Ingenue

by Jillian Larkin

  “May I come in?” Mr. Carmody asked.

  Gloria opened the door wide. She’d never expected to have her first conversation with her father in months while she was dressed this way, about to perform a show in a speakeasy.

  She couldn’t help noticing that he smelled faintly of cigars and peppermint. So painfully familiar. She felt herself collapsing inside. She missed her father, missed having someone to take care of her. She didn’t always make the best choices on her own.

  “Daddy,” she said in a whimper.

  Her father moved in for a hug. It was so hard to stay angry at him! She hadn’t even known how badly she’d craved her father’s embrace until she was in his arms.

  “Wh-what are you doing here?” she stammered.

  “Listen, sweetheart, I know I haven’t been the best father lately. But your mother and I have been so worried. You think it’s okay to just disappear?” He crushed her against him. “We both want you to come home.”

  “Home,” she repeated. Being dragged back to Chicago was part of the reason she hadn’t wanted to contact her father in the first place.

  He must have understood. “If you don’t want to go back to Chicago, you could come live with me. I’ve been looking for you ever since Beatrice said she thought you might be in New York. I’ve hired private eyes; I paid a company to hang flyers all over town. And seeing what you’re doing now, it—it—There’s no sugarcoating it, Gloria. This life of yours horrifies me. It’s not what any daughter of mine should be doing—hanging around in these sorts of establishments, cavorting with these kinds of people. It’s not how your mother and I raised you.”

  “You?” Gloria asked. “You’re the one hanging the flyers?”

  “I would have done anything to find you,” Lowell Carmody said. “I’ve always wanted the best for you.”

  Gloria could feel herself being swayed by her father’s words. But she had to remember everything he’d done. “Even when you tried to force me to marry Sebastian Grey? Am I just supposed to forget that ever happened, how difficult you made things for me, for Mother?”

  “It was a confusing time. I was making a new life with Amber—”

  “Right. Your exotic dancer.”

  “She’s a performer,” Mr. Carmody said through gritted teeth. “I’d expect you to understand that, seeing how you’re dressed.”

  “Don’t get all high and mighty with me. You show up here with Lorraine Dyer after hanging up a few flyers and expect me to run back into your arms?” Gloria backed away, blotting the damp skin underneath her eyes with a tissue. “No way.”

  Mr. Carmody slicked back his hair with his hand. “Gloria, I was under the impression that you loved Bastian. I was wrong. It’s only now that I’ve found Amber that I realize how important love really is. I want you to find what I have—I want you to marry someone you really love.”

  Her father loved Amber? It was a possibility Gloria had never even considered—to her, their relationship had never been about love. A rich older man, a sexy younger woman—it was the oldest story in the world. Could it be possible that her father meant what he said—that he wanted Gloria to marry for love?

  “I’m so relieved to hear you say that, Daddy, because …” Gloria extended her left hand to show off the gold engagement ring. “I’m in love, Daddy.”

  “So soon? Who is this boy, Gloria?” he asked, his voice low and intense.

  Just then the door opened. Jerome walked in. “Sorry to bother you, Glo, but—”

  Gloria pointed at Jerome. “It’s him! He’s the one I love, Daddy.”

  Lowell Carmody’s face became as red as his hair. He took hold of Gloria’s arm and pulled her as far from Jerome as the tiny room would allow. “Absolutely not!”

  Mr. Carmody had never been a violent man, but for the first time, his expression scared Gloria. “If you even think about going through with this ridiculous marriage, I will completely cut you off! Again!”

  “But, Daddy—” Gloria began.

  “Curtain!” Spark called through the open door. “Get in your places, everyone!”

  Gloria yanked her arm out of her father’s grasp and took Jerome’s hand. Without a second glance at her father, she led Jerome out of the dressing room.

  Lowell Carmody could claim till he was blue in the face that he’d changed. But when it came down to it, he still cared more about his image than he did about Gloria. Some father.

  She squeezed Jerome’s hand as they walked down the hallway.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her softly.

  The feeling of Jerome’s hand—the warmth of his palm, the smoothness of his fingers—calmed her. “I am now,” she said. “Let’s go blow the roof off this joint.”

