by Koko Brown
“I didn’t do anything. That ole’ goat’s still sore from the letdown I gave him after he tried pitching me some woo. I guess he didn’t like it when I told him, ‘old men give you worms’.”
Finding humor in her crack, Shane chuckled. Deep and robust in tone, his laughter rolled down Celeste’s spine and made her jittery. Irritated by her body’s response, considering he should no longer be on her radar, she silently wished she’d ordered an entire bottle instead.
Dubbed “the wrong place for the right people”, Café Society surpassed all of Celeste’s expectations. Brimming with folks of all colors and persuasions, the Greenwich Village nightclub had quickly become a popular destination for the bohemian crowd to congregate.
At the top of Café Society’s food chain was resident band leader Pops Morgan and his twenty-member orchestra. In full swing, they controlled the multitudes of sweating couples pivoting and swaying to their swinging chords. Pop’s signature cow lick waved up and down with his band’s frenzied tempo, his baton moving like lightning while he kept time. Without missing a beat, he swung around and approached the microphone.
“My brothers and sisters, ya’ll look mighty fine tonight! How you all feeling? Solid?”
As expected, hoots and hollers poured from the crowd. “Café Society has a wonderful, marvelous show planned. For you cool chicks, we have the smooth tenor vocals of Michael Stuckey. For the fellas, we have the lovely ladies of Midnight Magnolia. For everyone’s delight, we have the raunchy antics of Trudy Leroux and the canary of all canaries, Vernice Jackson.”
With each introduction, the audience’s approval grew in intensity. Even Celeste found herself caught up in the excitement. She clapped for each act and whistled the loudest for her cousin.
“Grab onto your seats or a willing partner, but put your hands together for Michaeeeel Stuckeeeeey…”
Couples melted onto the dance floor as the band cued up for Stuckey’s set. After a jovial hello to the crowd, Michael launched into one of his signature pieces, a song of lost love. His honeyed vocals dipped and parried with each chord of music.
“Sing it, honey,” Trudy mumbled. She dipped her head, lighting the Camel cigarette hanging from her lips.
Slowly, the bud took light, glowing with an intensity that matched the crooner’s love for his woman. She inhaled then exhaled. Smoke circled around her cousin’s angular features and mingled playfully in the ebony recesses of her deeply waved hair.
“Orders up,” Hiram announced, setting a small serving tray on the table.
“Your bourbon, top-shelf as requested. Your soda water, Mr. Brennan.” Hiram placed a bottle in front of Shane along with a bowl of sliced limes. “And here’s your Manhattan.” None too gently, he dropped a chipped cocktail glass in front of Trudy. While it rattled into place, Hiram grabbed his tray from the table, and then waited.
“Put it on my tab, Hiram.” Trudy fingered her glass, but didn’t imbibe.
“You don’t have a tab.” Hiram picked at a piece of imaginary lent on his sleeve.
“Mr. Josephson wants all performers to pay their bills up front.”
Trudy’s mouth fell open so fast, she dropped her cigarette.
“I don’t remember that being in the contract,” she said, salvaging the square before it burned a hole in the tablecloth.
“I guess I should speak to him about this.” Trudy moved to stand.
“Did you read your contract?”
Celeste doubted it. Trudy hated the business side of entertainment. Her cousin’s poor business acumen had resulted in a half a dozen bad deals and barely anything to show for the money she’d made over the years.
Hiram stepped back, daring Trudy to call his bluff. A stare down ensued, but her cousin retained her seat. Through gritted teeth she asked, “How much?”
“It’ll be two bits for the soda water, a buck and a half for the bourbon, and two bucks for the Manhattan.”
“Two bucks?” Trudy screwed her nose up at her cocktail. “Did you walk across the George Washington Bridge to New Jersey for the cherry?”
“The Manhattan is one of our most popular drinks,” Hiram justified. “It also consists of two liquors. The more liquor the higher the price.”
Tired of their back and forth, Celeste reached inside her purse. Before she could settle their portion of the bill, Shane handed Hiram a twenty dollar bill.
“This is for the drinks on the table and any others during the course of the evening. The rest you can keep for yourself.”
