like your plan to humiliate me back in Chicago?” Clara snapped. She’d been an idiot to think she could appeal to Lorraine’s better nature—it didn’t exist.

  Clara grabbed her purse and stormed out, ignoring Lorraine’s attempts to call her back. She almost knocked over an overdressed midget on the stairs and was too worked up even to find that strange.

  Clara was still angry when she entered her apartment in Brooklyn.

  She slipped off her heels, set her purse on the kitchen table, and walked into her bedroom, where she found Marcus sitting at her desk. It was strewn with notes she’d written before she left for the Opera House—the details about Gloria’s situation with Carlito.

  From the look on Marcus’s scowling face, it was clear he’d read all of it. “I cannot believe you would do this.”

  “I wasn’t going to publish it. That’s just for me, so I could practice—”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  She backed out of the bedroom, shaken. Marcus had never raised his voice to her.

  Marcus followed, the notes crushed in his hands. “I’m going to find Gloria. I’ve got to save her before your selfishness gets her arrested or killed.” He tossed the pages into the trash. “Why I ever believed you’d changed, I can’t imagine.” He grabbed his jacket off the back of a chair and strode toward the door.

  “I don’t want to see you again,” he said, his hand on the doorknob. “But then, I haven’t really seen you all summer, anyway. Not the Clara I fell in love with.”

  With that, he slammed the door behind him.

  Clara sat with her elbows on her knees, trying not to cry but unable to stop herself.

  Then she heard a knock. Oh, thank goodness. He’d come back.

  She wiped her eyes and swung open the door.

  But instead of Marcus, she saw a striking black girl. The girl was wearing a simple but pretty yellow dress. Something about her looked familiar, but Clara couldn’t put her finger on what. A handsome black man with a black eye stood beside the girl, looking dapper in a tan suit and blue shirt.

  “May I help you?” Clara asked.

  “I certainly hope so,” the girl said. “I’m Vera Johnson. Jerome’s sister.”

  This was all too much to handle. “Oh my,” Clara said softly, her knees going weak. “You and I really need to talk.”

  And then she crumpled to the floor.

  VERA

  Clara Knowles was so much more glamorous than Vera remembered.

  Vera remembered Clara’s coming with Gloria to the Green Mill. Back then, Clara had seemed like a refugee from Victorian times, looking as if she’d been dressed by her grandmother.

  But this Clara would have been at home on the cover of a magazine, modeling the latest fashions. She was some kind of beautiful. Swanky and stylish and radiating the kind of smarts that made her look sexier than any eighteen-year-old had the right to be. Her face looked just as perfect, aside from the fact that her mascara was running a little.

  Or rather, that was how she had looked. Now she was passed out.

  “Hold her head,” Vera said to Evan, who’d caught Clara when she’d swooned. Vera went inside and wet a dish towel in the kitchen sink. Then she mopped Clara’s forehead with it.

  Slowly, Clara’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Are you okay?” Vera asked.

  “I’m fine now. Thank you,” Clara said. She woozily got to her feet. “Um, come in. Please.”

  The living room was sparsely furnished with a blue sofa and an armchair, two lamps, and a lovely mahogany coffee table.

  Clara collapsed into the armchair. “And you are?” she asked, turning to Evan.

  “Evan,” he said. “An old bandmate of Jerome’s.”

  “I see,” Clara said. “I’m sorry about just now. It’s not you—it’s just, well … It’s been an eventful day. How’d you find me?”

  “Well, it’s a little complicated,” Vera began.

  Vera hadn’t even realized how long she’d been talking—about what had happened back in Chicago, about the assassin and Bastian and Carlito—until she glanced at the clock. It was getting close to five in the afternoon. “We saved time and just went to the offices of the magazine and talked to a handsome fellow there.”

  There was only one handsome fellow at the Manhattanite. “That would have been Parker,” Clara said.

  “That’s him. Once we explained that we’d known you back in Chicago, he gave us your address and phone number. We tried calling, but you weren’t home.”

  “I was out looking for Gloria.”

  Vera leaned forward. “That’s why we’re here—we’ve got to warn my brother and Gloria about Carlito.”

  “Hmm,” Clara said, frowning. “All I really know is that Gloria is working as the singer at the Opera House. It’s a speakeasy downtown.” She got up to pull a notepad out of her black purse. “I’ll write down directions. Gloria and Jerome are
supposed to perform there tomorrow, but it’s a trap set up by Carlito Macharelli and”—she grimaced—“some awful person we used to know in Chicago.”

  Clara tore off the sheet of paper and gave it to them. “I’m not really sure what to do except go there and warn her and Jerome.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do,” Vera said.

  Clara frowned. “It’s a whites-only club, I’m afraid. You won’t be able to get inside.”

  “Who said anything about getting inside?” Evan said. “Way I see it is that they’re going to have to take Gloria and Jerome out of there. And we’ll be waiting.”

  Clara hesitated. “I’m not sure you two have the muscle to slow down a bunch of gangsters.”

  “And who said anything about it being just us two?” Evan said. “Me and Jerome? We know a lot of people. And we take care of our own.”

  As they walked out of Clara’s brownstone, Vera looked longingly at Evan, at the way the summer sun bounced off his dark skin.

  “What are you staring at?” he asked playfully.

  She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Things are about to get really messy.” She thought of Bastian’s dark blood seeping into the planks of that faraway dock, of Evan himself tied up and gagged in a closet. “Things already are messy. Jerome is my brother, Evan, and I have to go and save him. But you … you could leave right now.” She swallowed and looked at their intertwined hands. “You came with me to New York, and that was more than enough. More than I had any right to ask for.”

  “No way,” Evan said. “You saved my life back there. I owe you. Besides”—he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, and his fingers lingered on her cheek—“I don’t want to leave. I belong here, with you.”

  Part of Vera wanted to lean into him, to be as close as possible to this beautiful boy. But another part didn’t want him to feel how hard her heart was beating. How she felt about Evan—the wild craziness of their connection—was brand-new territory.