  LORRAINE

  Never judge a book by its cover.

  People always said that as if it were some great piece of wisdom, but Lorraine had always lived by the opposite idea. Looks were important, and she had always admired pretty things: the delicate cut of a pink diamond, the gleam of a fresh strand of pearls. Adorning oneself with beautiful things made one beautiful, didn’t it?

  Yet the outsides of things—well, they could be deceiving. That was a lesson Lorraine had learned ten times over—with Marcus, with Bastian, with Clara, certainly with Gloria, and now with Hank.

  Dear, sweet, sexy Hank, who had kissed her under a rowboat and let her think he was her boyfriend.

  How could she have been so stupid?

  “Hey, watch it!” one of the barbacks shouted at Lorraine as he rushed past with a crate full of whiskey.

  The Opera House was more tightly packed than she had ever seen it. The posters had done their work: the cream of New York society was there for Zuleika Rose’s debut. Laughing crowds of glittering people filled the floor—men puffing on expensive-smelling cigars, women dancing in place, the fringe on their sparkling dresses swaying. Most of the booths against the wall were filled with groups of middle-aged businessmen in flawless black suits and bowlers, save for Polly Adler, the buxom madam of several brothels, who was sandwiched between Puccini and Dante in one of the back booths, puffing on a cigarette. In the next booth over sat Thor with four Chicago mobsters Lorraine recognized from the Green Mill.

  A sweet, lilting tune poured out of the Gramophone set up next to the stage. With the soft music and the smoke clouding the air, the atmosphere felt dangerous and romantic. Just yesterday Lorraine would’ve been trying to convince Hank to abandon his bar duties for one short turn on the dance floor.

  Now she could barely look at him.

  Hank and Cecil were both behind the bar, slinging drinks as quickly as they could. Lorraine joined them and tried to help, handing bottles of vodka and whiskey and gin as the bartenders called for them.

  Inside she was dying from heartache. But on the outside she was listening to the instructions Hank whispered to her.

  “It’s getting to be time, Lorraine,” he said in a hushed voice.

  Lorraine handed him a couple of shot glasses. “Got it.”

  There would be time for more crying—and drinking—later. Right now was about trying to save Gloria and Jerome from a tragic fate.

  Hank dug around in the shelves behind the bar, pretending to look for something. “Just to make sure we’re crystal clear on how this will go down. We want as few guns on the floor as possible. Tell the midget and Carlito their gang can collect Carmody and Johnson out in the alley after the show. Say the idea is not to upset the patrons.” Hank grabbed a bottle of sherry from the top shelf. “Don’t tip your hand. You have to be as cool as a cucumber.”

  “I’ll be cool, don’t worry,” Lorraine said. “I’ll be downright freezing!”

  Hank frowned. “Yeah. Just talk as little as possible—that’s probably the safest thing.”

  It was as if he had stabbed her in the heart with a corkscrew.

  Lorraine looked gorgeous tonight—she knew she did. Her black dress bore a striking resemblance to the gown the model was wearing on the cover of this m
onth’s Vogue. Lorraine’s eyes were smoky, her lips vamp red. The black feathered headband and silver chandelier earrings added that last little bit of sparkle.

  But all her effort was wasted on Hank, whose eyes didn’t show a trace of his old devotion. Instead, they looked condescending. Just the way someone else used to look at her—Marcus, she realized with another pang. Why do boys always seem to look at me like that? Like I’m nothing?

  “Was it really all a lie?” Lorraine asked quietly. “You don’t have any feelings for me?”

  “Come on, Lorraine. I already told you—this is work for me. Besides, look at yourself. You’ve got no moral center, babe, you’re just a dizzy opportunist.” Hank turned back to the bar to take more drink orders.

  Lorraine dug her nails into her palms. She’d wasted enough tears on Hank in the past twenty-four hours. After they’d found Lowell Carmody in Gloria’s old apartment and arranged for him to come to Gloria’s debut, Hank had told Lorraine they needed to have a talk.

  Turned out he wasn’t just a bartender after all.