“Thank you kindly, sir.” Hiram folded the bill in half, and then shoved it into his vest pocket.
“I don’t know why you tipped that old goat,” Trudy admonished Shane as she stood up. “Since I’m pretty sure my cocktail came with equal parts Vermouth and spit, I’m going to go on back stage and get ready.”
Celeste’s heart raced at the idea of being left alone with Shane, but not in a good way. On the edge of panic, she rose from her seat.
“Do you need any help?”
Trudy waved her back down. “I’ve dressed myself for more than thirty years. I think I can handle this on my own.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind helping out.”
“Stay and entertain our new friend. You wouldn’t want some floozy stealing him from you would you? A guy like him in a place like this is bound to attract them like flies to buttermilk.”
With a sinking heart, Celeste watched her one and only buffer walk away.
“Don’t worry I don’t bite.” To Celeste’s horror, Shane moved over and took Trudy’s seat, bridging the distance between them. “Not on the first date anyway.”
Celeste cheeks bloomed with heat and a shiver cut a path down her spine. What was wrong with her? Where was her usual moxie? She tied guys like him into knots for fun, not cower like a shrinking violet.
Celeste willed herself to be transported away. Zeroing in on Michael Stuckey and his plaintive appeal wrapped up in a seductive riff, Celeste rested her chin in her palm and closed her eyes.
Not entirely foolproof, her scheme didn’t keep her from listening for her table mate’s every single move. In truth, the harder she tried ignoring him, the more he occupied her thoughts.
Before she drove herself completely off the reservation, Celeste opened her eyes and sat back. Bad move. Shane was staring at her over the rim of his glass. Slowly lowering it, he smiled. Celeste gulped. Not only did he have that devilish dent in his chin, he had a matching set of dimples in both cheeks! Transfixed, she simply sat there like an idiot and returned his stare.
“Mind if I smoke?”
“N-n-no,” Celeste stuttered, stuck in a mental rut.
Holding her gaze, Shane pulled a cigar from his breast pocket. He ran the length of it under his nose, and then slid the tip between his lips. Around and around, he rolled the cigar until the tip glistened. An image of him licking and playing with her nipples popped into Celeste’s already addled brain and she groaned. She knew she should look away. She couldn’t help it. It was like she needed him to exist.
He reached into his pants pocket. She inhaled. He pulled out a gold plated lighter. She exhaled. He flicked it open, pressed the lever, lighting the cigar with two quick puffs. She inhaled again.
Celeste even envied the smoke caressing his face. What would it feel like touching him? Kissing him? Have his arms draped around her? For sure he’d feel good.
And safe.
Celeste frowned. Of all the screwy things! No man was safe. Eventually all of them let her down. Her father taught her the lesson, while Ralph instilled it. So how did he do it? How did this human punching bag, engrain himself under her skin in such a short time? So much so, she was sitting here fantasizing about him.
Irritated by her inability to completely ignore her budding attraction him, Celeste reached for her drink again. This time she drowned it in one fell swoop.
Satisfied in figurative terms only, Celeste switched back to self-preservation mode. Of course, as a precautionary
measure she waved Hiram over.
“A full body of your best bourbon, please.” Another glass just wouldn’t do. She needed to unwind. Dull the razor’s edge she was riding.
Hiram’s eyebrows rivaled his hairline. “You want a whole bottle?” His eyes skipped over to Shane, who remained markedly silent and unmoved by her order.
This unnerved Celeste more than Hiram’s deference. If Shane had condemned her for drinking like a fish on the night of her father’s wake, she would’ve given him as good as she got. Unfortunately, she didn’t know how to deal with indifference.
“And what of it?” she huffed with a saltier tone than was necessary.
“Nothing, Miss Celeste.” Hiram smiled. “I’m here to serve not judge.”
Just pass me the shovel and I’ll dig my own hole! Hot with embarrassment, Celeste picked up her glass and rolled it over her cheek. Her hand shook so much, the ice clinked loudly. To make matters worse, Shane remained a passive witness through all of it.