  He was an FBI agent.

  He and his team had been after Carlito and Puccini for a while. Hank had gone undercover and had been using Lorraine.

  Hank listed the many crimes he’d seen Lorraine commit—aiding in the sale and distribution of alcohol, concealing Tony Giaconi’s murder, and … oh, a bunch of other things Lorraine had stopped paying attention to. Long lists had always been hard for her to follow.

  She was thunderstruck by Hank’s confession. He didn’t love her? He didn’t even like her?

  Suddenly her image of herself strolling around the Barnard campus had been replaced with a vision of herself doing hard time. She couldn’t go to jail!

  No, the only way Lorraine was going to get out of all of this with a clear record was by doing exactly what Hank told her tonight. Carlito and Puccini would think they were about to nab Gloria and Jerome, but Hank and his FBI buddies would bag Carlito and Puccini instead.

  And she was going to help make it happen.

  Lorraine ran a well-manicured hand through her hair and gave Hank one last wistful look. Even though she knew he was nothing but a lying scoundrel, she still wanted him to like her. How messed up was that?

  Just then, the Gramophone stopped and the gold velvet curtains parted. The show was about to begin! The members of the band were in matching gray suits. The man called Jonesy held the mouthpiece of his saxophone to his lips, and the lead horn, Bernie, raised his trumpet. The bassist, Rob, sat to the left, bow in hand over the strings of his upright, and Jerald the percussionist twirled his drumsticks. Jerome sat poised at his piano, the dark, vibrant heart at the center of this group of white men onstage. Anticipation hung in the air, thick as the smoke that filled the dim speakeasy.

  And then Gloria walked out. The crowd hushed and then burst into applause.

  She looked absolutely gorgeous. The white beads on her dress gave her an ethereal glow. The pale pink dress was almost too innocent, more befitting the blushing ingenue Gloria had once been. But her red lipstick was sultry, and the slit running up the side of her dress was incredibly sexy. When Gloria had sung at the Green Mill, she’d been full of nervous energy that the entire audience could feel. But this Gloria was sleek and cool—the ideal bluesy vixen.

  The trumpet played a mournful introduction; Gloria took center stage and turned her green eyes toward the audience. When she opened her mouth and began to sing, it was as though she were singing to Lorraine—and everyone in the room—personally.

  Once I lived the life of a millionaire,

  Spending my money, I didn’t care;

  I carried my friends out for a good time,

  Buyin’ bootleg liquor, champagne, and wine.

  When I began to fall so low,

  I didn’t have a friend, and no place to go;

  So if I ever get my hand on a dollar again,

  I’m goin’ to hold on to it till them eagles grin.

  Gloria and Jerome had been practicing, but they’d never sounded this good. Even the scattered clusters of young girls who’d been talking as the band began to play shut up in a hurry.

  In the past six months, Gloria had grown up. Her voice now was filled with all the hurt and longing that singing the blues required. Her loss and loneliness poured over the audience, and not a single person could look away. Lorraine was thunderstruck: What had Gloria gone through that made her understand true sadness so well?

  When Jerome rattled off a solo, Gloria leaned against the piano and watched him play. When she began to sing again, she gazed directly into his eyes. It was scandalous in so many ways—but they were all the right ways.

  Oh God, Lorraine thought. This is going to be a hit! The Opera House is going to be a huge success with this duo!

  And then she remembered. This show was going to be a one-night-only engagement.

  When the song ended, the applause was thunderous. Gloria and Jerome launched straight into another tune—this one more upbeat. Women grabbed their dates and dragged them to the center of the club to dance.

  “She’s a helluva lot better than I remember,” a raspy voice said. “It’s almost a shame we can’t keep her.”

  Lorraine glanced down and saw Thor standing next to her. His flinty eyes glared at her from under his black bowler hat. He barely reached her waist.

  “Ain’t it, though?” Lorraine said. “So, uh, where’s Carlito? I would’ve thought he’d be here by now.”

  “On his way,” Thor said. “And be a little louder, why don’t ya? Don’t think everyone in the room could hear you.”