Torture? An understatement! With each passing minute his disinterest stabbed at her conscience, plucked away her resolve and beat her down so badly she started eyeing the exit.
She didn’t suffer long. Their table suddenly lurched, knocking her glass out of her hand and sending Shane’s soda water wobbling out of control. She snatched up a cocktail napkin, to staunch the flow of ice water from staining her dress, but froze.
“Lord, have mercy.” Celeste’s eyes widened at the massive belly straining against the confines of a snow-white tuxedo vest. “We’re being attacked by a two hundred and fifty pound penguin.”
CHAPTER five
“Excuse me,” the penguin mumbled.
Stunned, Celeste sat paralyzed, while he pulled at his vest and smiled like an idiot. Was he actually flirting?
“I think the penguin is sweet on you,” Shane confirmed as two pairs of hands tugged, rather unsuccessfully at his massive shoulders.
“Sorry about this,” one of his companions grunted behind him. “Max is drunk off his rocker.” The two men reached around again, and pulled backward, but the penguin didn’t budge.
“Ain’t she beautiful boss,” Max wheezed, nodding at her.
As if he’d uttered the magic words, both of Max’s companions popped from behind him to investigate. Despite their tuxedos, Celeste smelled made men.
“Can you believe this?” one of Max’s associates grumbled. “We’re breaking our necks and he’s wooing some dame.”
“She is beautiful,” his companion conceded, his Brooklyn accent thick and sugared, “and taken.”
The shortest of the three glanced at Shane. His blue eyes narrowed and a smile that didn’t enhance his otherwise plain looks curled his thin lips. Cruel lips, Celeste noted.
“Well…well what do we have here? If it isn’t Sugar Shane Brennan.”
“Gould,” Shane said, acknowledging the other man with only a cursory glance.
Despite the obvious brush off, Gould grabbed a chair from the adjacent table and sat down between them.
Without his support, the penguin teetered backward. A quick thinker, his companion used the penguin’s weight, added some momentum and then pushed him into an occupied booth. A few choice words and the booth’s occupants scurried out the other end.
“Now, Shaney boy, is that any kind of way to greet a friend.”
Still refusing to make eye contact, Shane drew a few puffs from his cigar. “We’re not friends. Never have been, never will be.”
“Well pardon me.” Gould’s gaze met hers and then drifted back to Shane. He made her uneasy, gangsters had never been her cup of tea. “Maybe we’re not friends, but we are business associates and don’t you forget it.”
Expression still guarded, Shane flicked an ash in the glass cigarette tray on their table. “Impossible. You’re not going to let me.”
Gould burst out laughing, a manic display that scared the shit out of Celeste. So much so, when he smacked his palm against the table, she jumped. Like a shark drawn to fear, her squirrelly reaction drew his regard. Celeste stifled a shiver. His overt display of amusement didn’t quite match his ice-blue stare.
“Sorry, sister, I get carried away sometimes.”
“No harm done,” Celeste lied.
“You know you really are a peach.” Gould leaned toward her. “Are you going to introduce me to the lovely lady?”
“She’s none of your business, Gould.” To Celeste’s surprise, Shane stood up and pulled her with him. “Come on let’s dance.”
“I don’t want to dance.” Celeste dug in her heels. Well not with him anyway. The way her body reacted around him, she didn’t trust herself.
“I thought you were a hoofer.”
“One of the best,” she said, but realizing too late he’d baited her.
“Then show me what you’ve got.” Shane didn’t wait around to hear her objection. He turned on his heel with her in tow.
Shane circled around the dining area and the main bar. Thankfully, he kept his pace at a minimum or she would’ve been knee deep in the club’s royal blue carpeting. Still, the courtesy he afforded her couldn’t mitigate her mounting anger, which rose to an alarming level as he bypassed the entrance to the dance floor.
Fed up and feeling duped, Celeste yanked her hand from his. “What are you trying to pull?”
“I’m not pulling anything.”
He reached for her again, but Celeste sidestepped him. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Don’t you realize I’m doing you a favor?”
“A favor? You call dragging me all over this goddam place a favor?” His expression hardened. Celeste didn’t care. She needed a drink badly and this was the only way she could release some steam.