  Where had Lowell Carmody disappeared to? Lorraine scanned the audience for his bright hair and eventually saw him standing close to the bar. His arms were crossed and his face was red. He seemed more timid than she would have imagined, but perhaps he was just shocked. She couldn’t exactly blame him. And then she saw another familiar face and had to steady herself against the wall.

  Marcus Eastman was leaning against the bar, nursing a drink.

  Marcus! Eastman!

  It had been so long since she had seen him, since she had obsessed over him and tried to get him to be her boyfriend. She had given up on that dream, but it was still shocking to see him. What was he doing there? He had to be there with Clara, right?

  Lorraine could feel her stomach somersault. “I’ve gotta go check on something at the bar,” she said, not sticking around to see Thor’s reaction. She sidled through the crowd to the bar and tapped Marcus’s shoulder. “Well, look who’s here.”

  He turned around and was even more beautiful than she remembered. Those gorgeous cheekbones, smoldering blue eyes, the sexy curve of his lips. No dimples, though, since his usual joking grin was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he and Clara had split up: He did certainly look a little blue.

  “Lorraine? What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Long story,” Lorraine replied. “What about you?”

  Marcus’s eyes flicked to the stage; then he laughed. “My story might be even longer. You having a good summer?”

  “I’m not sure ‘good’ is the adjective I’d use.”

  “Yeah, me neither.” His too-blue eyes met hers. “You look good, though.”

  Marcus Eastman was giving her a real, live compliment? “Thank you.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Where’s Clara?”

  He gave a sad smile. “I don’t know where she is.” He picked up his drink and took a sip. “Maybe we were all a little hard on you, Raine. I’m not saying you dealt with it well, but …” He swallowed hard. “It’s awful being lied to.”

  Lorraine felt a sharp poke in her midsection and looked down to see Thor standing next to her. “Time to look alive, kid.”

  Lorraine turned and saw Carlito Macharelli on the stairs. She glanced back at Marcus. “I’ve gotta go,” she said. “Good to see you, though.”

  Marcus tipped his head. “See you at school in a few weeks, Raine.”

  Lorraine smiled to hersel
f and walked away. Several of the men and women on the floor turned to stare at Carlito as he and his three associates entered the club. Lorraine wasn’t sure whether the girls recognized Ernesto Macharelli’s son from the papers or just thought he was handsome in that deliciously grim, throw-me-over-your-shoulder way.

  Carlito did look particularly sharp tonight in an ivory suit and black shirt. And those intensely dark eyes were irresistibly sexy and mysterious. Only someone who knew him as well as she did would recognize his expression—he was out for blood.

  “Scram,” Carlito said to the men already sitting in one of the booths. He extended his hand toward Lorraine. “Ladies first.”

  All too quickly Lorraine was trapped, sitting between Carlito and Thor, the red leather hot and sticky against her bare arms. Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm.

  Maude Cortineau squeezed in after Carlito. She looked sensational in a dark-blue dress, a matching headband, and strand upon strand of silver beads.

  “You really packed them in tonight, didn’t you?” Carlito asked.

  Thor made a face as if he were in pain—he was smiling, Lorraine realized. “Yep,” he said. “You should see the cash box—beautiful stuff. Everyone seems to be lovin’ the band.”

  Lorraine pitched in: “Thor was just saying how it was a shame Gloria and Jerome couldn’t stick around. Since they’re so good, you know.”

  “We’re all set to catch the canary and her fella,” Thor said. “We’ll be waitin’ for ’em by their dressing rooms after the show.”

  “No!” Lorraine said.

  Carlito, Thor, and even Maude all turned to look at her.

  “No?” Carlito repeated, a menacing smile teasing his lips.

  Lorraine gulped. “I just thought your men were gonna catch ’em out in the alley after the show. A big parade of goons dragging them out will be pretty obvious, don’t you think? This place is hopping. We don’t want to upset the patrons.”

  Carlito scooted closer. “I don’t remember when I started taking orders from you, Raine. Is there somethin’ you’re not tellin’ me?”

  Lorraine started breathing fast. “Not at all, I—”