Shane stuffed his hands in his pants pockets. “Abraham Gould’s a bad guy.”
“Gould’s a bad guy? Gould’s a bad guy?” With each syllable, her voice increased in volume. She didn’t care. Her belly was screaming for bourbon.
“I don’t think you should get mixed up with him.”
Celeste couldn’t believe it. He’d ignored her for a good part of the evening and here he was acting all noble. Her insecurities swept aside by anger, Celeste’s spunk returned. She stepped closer and placed her hands on his coat lapels.
Up close and personal, Shane Brennan appeared larger than life! Taller, eyes greener, shoulders wider and lips fuller, he was beyond handsome. Distracted, Celeste lost her train of thought.
Well, not entirely. Her mind had drifted to other things like wrapping her arms around him and swapping oxygen.
Come on, sister, don’t backtrack on me now! While she pulled it together, she took comfort in the rapid rise and fall of his chest, which proved he wasn’t entirely indifferent to her. Good! It was his turn to take his own medicine.
“You’re in luck.” Celeste paused to pick a piece of imaginary lint from his lapel. Apparently unnerved by her antics, Shane rolled his shoulders and his Adam’s apple jumped as if he was having difficulty breathing.
Emboldened, she went in for the kill. She leaned up on the tips of her Mary Jane’s, matching their noses up.
“I don’t want to get mixed up with either of you,” she said in a slightly lower octave, which many of her former lovers deemed wantonly sexy. “Now if you would excuse methere are things to see and people to do.”
Instead of going back to their table, Celeste made a beeline for backstage.
* * *
“Whoa, ho, sweet mama! Soak up the gams on that one, boss! Bet you her snatch is a lollapalooza.”
“For sure, Saul. She probably gets nice an’ wet.”
Dangerously close to jumping up from his seat and pounding the shit out of Gould and his goons, Shane dug in his heels. If he split hairs with any of those greasers, Shane could kiss his shot at the light heavyweight title goodbye. Well connected in the underworld, Gould’s associates ran The Garden with an iron fist.
“Shaney, what ya think?” Gould yelled over
the thundering noise of the crowd. “You think I have a chance with one of those gals?”
Hating himself and his irrevocable link to Gould, Shane took his time turning around. Halfway shit faced, the Jewish gangster’s pale as milk complexion had turned ruddy with red splotches. It wasn’t a good look for the shorter man whose attractiveness improved with the number of drinks one imbibed.
“Course, I’m not hadres-ponemas, handsome like you.” Gould cupped his hands over his heart and batted his lashes.
“Saul tells me all the showgirls love egg and butter men no matter what they look like.”
Gould’s sly jab hit its mark. Angered, yet unable to rearrange a mug or three, Shane silently crushed his cigar in his hands. Ignoring the burning ash sifting through his fingers, Shane stood up.
“Where’re you going?” Gould asked, pouring himself another round. “I wanna buy you a drink to celebrate our new partnership.”
“To the men’s room,” Shane held up his hands for inspection, “they’re dirty.”
Gould’s gaze narrowed. “It gets like that some times. But no matter how dirty they get, you never forget those same hands feed you.”
Gould’s innuendo didn’t fall on deaf ears. Shane chose not to acknowledge it. He turned on his heels then navigated his way past the main bar to coat check. Halfway there, Shane realized he didn’t have the ticket.
Bristling, Shane turned about. His luck couldn’t get any worse! Not only had Gould ruined his evening, but now he had to go groveling to a broad that wanted nothing to do with him.
Shane ground his teeth as scanned the ballroom and dining area. It wasn’t too hard to find trouble. It never looked so damn good or had so much spunk.
As if he’d conjured her, Celeste materialized from the crowd. In one hand she held a cocktail glass, in the other a bottle of liquor.
Carefree, she nursed her drink in between bites of conversation with no one in particular. She never stayed for long, but kept moving, avoiding commitment.
A peach of a girl, she was all-ripe and golden, like a piece of Bit-O-Honey one of his favorite penny candies. Unconsciously swiping at his mouth, Shane imagined her skin tasting as sweet.